tell me one thing, please.” He leaned toward The Shadow. “How did you know my life was in danger? Who told you?” Tam caught a glance of piercing, almost reflective eyes.
A trailing, enigmatic laugh issued from the figure in black.
The Shadow knew!
4
The Shadow Masked
S hrevnitz threw the Cord into a screeching right-hand turn, but drove for only a block under the elevated train line before making another right and pulling over to the curb on the wrong side of the street. Manhattan was wet, but the temperature had actually nosed up a couple of degrees. Tam, still shaken from his brush with death and the white-knuckle ride from the Harlem River Bridge, understood that he was expected to take the subway home, and wasted no time scrambling out onto the sidewalk. Shrevnitz exited as well, from the Cord’s rear-hinged driver’s door. Tam’s black-clad rescuer remained in the cab.
Tam said thank you as he hurried out, then turned to Shrevnitz in agitated excitement, gesturing to the backseat as the hackie led him away from the car.
“That’s The Shadow. I mean, that’s The Shadow . . .”
Shrevnitz took hold of Tam’s right hand and began to pump it, humoring him with a nod and a grin. “Hey, you’re a pretty smart guy.”
He was a tall man, with large features and mischievous eyes. Beneath the peacoat he wore a flannel shirt and dark-green wide-wale corduroys.
Tam was still peering at the rear window of the cab. “I’ve heard the rumors on the radio and read them in the papers, but I thought it was just talk. I didn’t think he existed.”
“He doesn’t, get it?” Shrevnitz’s eyes narrowed, and he touched a forefinger to his temple.
Tam returned a blank stare, then a slow nod of comprehension. More of that agent business, he told himself. But what did it mean to be an agent of The Shadow’s? The hackie had released his hand, but there was something on it that hadn’t been there before: a heavy silver ring, adorned with a smooth oval of ruby-red stone. Slipped onto his third finger, where some American men wore wedding rings.
“Don’t ever take it off,” Shrevnitz cautioned. He winked and turned to go when Tam took hold of his arm.
“Wait a minute. Who are you? What part do you play in all this?”
“Somebody who owes him his life.” Shrevnitz’s eyes bored in on Tam, and he raised his right hand, displaying an identical ring. “Someone just like you,” he added, jabbing Tam lightly in the chest.
Tam was still standing on the sidewalk, wondering how he was going to explain the ring to his wife, when the taxi sped off.
Shrevnitz continued downtown at a more subdued pace. He had both hands on the steering wheel now and faced forward in the seat. Every so often he allowed his eyes to drift toward the rearview mirror, not, however, to check on traffic but to check on his passenger, who sat like a lump of solid darkness in the backseat. The Shadow’s rapid breathing could be heard over the noise of the engine and gearbox. More, there was a strong smell of astringent in the air.
“You okay, boss?” he asked.
“Nothing that won’t mend,” The Shadow told him after a long moment.
Shrevnitz heard the sound of the drawer opening—a secret compartment one of The Shadow’s agents, Chance Labrue, had installed under the rear seat when he’d added two feet to the overall length of the car. The drawer concealed clothes of all sorts, makeup kits, medical supplies, clips of ammunition, an assortment of wigs and mustaches, false noses, and cauliflower ears. The Shadow was stirring now, visible in the rearview, as the hat, cloak, and jacket came off, to be stored for future use.
Shrevnitz thought about Roy Tam, and about his own first encounter with The Shadow, five years earlier. Tam would be surprised to learn the extent of the secret fraternity into which he had been enlisted. A fraternity whose New York chapter alone included the clean-cut Harry Vincent; Clyde Burke, now a staff
A trailing, enigmatic laugh issued from the figure in black.
The Shadow knew!
4
The Shadow Masked
S hrevnitz threw the Cord into a screeching right-hand turn, but drove for only a block under the elevated train line before making another right and pulling over to the curb on the wrong side of the street. Manhattan was wet, but the temperature had actually nosed up a couple of degrees. Tam, still shaken from his brush with death and the white-knuckle ride from the Harlem River Bridge, understood that he was expected to take the subway home, and wasted no time scrambling out onto the sidewalk. Shrevnitz exited as well, from the Cord’s rear-hinged driver’s door. Tam’s black-clad rescuer remained in the cab.
Tam said thank you as he hurried out, then turned to Shrevnitz in agitated excitement, gesturing to the backseat as the hackie led him away from the car.
“That’s The Shadow. I mean, that’s The Shadow . . .”
Shrevnitz took hold of Tam’s right hand and began to pump it, humoring him with a nod and a grin. “Hey, you’re a pretty smart guy.”
He was a tall man, with large features and mischievous eyes. Beneath the peacoat he wore a flannel shirt and dark-green wide-wale corduroys.
Tam was still peering at the rear window of the cab. “I’ve heard the rumors on the radio and read them in the papers, but I thought it was just talk. I didn’t think he existed.”
“He doesn’t, get it?” Shrevnitz’s eyes narrowed, and he touched a forefinger to his temple.
Tam returned a blank stare, then a slow nod of comprehension. More of that agent business, he told himself. But what did it mean to be an agent of The Shadow’s? The hackie had released his hand, but there was something on it that hadn’t been there before: a heavy silver ring, adorned with a smooth oval of ruby-red stone. Slipped onto his third finger, where some American men wore wedding rings.
“Don’t ever take it off,” Shrevnitz cautioned. He winked and turned to go when Tam took hold of his arm.
“Wait a minute. Who are you? What part do you play in all this?”
“Somebody who owes him his life.” Shrevnitz’s eyes bored in on Tam, and he raised his right hand, displaying an identical ring. “Someone just like you,” he added, jabbing Tam lightly in the chest.
Tam was still standing on the sidewalk, wondering how he was going to explain the ring to his wife, when the taxi sped off.
Shrevnitz continued downtown at a more subdued pace. He had both hands on the steering wheel now and faced forward in the seat. Every so often he allowed his eyes to drift toward the rearview mirror, not, however, to check on traffic but to check on his passenger, who sat like a lump of solid darkness in the backseat. The Shadow’s rapid breathing could be heard over the noise of the engine and gearbox. More, there was a strong smell of astringent in the air.
“You okay, boss?” he asked.
“Nothing that won’t mend,” The Shadow told him after a long moment.
Shrevnitz heard the sound of the drawer opening—a secret compartment one of The Shadow’s agents, Chance Labrue, had installed under the rear seat when he’d added two feet to the overall length of the car. The drawer concealed clothes of all sorts, makeup kits, medical supplies, clips of ammunition, an assortment of wigs and mustaches, false noses, and cauliflower ears. The Shadow was stirring now, visible in the rearview, as the hat, cloak, and jacket came off, to be stored for future use.
Shrevnitz thought about Roy Tam, and about his own first encounter with The Shadow, five years earlier. Tam would be surprised to learn the extent of the secret fraternity into which he had been enlisted. A fraternity whose New York chapter alone included the clean-cut Harry Vincent; Clyde Burke, now a staff
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