CHAPTER II

Storm Clouds Gather

". . . the two felons taken into custody did not have so much as a glimpse of their assailant, describing him only as an ominous disembodied voice with a penetrating laugh or a dark and sinister figure in the shape of a man. The invisible avenger struck before the criminals could react, leaving them dazed and helpless, bound and gagged when police officers arrived. One man associated with the robbery ring, identified as Gunther S. Black, last known address 227 Chauncey Street, Brooklyn, is still at large."

The elegantly dressed young man looked up from the newspaper article he had been reading aloud and looked across the table at his companion.

"Ah, Gunther," the young man said dryly in a clipped, accented voice, "still highly skilled at self-preservation, I see."

"A guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do, Mr. Dietrich," Gunther Black said apologetically, "Morty and Lefty were on to me, and if I'd stayed any longer the Shadda woulda nabbed me too."

"Ah, yes, The Shadow." Karl Dietrich looked at Gunther with his icy blue eyes and brushed a stray wisp of straw blond hair out of his face before continuing. "Since I arrived in New York, I have read quite a bit about this remarkable personage--mostly in the pages of this wretched periodical." He tapped the folded front page of that morning's edition of the Classic with a long, tapered, expertly manicured finger. A finger on the other hand wore a ring with a large green stone that seemed to flicker and glow curiously. "A man who appears to have no body, a man who can appear and disappear at will in any guise he chooses or none at all, and gather information that many would prefer remain secret--information that would foil criminal enterprises and be of great value to the police. Such a man--or his abilities--would also be of great value . . . to my employers."

"Just who are these employers of yours?" Gunther asked suspiciously, "I been hearin' a lot about dem too, but ya ain't told me nothin'."

"Nor shall I," Dietrich said sharply. "That is none of your concern. Your task--your only task--is to use your criminal connections to lead me to this . . . Shadow. For this, you will be well compensated. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir," Gunther said grudgingly. "But it's kinda tough to find the Shadda--especially when he don't wanna be found."

"That is where you are mistaken, Gunther. If he remains true to form, this Shadow can always be found where a crime has been committed. We know he responds to criminal activity in the warehouse district. I wish you to noise it abroad that those members of your gang who have not been incarcerated will shift their operations to a certain establishment at the corner of Lexington and 29th. Let it be known that something significant will take place there--something The Shadow cannot overlook. This building is owned by my employers and has been . . . especially prepared . . . for his arrival."

"Yes sir," Gunther said with an evil grin, catching on to what Dietrich might have in mind. "I'll put the word out right away. I'll call ya tonight when everything's all set."

"No, not tonight," Dietrich corrected quickly. "I have an important social engagement this evening. I shall be dining at the Cobalt Club. I will telephone you later. If you will excuse me."

Dietrich stood, signaling the interview was over. Even in his dressing gown, Karl Dietrich looked regal and handsome, a man used to giving orders. Gunther stood as well. In his greasy trench coat and battered black Homburg, he looked distinctly out of place in the breakfast room of the elegantly appointed Manhattan townhouse. Dietrich looked at him as if his mere presence might soil the furniture.

"Hey, hey, the Cobalt Club's a pretty classy joint," Gunther said enviously, "How ya gonna get in there without an invite?"

"I have a connection. Someone else who may prove useful to us. You needn't trouble yourself about that. Please leave now Gunther," Dietrich said curtly. "Oh, and in future we shall not meet here. Your continued presence might arouse suspicion. All future meetings will take place here." Dietrich handed Gunther a slip of paper with an address. Dietrich reached for a small silver bell on the table and shook it gently. A moment later, a tall, pale, cadaverous looking servant entered. Dietrich thought he saw Gunther suppress a shudder. Dietrich gestured to Gunther and then to the tall, pale servant. "Schmidt will show you out."

"Yes sir."

Gunther left. Dietrich had already turned away from him and toward the picture window of the breakfast room. For a moment he regarded the glorious sunrise that was appearing over the Manhattan skyline and then set about putting his plans into motion. He had much to do.

The gleaming black Cord Phaeton convertible pulled up in front of the elegant building with the elaborate yet tasteful Art Deco exterior. A tall man with piercing black eyes, clad in an immaculate black overcoat and tuxedo, stepped from the Cord and helped a stunning, willowy brunette out from the passenger side of the car. The woman's overcoat partially concealed her shimmering designer evening gown. The glamorous couple turned the heads of passersby as they moved gracefully down the sidewalk and up the front steps of the building, where they exchanged pleasantries with the doorman. They were known and expected.

Lamont Cranston and Margo Lane entered the Cobalt Club. A hat check girl took their coats, and the concierge greeted them eagerly.

