"Too bad," Bascom murmured. "Afraid you'll have a tough time locating him. He's in South America now, you know."

"Really?"

"Yes. Left Long Island rather suddenly, I believe." The glint of mockery in Bascom's eyes was more p.r.o.nounced. "Perhaps he pulled another one of his phony financial deals and had to skip."

"Could you describe him?"

"Now you've got me," Bascom chuckled. "To tell you the truth, I've never laid eyes on the man."

"But you told me you had sold him--"

"The house on Long Island? I did. But Crane Worthington took no part in the deal. It was all handled by his secretary, a man named Harold Smith. Smith acted as a dummy purchaser for his employer. He attended to all the negotiations, took care of the t.i.tle search, paid all the fees. In fact, I believe the papers were signed by Harold Smith. He had a power of attorney for Worthington."

EVERYTHING Bascom said was true. The Shadow had been advised about Harold Smith by Rutledge Mann. He had a hunch, however, that "Harold Smith" was going to be as completely ghostlike as "CraneWorthington."

"About Smith, I can't really tell you much, Mr. Cranston," Bascom went on, although The Shadow hadn't asked a question. "Sort of a medium-sized fellow with sandy hair--or was it blond? Hard to remember him. The sort of a man you meet every ten feet on the street."

"It doesn't matter," The Shadow said, in the bored voice of Cranston. "My money is gone, I guess. I can afford to lose it. But I'd certainly like to protect other investors from the fellow. Do you suppose there might be some clue to him in your office records?"

"A good idea." Bascom turned toward his secretary, who had remained in the room. The Shadow couldn't seen Bascom's eyes, but he saw the blonde blink to hide the expression that had leaped into hers.

"Bring me the Worthington folder," Bascom said.

"Yes, sir."

She was gone only a short time. When she returned, The Shadow revised his opinion of her as an actress. She was overacting badly. The surprise in her blue eyes, the gasp in her excited voice--it was all very phony.

"The Worthington folder is gone, Mr. Bascom!"

"Gone? Why, that's ridiculous! Look again."

"I searched the entire cabinet drawer. There's no trace of it."

"What the devil could have happened to it? I'll bet anything you like that--"

"It's what I think, too," the blonde replied, antic.i.p.ating the rest. "I forgot all about the robbery!"

"A sneak thief got in here several weeks ago," Bascom explained smoothly to Cranston. "One of those minor burglaries that sometimes happen. He made quite a mess. We lost a typewriter and some cash I had in my desk. I never thought of examining the filing cabinets. The thief must have stolen some of my records. Strange! I wonder why he did that?"

To The Shadow, it wasn't strange at all. But he made no comment. He shrugged as if the whole matter had lost interest for him. He turned the conversation back to personal things.

At a nod from Bascom, the secretary faded demurely to the outer room.

A few minutes after that, The Shadow took his departure.

Crane Worthington had all the earmarks of the Light! No one had seen him. No one had ever talked to him. He owned a house where he never lived. Report now placed him in South America.

But The Shadow knew that Crane Worthington was, not the Light! His role in this crime tangle was the same as the part of the unfortunate Dawn Reed. A victim! Dead, probably, soon after he had moved into the house on Long Island. Cremated into blue-gray ash. A dead inventor!

The Shadow's eyes burned coldly as he drove back to the Cobalt Club in his role of Lamont Cranston.

He had barely left Bascom's office when the wealthy promoter pressed the buzzer on his desk. The blond secretary came in at once. All signs of inner tension had left her. She looked completely at ease. In fact,ease was hardly the word.

She sat in Bascom's lap. Her lovely arms slid possessively around the neck of her wealthy employer. She kissed him. Bascom didn't reprove her. After a while, he lifted her to her feet and rose himself.

"I think I'm going to take a few days off," he said.

"My bank account's getting low."

"I'll deposit some more for you," Bascom said. He gave her a searching look. "I've been waiting to hear you say something about the rumors that I may travel to South America with a lady named Dawn Reed."

The blonde stared straight back at him.

"I'm not dumb enough to think I've ever had exclusive rights, Mr. Bascom. The present arrangements suit me."

"Smart girl," Bascom whispered.

This time, he really kissed her. His hard embrace made her gasp a little.

"You're a brute," she said, but he could see that she was pleased. "What are you up to this time?"

