"Just to prove I'm not yellow," he said, "I'm going to a night club tonight. The biggest one in town. Would you care to join me tonight at the Club Penguin?"

Lamont Cranston refused politely. The Shadow had good reasons for not wanting to accept.

As soon as Stoker left the car, The Shadow drove swiftly to the Cobalt Club. He hurried to the suite of Lamont Cranston. He made a telephone call over a wire that didn't go through the club switchboard downstairs.

"Burbank speaking," a voice said.

Burbank was the contact man for The Shadow. His job was to receive and transmit orders. To Burbank, The Shadow mentioned a name: Harry Vincent.

Vincent was a young man of no apparent occupation, who lived in a modest room at the Hotel Metrolite.

His real business was unknown to either police or criminals. Harry was a secret agent of The Shadow.

The Shadow's orders were brief.

Harry Vincent was to trail George Stoker until further orders.

"Repeat!" The Shadow said.

Burbank repeated the instructions.

Sibilant laughter echoed softly as The Shadow hung up.

THE Club Penguin was jammed that night. It was the most important night spot in town. Every table was occupied. The music of Carl Trevor and his famous band made hot rhythm. Richly gowned women and important-looking men kept their eyes glued on the small stage.

It wasn't Carl Trevor and his band that drew their attention. Dawn Reed was singing one of her famous blues numbers into the glittering mike.

Dawn Reed's voice was like blue velvet. She was dark-haired and beautiful. Her figure was flawless in the revealing gown she wore.

Close to her shoulder, Carl Trevor waved his baton gently. He could not keep his eyes off Dawn. There was a flame in his eyes that revealed his feelings about the singer.

But there was more than love in Trevor's sleek face tonight. A cold gleam glowed in the back of hiswatchful eyes. He could see the direction of Dawn's glance as she sang. She was looking steadily toward a table up front.

A man sat there smiling dimly, as if amused by Dawn Reed's scrutiny. His name was Peter Bascom. He was older than Trevor, and many times wealthier. His hair was slightly grayed, but he had no paunch. He looked in excellent physical condition. He was tall and muscular.

Presently, Dawn finished her song. She usually smiled at Trevor before she made her exit, but tonight she ignored him. She darted away without a backward look as the applause roared.

Trevor waited a moment. His face was ugly. Suddenly, he beckoned to his a.s.sistant, handed over his baton.

"Take it a while. I'm tired. Be back in a minute."

He ducked out the stage exit and hurried toward the dressing room of Dawn Reed. He moved without sound, an almost catlike advance. He flung open the dressing-room door without knocking.

Trevor's swift entrance startled the singer. She whirled from her dressing table. The glittering object in her hand drew a startled oath from the band leader.

Dawn was holding a gun!

She relaxed instantly. But her face was deathly pale. She turned back to her dressing table. When she again faced Trevor, the gun was gone. He couldn't see what she had done with it.

"What's the idea?" he growled. "Afraid of somebody?"

She denied it coolly. Her fright was gone now.

"I just don't like people shoving into my dressing room without knocking."

"How long have you had a gun?"

"None of your business!"

Carl Trevor fought down his suspicion with a quick effort. He didn't want to antagonize Dawn. Much better to play safe.

He took Dawn suddenly in his arms and kissed her. She didn't struggle. Her lovely arms tightened warmly around Carl's neck. They were both a little breathless when he released her.

But a moment later, Trevor felt anger again in a cold wave. He had turned toward a corner of the dressing room. On a table stood an immense basket of flowers. Half of the blooms were orchids.

"Who sent 'em?" Trevor snapped.

"A friend. What difference does it--Carl! Don't you dare!"

Trevor had already leaped across the room. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the card and read it before Dawn could stop him. His laugh was like the rasp of a file.

"Bascom, eh?"

"Carl, you're being hateful!" "I don't like to be double-crossed. What do you think I am--a sap?"

"You're all wrong."

"Yeah? Why does Bascom take a table here every night? Why does he spend a mint of money on you?

And another thing! What's this I hear about you quitting the show?"

"It's true. I'm tired. I need a long rest."

"So you can marry Bascom?"

"Don't be silly! I'm just tired. I've got to get away from Broadway. I'm going to South America for a while."

"South America? Are you crazy?"

"I'm going to rent a quiet little villa in Rio. I've saved up a lot of money. And I had a bit of luck last month. An... an old aunt of mine died. I was her favorite niece. She left me a nice little sum in her will."

"I see," Trevor said.

He didn't make any nasty cracks. But he had a pretty good idea about that "aunt." A guy with broad shoulders and a tall, muscular body at a front table in the Club Penguin. A guy named Peter Bascom!

TREVOR kept his temper, however. He pretended to believe Dawn's story, and patched up their quarrel. He went back to the stage to conduct his band. But there was cold flame behind his slitted eyes.

He conducted a number or two, then he beckoned again to his a.s.sistant and handed over the baton. The a.s.sistant looked surprised. The next number was a song by Dawn Reed. Carl Trevor never permitted anyone but himself to conduct while Dawn was singing.

"I don't feel so good," Trevor whispered. "Got a nasty headache. I'm going for an aspirin. I'll be back in time for Dawn's vocal number."