"Ah, Mr. Cranston, Miss Lane, how nice to see you again. If you'll follow me please, your usual table is ready."

"Thank you, Pendleton," Cranston acknowledged.

The concierge led them through the lobby into the combination ballroom and dining room that formed the downstairs portion of the exclusive club. Upstairs were a drawing room, smoking rooms, and a study where the city's elite could gather in privacy and comfort. Both Lamont and Margo were clearly at home in such a place. Pendleton seated them and withdrew deferentially. Moments later, the waiter arrived.

"Good evening, Mr. Cranston, Miss Lane. Would you care for a menu?A wine list?"

"That won't be necessary, Henri. What's particularly good this evening?" Cranston asked.

"Chef recommends the grilled sole almondine with tomato and basil in a white sauce. Our sommelier Philippe suggests the Chateau Neuve Cliquot '32."

"Sounds delicious."

"Very good, sir. And for the lady?"

"I'll have the same, thank you, Henri," Margo said.

The waiter bowed and headed off to the kitchen with their orders. While Lamont and Margo waited for their meals, the club's house band, Ken Kincaid and His Cobalt Chorus, struck up a dance set. Elegantly dressed couples moved out onto the ballroom floor.

"Oh, listen, Lamont," Margo said excitedly, "doesn't the band sound wonderful this evening?"

Lamont listened for a moment, knowing that this was Margo's way of asking him to ask her to dance. "Yes, they are in rare form tonight," he said casually. He waited a moment, knowing this was part of their little game, and then turned to her with a mischievous grin.

"Miss Lane, would you care to trip the light fantastic?"

"I'd be delighted, Mr. Cranston," Margo replied with a flirtatious smile of her own.

Lamont took Margo's hand and led her onto the dance floor. The band launched into a lively arrangement of "Cheek to Cheek," and Margo and Lamont took plenty of opportunities to dance as the song suggested. The band brought the number to a rousing conclusion, and all the couples on the dance floor cheered and applauded. Before Lamont and Margo could return to their table however, Margo thought she heard a voice from behind her amid the confusion.

"Margo? Margo Lane? Mein Gott, it is you!"

Margo turned to see a tall fair-skinned man with icy blue eyes and straw blond hair facing her. Like Lamont, he was impeccably dressed in a perfectly fitting black tuxedo. She looked blankly at him for a moment, but then her heart seemed to jump into her throat. Her pulse raced and she struggled to resist the urge to fling herself into his arms then and there. Memories of a torrid romance at the Lane family summer home on Martha's Vineyard flashed through her mind: the sound of waves crashing on the shore; long walks on moonlit beaches; watching fireworks in the night sky; making fireworks of their own amid the dunes . . .

The sound of a man's deliberate, artificially loud cough interrupted Margo's reverie. "Excuse me, did I miss something?" asked Lamont, stepping up to join them.

"Oh, Lamont. This is Karl. Karl Dietrich. An old . . . friend. We . . . we haven't seen each other in years," Margo stammered.

"So I gather," Lamont answered dryly. "Lamont Cranston. Pleased to meet you," he said formally to Karl. He disliked the man intensely already, but he didn't know why. He extended his hand without much enthusiasm, but Dietrich didn't even take it.

"Karl Heinz Josef Dietrich von Effenbach, at your service," the young man said with a courtly bow. "Delighted to make your acquaintance. I have read much about you in the papers, Herr Cranston. You are quite the philanthropist, yes? You are . . . What is the expression you Americans use? 'A wealthy young man about town.'"

"It's my privilege to support a number of charitable endeavors," Lamont said stiffly.

"Ah! How very noble of you," Dietrich answered. He smiled a cold smile. "And you are also something of an amateur investigator of sorts? Your name has been mentioned in connection with several police matters of late."

"On occasion, my efforts have been of some assistance to the police," Lamont said even more stiffly. Now he knew what he didn't like about Karl Dietrich--the young man's cold patronizing manner, combined with the fact that Dietrich seemed to know more about him than he he knew about Dietrich. He didn't like being caught at a disadvantage.

"Come, come, Herr Cranston! You are being entirely too modest. But I am forgetting my manners. Will you join me at my table? We can talk there in greater comfort and become better acquainted. There's someone else there that I'm sure you know --Miss Lane's uncle Renfield."

"Well, I'm sure the waiter will be bringing our dinners any moment now . . ." Lamont began.

"Uncle Renfield? Why, this is a surprise!" Margo said, delighted that the conversation had shifted away from Lamont and Karl, at least for the moment. "Oh come on, Lamont, let's. Just for a minute."