"A little fishing trip."

'I hope you catch something big."

"I think I will," Bascom said. "I've been getting ready for this fishing trip for a long time!"

CHAPTER XIV. SINISTER ISLAND.

CLYDE BURKE was nervous.

He stood alone in the wooded darkness of a private estate on Long Island, waiting for orders. Action was what Clyde wanted.

Clyde was an ace newspaper reporter. His scoops for the Daily Cla.s.sic were famous. No reporter in Manhattan had ever been able to match Clyde's record for turning in sensational crime scoops. The reason for this was simple--and secret.

Clyde Burke was an agent of The Shadow.

He stood flattened against the dark trunk of a tree, listening for The Shadow. The Shadow had made it easy for Clyde to get over the protective wall that hemmed in the secluded estate on the North Sh.o.r.e of Long Island. Tonight, Clyde was taking the place of Harry Vincent.

Vincent had been rushed secretly to the private hospital of Dr. Rupert Sayre. Police would never learn of this minor gunshot case. Nor would the newspapers. Sayre, a friend of The Shadow, knew how to hold his tongue.

Flattened cautiously against the tree bole, Clyde listened. He heard nothing. He was about to murmur impatiently under his breath, when he stiffened. A finger had touched his shoulder.

Clyde whirled. A gun glinted in his hand. Sibilant laughter testified to The Shadow's approval of Clyde's quick move. The Shadow seemed part of the darkness. The pale blur of his face seemed to hang in midair. Deep-set eyes held a strange inner flame. The jut of his beaked nose betokened strength of character and tenacity of purpose. He beckoned to Clyde and whispered a single word: "Come!"

Cautiously, Clyde followed him through the wooded darkness.

Soon The Shadow halted. He was pointing. He said nothing; words were superfluous. Clyde knew that The Shadow was ordering him to acquaint himself with the topography of this dangerous neighborhood.

The grounds behind the wall of the estate contained no house. It was merely a densely-planted strip of land, about a half mile in width to keep trespa.s.sers away from an island.

The island was close to the sh.o.r.e. Not more than two hundred yards of water separated it from the spot where The Shadow and Clyde Burke now stood. On this privately owned island stood the darkened house of Crane Worthington.

"Tough," Clyde whispered.

"Easy," was The Shadow's reply. A whisper of ominous laughter followed the word. "Too easy!"

Clyde didn't understand. His face showed it.

"A trap!" The Shadow breathed.

Clyde gazed over the black water between the sh.o.r.e and the island, trying to sense what The Shadow meant. There were three possible approaches to the island. One was a narrow causeway of rock and earth, paved on top for the pa.s.sage of an automobile. The other two seemed to be breakwaters.

The breakwaters enclosed the water between the sh.o.r.e and the island in a sort of lagoon, which was bisected by the narrow causeway. A tall metal fence guarded the water's edge. It would be impossible for anyone to reach the causeway or either of the breakwaters without climbing over that high metal fence.

Staring at the metal barrier, Clyde drew a quick breath. Something about the look of that fence gave him an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had a hunch that the fence was electrified!

Clyde was merely undergoing a thought already in The Shadow's mind. Other ideas accompanied it. The protected lagoon was ominous because there was no logical reason for it. Shelter for a boat? There wasn't any boat visible. More than that; there could not be any boat inside those two sinister breakwaters!

There was no pa.s.sage through the rocky barriers by which a boat could enter. The tides of Long Island Sound were not high enough to make breakwaters necessary to protect the automobile causeway. It had cost money--a lot of money--to build those expensive stone barriers. Why had it been done?

A trap to take care of unwanted visitors!

The Shadow had divined all this before he had scaled the wall back on the secluded highway. He had known Crane Worthington's house was a trap the moment he had read the unsigned message in the mailbox outside the Jersey house where Dawn Reed had been killed.

The Light had written that note. The Light intended to lure The Shadow across to the island! The faint whisper of The Shadow's laughter meant only one thing. He was going to oblige the Light to-night! He was deliberately going to enter a trap baited cunningly for him by a master criminal!

MOTIONING to Clyde Burke to accompany him, The Shadow crept closer to the metal fence. A black-gloved finger pointed to a pathetic little bundle of fur that lay on the ground close to the base of the fence.

