CHAPTER XII

Reckoning

The large, corpulent man thrashed about uneasily in his bed. His conscience troubled him, and sleep eluded him. He sweated profusely as he tossed and turned. He started up at every sound, every whisper in the night, only to dismiss it as nothing and sink back restlessly to his pillow. Now, however, a new sound seemed to come to him out of the darkness--a strange, mocking laugh followed by a weird voice calling his name--a voice that sounded to the guilty man like a trumpet of doom.

"Renfield Lane," the voice said. A moment later, the name was repeated.

"What is it? Who's there?" the man snapped back, now wide awake and certain this was no dream.

"I am called The Shadow," the weird voice answered.

"The Shadow! What do you want with me?" Renfield Lane cried out in terror.

"I want much from you, but perhaps your conscience and your country's honor demand more. Some two weeks ago you met with a man called Karl Dietrich at the Cobalt Club, did you not?"

Y--Y--Yes," Lane stammered.

"This man Dietrich is an agent of a foreign power--a power that is striving to dominate the world and means your country ill. He wanted you to do something for him, didn't he? What did he want you to do?" The Shadow demanded.

I . . . I don't know anything about that. As far as I know, Karl Dietrich is just a young man of business and he--"

A mocking peal of laughter interrupted Renfield Lane. "You're lying!" The Shadow snapped back. "The Shadow knows Karl Dietrich is no mere 'man of business.' Perhaps you would like me to turn you over to his tender mercies so that you can find out for yourself?"

"No, no, anything but that! I'll tell you anything you want to know!" Renfield Lane shouted.

"Then tell the truth this time, and speak quickly. The future of the nation may depend on it. What do you know of Dietrich's plans? What did he want you to do?"

"He . . . He wanted me to . . . to use my influence to secure entry visas for his men . . . from Germany. As I was a respected businessman, I could vouch for them."

"And did you?"

"Yes. They were to arrive at the port of New York the day after tomorrow--on a steamer, the Sea Eagle, out of Bremerhaven--and fan out across the country. Some two dozen of them. Then Dietrich's network would be in place. And I . . . I would be safe."

"Safe? How?"

"If I cooperated, I would receive cash payments that would . . . that would replace the money I . . . embezzled from Lane Industries to cover my gambling debts. If I didn't . . . Dietrich swore he would let Matthias know just how much I had stolen from the company. I'd spent nearly everything I had! I couldn't let that happen, Shadow! I just couldn't."

Renfield Lane broke down completely, sobbing like a little child. The Shadow, however, remained stern.

"So you resorted to treason to hide the fact of your greed and foolishness?" The Shadow said incredulously. "Still," he continued, "you have found some measure of redemption in telling me the truth, Renfield Lane. Because of this, it may go easier with you when you stand before the bar of justice. You have learned that the weed of crime bears bitter fruit. Crime does not pay. You will answer for what you have done--either to the forces of the law--or to The Shadow."

There was one last burst of mocking laughter, and Renfield Lane was alone again in the darkness.

While Renfield Lane was being confronted by The Shadow, Karl Dietrich had no interest in facing the forces of justice. In fact, he and his manservant Schmidt were frantically racing about trying to destroy any evidence that they had ever occupied the plush townhouse Dietrich had rented.

"I will see to the files. You destroy the code books and smash the radio set. Hurry you fool!" Dietrich roared when Schmidt failed to move fast enough.

"At once, Mein Herr!" Schmidt yelped, and scurried over to the bookshelves in the study where a short wave radio and code books were hidden behind ponderous volumes of an old encyclopedia. Meanwhile, Dietrich took a ring of keys from his pocket, jammed one into the lock of his filing cabinet, jerked open a drawer, and scooped up an armload of files. He was about to turn for the basement incinerator when the study window collapsed--the very window from which Clark Kent and Margo Lane had escaped--and a blur of blue, red, and yellow flashed into the room. Superman had returned.