Lamont shrugged helplessly and followed Margo and Dietrich back to Dietrich's table. On the way, Margo kept stealing admiring glances at Dietrich as if reminiscing about her long ago adventures with her old beau. As they approached the booth, a large older man in a somewhat ill-fitting tuxedo stood up hurriedly and seemed to be trying to leave. He had once been handsome and broad shouldered, but too many years of overindulgence with food and drink had taken their toll. He was growing paunchy, his face was red, and his jowls sagged. He looked at the newcomers with glassy and unfocused eyes. The man was already in his cups, and it was barely eight o'clock, Cranston thought sadly.

"Hello, Uncle Renfield," Margo said happily. When she saw how tipsy her uncle was, however, her tone grew more studied, as though she was straining to pretend nothing was wrong. "Uncle Renfield . . . It's Margo. You remember my friend Lamont Cranston, don't you?"

"Hullo, Margo. Hullo Crans'on," Renfield Lane mumbled. "Die'rich, I think I'd better be getting home. I . . . I'm not feeling well," he added hastily, as if embarrassed.

"Would you like me to take you home Uncle Renfield?" Margo asked anxiously. Lamont leaned forward to help.

"No, that won't be necessary," Renfield Lane said firmly, trying to salvage his pride. "I'll have Pendleton call a cab. Goodnight." Lane shuffled toward the front door a bit unsteadily, Lamont thought. The entire party watched him go uneasily and then seated themselves at the table.

"Karl," Margo said, feigning innocence, "Just what were you talking to my uncle about?"

"I . . . I was just discussing a new . . . business opportunity . . . with your uncle," Dietrich said vaguely. "I am sure you do not wish to be bored with the details, Margo dear," he added, trying to change the subject.

"And what business would that be, Mr. Dietrich?" Lamont asked pointedly. "You seem to know quite a bit about Miss Lane and myself, but we don't know much about you."

"I operate an import-export firm, Mr. Cranston," Dietrich replied. "I am interested in expanding trade between the United States and the new Germany."

"Oh really? I don't know much about the 'new Germany.' I fought the old one in the last war," Lamont said coldly. "And it looks to me as if Herr Hitler is mightily interested in starting another one," he added. Margo jabbed him in the shins under the table.

"How interesting. My family lost everything fighting the Allies in the last war, Herr Cranston," Dietrich replied with equal coldness. "And might I suggest that you misjudge our FŸhrer's intentions? The German people desire peace with all nations."

"The German people, maybe. But I'd ask the people of Czechoslovakia about your FŸhrer's intentions," Lamont snapped. Margo glared at him.

Dietrich stood and threw his napkin down on the table furiously. "I have had quite enough of this conversation. Goodnight Margo. Goodnight . . . Mr. . . Cranston." He turned on his heel and stormed out.

After this exchange, neither Lamont nor Margo felt like eating, and Lamont paid for the dinners, untouched. Margo asked to be driven home but was silent and cold after that. Lamont waited until the Cord was parked outside her apartment to speak.

"Margo," he said, "you haven't said a word since we left the club. What's wrong?"

She rounded on him. "What's wrong? What's wrong? You have the nerve to ask me what's wrong? You acted like the biggest boor and cad I've ever seen in my life! You deliberately insulted an old . . . friend of mine for no reason!"

"I did have a reason. I don't like him. Margo, he got your uncle drunk and then tried to talk about a 'business opportunity' with him. He wants your uncle's money. Your uncle didn't want to be seen with him. He's making apologies for Hitler and that bunch of thugs in Berlin. That's another reason for me not to like him. He's up to something."

"You're only saying that because you're jealous. You have no proof of any of it," Margo said sullenly.

"I'll find proof," Lamont retorted grimly. "I'm going to find out more about Mr. Karl Dietrich. If I don't, The Shadow will."

"Don't you dare, Lamont Cranston! If you or The Shadow go near Karl, I'll never speak to you again!"

Margo bolted from the car and bounded up the steps to the front door of her apartment house. Lamont followed behind and caught her on the arm before she put her key in the lock.

"Margo, be reasonable," he said. "I've never seen you act this way with any of your old friends before. Just how good friends were you all those years ago?"

Margo slapped Lamont as hard as he could ever remember being slapped. She still had the keys in her hand, which stung even more. While Lamont was still reeling from the blow, Margo thrust her keys into the lock, jerked the door open, stormed through the doorway, and slammed the door behind her.

Lamont Cranston recovered himself and stood on the front steps of Margo Lane's brownstone with his hands in his pockets and a dazed expression on his face. He exhaled audibly. The evening was not going well.

End of Chapter II