It was the corpse of a squirrel.

The animal had been electrocuted. Other animals had already begun to prey on the dead squirrel's body.

It was half eaten away.

The Shadow picked up the small victim of a high-tension current of electricity. He looked through the fence. He seemed to divine something ugly beneath the smooth black water of the cove.

He threw the dead squirrel over the metal fence.

"There was a faint splash, a widening nest of black ripples. Nothing happened for an instant. Then suddenly Clyde Burke bit off a cry of horror. His fingers clenched tightly on the cloaked arm of The Shadow.

A black triangle was cutting the water's surface. The fin of a shark!

There was a whirl. The fin vanished under the surface. So did the b.l.o.o.d.y carca.s.s of the squirrel. Clyde Burke felt sick. Sweat came out on his cold forehead.

"Come!" The Shadow whispered.

A nearly invisible patch of blackness, he crept soundlessly along the line of the electrified fence. Clyde kept close to him. The Shadow was looking for a way to cross safely to the island. He expected the path to be easy. Without an easy method of entrance, The Shadow could not be lured successfully into the Light's trap.

Soon The Shadow found what he expected: an electrical control box. It was painted white so as to be readily noticed in the darkness. The white paint on the box looked remarkably fresh.

Half a dozen electrical switches were revealed when The Shadow opened the control box. It wasn't difficult to break into.

The Shadow threw all the switches. He cut off the deadly pulse of death that had made the fence an impa.s.sable obstacle. He proved it by calmly touching the metal with his bare hand.

"Back," The Shadow ordered.

The Daily Cla.s.sic reporter nodded. He retreated toward the tree where he had first waited. Soon he was joined by the black-robed figure of The Shadow.

He listened to calmly spoken orders. Every word The Shadow uttered was memorized by Clyde. To forget them might be to invite a horrible death. Clyde hadn't forgotten the black triangular fin.

The Shadow's orders were brief. Clyde was to remain where he was until further instructions. The Shadow intended to scale the fence and crawl along the stone breakwater on the left to the sh.o.r.e of the island.

Clyde was warned to watch the island carefully. It might become necessary for him, too, to cross. If suchwas the case, he was to watch for the signal from The Shadow's flashlight.

"Repeat!" The Shadow's voice commanded.

Clyde repeated the simple instructions. When he had finished, The Shadow was already in motion. He dropped close to the black earth and melted into invisibility. Clyde's steady gaze was unable to keep him in sight for more than a few seconds.

Waiting, Clyde was tense at the thought of peril. But he relaxed after a while when he thought of the secrecy with which he and The Shadow had entered this sinister estate.

CLYDE would have been less complacent, had he realized the truth.

A criminal with plenty of experience in stealth was at this very instant less than twenty feet from The Shadow's agent. The crook was directly above Clyde's head, hidden by a thick tangle of branches.

He had heard every word of the conference between The Shadow and Clyde. He had the electrical means of transmitting that knowledge to someone across the cove on the island. No wires were strung from the tall trees to betray this spy. A short-wave radio would carry his words invisibly through the ether.

The criminal in the tree waited patiently. The wind that rustled the branches was gusty. Whenever it blew hard, the leaves sighed and creaked like the sound of surf.

Presently, the lips of the unseen man high in the air whispered gently into a tiny transmitter. At a receiver on the island, a powerful amplifier would raise that whisper to intelligible speech. But in the tree the hiss from those moving lips was drowned out by the noise of the wind among leafy branches.

Unaware of his peril--and The Shadow's--Clyde Burke watched the island. Minute after minute pa.s.sed.

Clyde was convinced that his part in this night's dangerous adventure was completed, when he suddenly he stiffened. His eyes narrowed watchfully.

He thought he had seen the swift wink of an electric torch from the blackness of the island.

Soon he saw it again. This time, there was no doubt about it. The signal flicked rapidly from a point close to the ground. It faded into nothingness. It was not repeated.

Clyde Burke crept forward to obey the summons of The Shadow. He was blissfully unaware that the signal had not been sent by The Shadow!

He found it simple to scale the metal fence. He crossed the lagoon along the rocky spine of the narrow breakwater on the left. He didn't look at the surface of the black water. The thought of what lurked under the depths was enough to make the hair bristle along his scalp.