Schmidt drew a pistol from inside his coat, but Superman reached out and crushed the barrel without even taking the gun from the servant's hand. The Man of Steel decked the butler with a single punch and whirled to face Dietrich, who regarded his adversary with a maniacal grin.

"I'll take those files, Dietrich," Superman said firmly, "and anything else incriminating that might send you to prison--where you belong."

"I think not, Herr Superman," Dietrich retorted. "Have you forgotten my pretty ring?" Once again, Dietrich held up his hand stone outward and advanced toward the son of Jor-El. Even as Dietrich drew closer, Superman felt himself weakening.

"Oh, don't worry about me, Mein Herr," Superman shot back defiantly, mimicking the obsequious servant, "it'll take more than a little rock on your finger to get me down."

Dietrich pulled an automatic from his coat emptied another clip full of bullets at Superman, but even in his weakened state the hero was unaffected by the pistol shots. Half in frustration and half in savage glee, Dietrich threw the automatic aside and continued to advance. He went into a wrestling posture, first locking arms with the Man of Steel and forcing him to his knees. Then as Superman continued to weaken, Dietrich locked his hands around Superman's throat.

"I shall enjoy killing America's great hero with my bare hands, Herr Superman," Dietrich snarled. "You were either very brave or very foolish to face me alone."

"But he's not alone, Dietrich," said a weird, penetrating voice from somewhere behind the spy. This pronouncement was followed by a long peal of mocking laughter. To Superman, the room seemed to grow suddenly and dramatically darker as a huge, irregular black blotch appeared on the wall and on the floor--a huge black shadow.

Dietrich's hands suddenly released their grip on Superman's throat, and an instant later Dietrich's arms flew up in the air, as if the spy were now caught in a wrestling hold himself. The German agent turned and twisted, grappling and battling with some unseen foe. Even with his superior vision, Superman could catch only occasional glimpses of a tall, manlike shape that seemed to be clad in a billowing black cloak and broad-brimmed slouch hat. Dietrich struggled to land punches against this ebony phantom, as if he were boxing with the wind, but The Shadow's black-gloved blows seemed to be making solid and repeated contact with Dietrich's face and body.

Dietrich's nearly invisible assailant seemed to be dragging him inexorably toward the window where Superman had entered. As they stood before the now shattered window, which freely admitted the cold night air, Dietrich and The Shadow seemed to enter into even more desperate combat. Finally, a tendril of the inky blackness seemed to reach up, clasp the ring on Dietrich's hand and wrest it from him. An instant later, the ring seemed to sail out of the window by itself, as the black hand of the nearly invisible Shadow hurled it far into the night. Dietrich made one last frantic lunge for the ring and leaned out too far to keep his balance. Too late he realized his error, and with a bloodcurdling cry, mingled with the sounds of breaking wood and shattering glass, he fell.

For an instant all was silence. Then the mysterious inky blackness seemed to coalesce and solidify into a manlike shape. The figure looked down and seemed to shake its head briefly. Then it strode over to the corner of the room, removed a glove, and extended a long white hand to Superman in order to help him to his feet. The Last Son of Krypton did not seem intimidated by the ominous figure, clad mostly in black. The only flash of color came from a red bandana, worn around the stranger's face like a mask.

"That was a close one," the Man of Steel admitted. "Thank you . . . Lamont."

"Just returning the favor . . . Clark," the black clad figure said.

Superman blinked. "How did you . . . ?"

"The Shadow knows."

For the briefest moment, Superman thought he saw the piercing black eyes, obscured by the brim of the slouch hat, twinkle with a flash of amusement. Then the conversation turned serious again.

"Dietrich?" Superman asked.

The Shadow gestured wordlessly to the window. Superman stepped to the sill and looked down. The body of Karl Dietrich lay on the ground three stories below, his head, arms, and legs splayed out at unnatural angles. A branch of the tall tree near the window appeared to be stained with dark blood. There could be no question. Karl Dietrich was dead.

End of Chapter XII