CHAPTER I
The Shadow Strikes
New York
October 1938
A chill autumn wind whipped down the deserted street in the dark, rundown Brooklyn neighborhood. Bits of trash, a page from an old newspaper, and a few dried, dead leaves scraped along the sidewalk, appeared momentarily in the fitful glow of a single street lamp, and then vanished into the darkness. A man in a grease-stained trench coat and a battered black Homburg hat gripped the coat more tightly about him and hurried down the street. No one stopped him on his errand. Most honest working people of the neighborhood were in bed at this hour of night, and as for the others, it was often better not to ask where they were bound.
Even the keenest observer might not have noticed anything amiss in the seconds after the man proceeded down the street. To all appearances, the avenue was once again deserted. In fact, however, a mysterious blackness was moving down the street in pursuit of the solitary figure. The blackness seemed to be almost darker than the night against which it moved, if such a thing could be imagined.
The blackness moved down the street and turned a corner. It paused and seemed to collect itself against the side of a building, briefly coalescing into a vaguely man-like shape. The darkness was a man. He was tall, but the details of his form and features, except for glittering black eyes, were concealed beneath a large slouch hat and billowing cloak. He was a man with uncanny abilities in the arts of stealth, disguise, and concealment, made even more formidable by his mastery of certain obscure mental disciplines learned in the distant reaches of the Orient years before. His true name was not known to the underworld figures he pursued, but his ominous sobriquet struck terror into the very hearts of sharpsters, lawbreakers and criminals. He was called The Shadow.
The Shadow turned another corner, stopped before the rear entrance of a dilapidated brick building, and crouched behind some battered garbage cans by the curb. He paused a moment and then raced up to the rear doors of the building, drawing a pair of chrome-plated .45 automatics from beneath his cloak. The building had something of a reputation as a hangout for criminals, and the Shadow wanted to be prepared for trouble. Agents of The Shadow had reported that the loot from several recent armed robberies--including cash, jewelry, furs, and gemstones--was stored in the warehouse and was due to be shipped out of state tonight so it could be fenced, laundered, and made to appear legitimate.
Inside the old warehouse, under the light of a single yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling, two criminals, Morty and Lefty, were pawing through the swag and gloating over their haul. They did not notice as the doors to the warehouse swung open silently and a dark shape entered. The yellow bulb swayed slightly on its cord, throwing ominous shadows into the corners of the room.
"Sheesh, Lefty, will ya get a load o' these diamonds?" Morty said incredulously, holding up a string of sparklers. "Ya know how much I can get for these?"
"I bet I can guess," Lefty answered, holding up a string of his own. "Where I plan on goin', these'll buy ya a lotta margaritas."
"And senoritas, too," Morty answered with a coarse laugh. He lowered his voice. "Hey, Lefty, whaddaya say we bump off this guy Gunther and split the loot two ways instead o' three?"
"Yeah, I like the sound o' that," said Lefty considering, "only--"
He broke off abruptly as he heard the sound of footsteps. The man in the greasy trench coat and black Homburg entered the room carrying a bottle of whiskey. "Here it is, fellas," he said, placing the bottle on the table, opening it, and fetching three dirty glasses. "Jeez, I had to look all over for the booze."
A strange, mocking laugh floated out of the darkness, followed by a voice that was scarcely above a whisper, yet strangely clear and penetrating.
"No, you didn't, Gunther," the strange voice said.
"Who said that?" Gunther Black shouted.
"I am The Shadow," said the voice. "The Shadow knows the real reason you took so long to get the whiskey was that you laced it with rat poison to do in your two friends here. Yet The Shadow knows your friends were plotting to do you in as well. I guess the old saying is true. There really is no honor among thieves."
The mocking laugh rang out louder than ever, seeming to reverberate from every corner of the warehouse. Morty and Lefty were confused, uncertain whether to respond to the treachery of their supposed ally or confront their mysterious adversary in the darkness. Gunther used their momentary indecision to flee, but then Morty and Lefty opened up on The Shadow--or the place they thought The Shadow might be--with their tommy guns. The mocking laugh continued, proving that the hail of bullets had missed its mark. The bulb swung wildly, shining a bright yellow light into the eyes of the felons. A huge looming wall of darkness in a vaguely man-like shape seemed to rise up before them, and they blacked out.