When he got backstage he made sure that no one had noticed him. He ducked into a dark corner, waited until he heard the cue for Dawn. Out of sight, he watched her glide smilingly to the stage. Then he darted at once for her empty dressing room.

Carl Trevor didn't look handsome now. His face was creased with ugly lines. He was thinking about that gun of hers. Why a gun? Did Dawn suspect something?

And where did she keep the weapon? She had put it away so deftly that Trevor had been unable to see where it had vanished. In her dressing table, of course! No other place was available.

Trevor was crafty. He was swift, too. He knew he was taking a chance. Someone might blunder in with a telegram, or more flowers, and catch him in the act.

He found the gun after his fingers had located the hidden mechanism of a secret drawer. No wonder she had pulled that d.a.m.ned gun so swiftly! The drawer popped open with the speed of a cash register.

There were three newspaper clippings alongside the gun in the secret drawer. Trevor's breath hissed faintly as he examined them.

The first clipping described the strange surrender to the police of Flash Snark. The second was about Tony Bedloe. Trevor seemed afraid to pick up the third clipping. His hand trembled as he unfolded it. He uttered a low-toned oath.

"I was right," he whispered. "Dawn suspects something! She's trying to put two and two together. O.K.

Maybe I can be smart, too!"

The final clipping was about the murder of a policeman--the cop who had been shot through the head by an unknown killer from the portico roof of Flash Snark's home.

Trevor refolded it carefully. He left no fingerprints because he was wearing the white gloves he always wore when he conducted the band.

He replaced the gun, too. But the weapon was no longer loaded. All of its bullets had been removed by the wily band leader.

With the slugs hidden in the pocket of his coat, Trevor sneaked out of the dressing room. He could hear Dawn's lovely voice from the stage. The sound of it made his lips tighten. He started to move quietly along the corridor to a turn that led to the wings.

Suddenly, he stopped short. Someone had seen him come out of Dawn's dressing room. Someone was crouched just around the hidden turn in the pa.s.sage!

There was a dim ceiling light beyond the turn. The light threw a shadow on the opposite wall. It was the shadow of a tall man leaning forward. It looked like the crooked shadow of a hunchback.

Trevor felt a surge of grim amus.e.m.e.nt. His hand dropped into his right-hand pocket. He sprang quickly forward toward the corridor turn.

As he did so, the hidden man stepped calmly into view.

CHAPTER VII. HIDDEN MOVES.

THE moment Trevor saw the man who had stepped so quickly into sight, his whole manner changed.

The hard watchfulness left his face. He grinned.

"h.e.l.lo, Sam! What's the big hurry?"

The other man grinned, too. He was tall, powerfully built, and had a long, bony face. He looked like a tough guy, a bouncer. That was how he had started. He hated to be reminded of it. He tried to make people forget about his underworld beginning by wearing expensively tailored clothes.

His name was Sam Burns. He was the owner and manager of the Club Penguin.

"Just the guy I was looking for," he said. "Eddie told me you had come backstage for an aspirin. Anything wrong?"

"Nope. Just a headache. I'm all right now."

"Fine! Eddie was worried about conducting that next band number. I told him I'd hurry you up."

Trevor grunted. He was still tense under the mask of his friendly grin. So was Sam Burns. But anyone who didn't know their capabilities would have thought them a couple of close pals.

"I got some good news for you, Carl," Sam Burns said. Trevor could sense that he was being carefully watched by the night-club manager. "Something that will cure your headache a lot quicker than anaspirin."

"Yeah? What?"

"No more money troubles, pal." Sam said. "The Club Penguin is out of the red. All bills are gonna be paid promptly. The little slash in salary that you boys were nice enough to take without a squawk, will be restored tomorrow. And, by way of thanks and appreciation, there'll be a cash bonus for you and every member of the band."

"Swell!" Carl Trevor said.

The news had surprised him. But he didn't let the icy thought that flashed through his mind show in his face.

"What did you do?" he said carelessly. "Dig up a new backer?"

"Yeah. This time, we don't have to worry about pinching pennies. The guy has plenty of dough to lay on the line. There's no rubber band on his pocketbook."

"Who is it?"

"Peter Bascom."

"Swell!" Trevor said again.

It was hard for him to talk. Hard to keep his inner rage from pulling those cruel lines tight around his mouth and nostrils. He could see Sam Burns eyeing him to get a reaction. O.K.! If Sam could cover up and play dumb, so could he!

Peter Bascom! The guy who had sent Dawn Reed the basket of orchids. The guy who reserved a ringside table every night in the week so he could watch Dawn with those heavy-lidded eyes of his.

Bascom! The guy that Dawn claimed was just "a friend."

Carl Trevor drew a slow breath. He tossed a little bombsh.e.l.l himself.

"I hear Dawn is quitting Broadway."

"Yeah?" Sam Burns was on the defensive now. He didn't say anything for a moment. He didn't look so jovial and friendly.

"Yeah. Dawn is going to Rio. Saved up her money, she says, and wants to take a little rest."

"Sounds phony. Who told you?"

"Dawn."