"Faith and begorrah, there they are, trussed up like a couple o' Christmas turkeys," exclaimed Sergeant Murphy as he entered the warehouse with his partner, Officer Flanagan. The two constables had received an anonymous tip over the telephone at the station house just around the block and had arrived to find everything just as the mysterious caller had said. Murphy and Flanagan set to work releasing the two gangsters from the ropes and gags that bound them only to haul them roughly to their feet and slap handcuffs on them.
"Morty Lewis and Lefty Crane," Murphy said contemptuously, "two small time hoods if ever there were such. You've each got a rap sheet about a mile long. We'll have plenty to talk about down at the station." He jerked his billy club at Flanagan and the thugs, indicating they should come along. "Well, come on, you!"
Suddenly, another man, thin but wiry, dressed in a rumpled suit with a press pass jammed into the hat band of his fedora, bustled into the warehouse with a photographer in tow. "All right, all right, what's the story? Any of you boys care to make a statement for the press?" he called as he joined the party.
"And who might you be?" Murphy said, regarding the strangers with a cold skeptical glance and a raised eyebrow.
"Clyde Burke, New York Classic," the man explained.
"Wait a minute! I know you," Murphy growled, "You're that reporter fella that's always writin' about that Shadda character." He snorted. "Of all the nonsense! No statement for you until we finish here. This is a crime scene, don'tcha know."
"Aw, c'mon, Sarge. I'm just tryin' to get the story for our readers," Burke protested. He turned to Morty and Lefty. "Who did this to ya, boys?"
"The Shadda," Lefty said excitedly, "it was the Shadda, I tell ya. The guy ain't real! He's some kind o' spook or somethin'." Lefty began to babble.
"Bejabbers," Flanagan spoke up. "Then it's just like they say." The note of awe in his voice was unmistakable. He glanced at the rafters uneasily, as if The Shadow might still be lurking there, and crossed himself.
"Flanagan you're a fool," Murphy shot back, "Everybody knows there's no such person as The Shadda. That's just a story that Burke here made up to sell papers, isn't that right Burke?"
"I dunno, Sarge," Burke replied. "How do you explain the fact they were all tied up when you found 'em, and they swear The Shadow did it?"
"I . . . I can't," Murphy replied defensively, "but I know it wasn't The Shadda . . . or Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy," he snapped. "You're startin' to get on me nerves, Burke. I could charge you with interferin' in a police investigation. C'mon downtown, and we'll have a statement for ya then." Murphy glared at his still awe-struck partner. "Well, come on Flanagan!" he snapped.
The two policemen hustled the suspects out of the warehouse and into a squad car as more officers arrived to gather evidence. Saying he was going to call in his story and leaving the photographer to take pictures of the scene, Burke hurried to the nearest phone booth and dialed a private number--a number known only to a very select group of people in New York. A voice answered.
"Report," it said.
"Lewis and Crane are in custody, just as The Shadow planned. The police are still confused as to whether The Shadow exists," Burke replied.
"Excellent," the voice said. "File your story as usual. Well done, Burke."
"Thanks. Say, Burbank . . . Are you really going to talk to the Shadow tonight?"
"I shall convey your report to him myself."
There was a click as the line went dead. Clyde Burke had just reported--but not to theClassic. Unknown even to his employers, Clyde Burke was an agent of The Shadow. The voice on the line was Burbank, the Shadow's chief operative and the conduit between The Shadow himself and his agents in the field. Burke knew perfectly well what the real story was, and using his position on the newspaper, could serve notice to the underworld that the Master of Darkness was on the prowl.
Burke dialed another number--the front desk of the Classic. "Hello, Mildred?" he said to the receptionist, "It's Burke. Gimme the rewrite desk." He waited and listened until he recognized the voice on the other end. "Pete? Yeah, it's Burke. Got another story for you." He paused and began dictating:
"For the third time in as many days, the mysterious crusader of the night known as The Shadow has struck, foiling a vicious and lucrative armed robbery ring and recovering thousands of dollars in loot. According to police sources . . ."
End of Chapter I