The Ghost Makers

The grim picture of the electric chair arose in Slade's mind. Bold on the surface, he was a coward at heart.

The Shadow was approaching closer. His sinister whisper carried a tone that held the knell of doom.

"Death will come to you, Martin Slade! Death that you cannot escape. You will linger in the death cell, waiting — waiting — for your day of doom!"

Slade gasped; then, in madness, he reached for his revolver. His hand came swinging from his pocket. Then, as the man's weapon was moving upward, The Shadow discharged his automatic. Its bullet smashed against the revolver in Slade's hand. The crook's gun hurtled toward the wall. Slade was holding his numbed hand helplessly.

"Death," said The Shadow slowly. "Death by the chair — if you prefer to wait. Death now — by my hand, if you choose to struggle. Death — of your own design, if you wish it. Death that you designed for others should be good enough for you, Martin Slade!"

The crook understood. The glass on the table! The glass with its half quota of liquid that carried sure death! Slade shunned the thought.

Then, he caught the gleam in The Shadow's eyes. He saw the black finger resting on the trigger of the automatic.

Slade's game was ended. He must fight now, or yield. Bullets from The Shadow's automatic — bullets that might wound and leave him here, dying. The liquid in the glass — sure — positive.

"You prefer to wait?" inquired The Shadow.

His left hand advanced, and Slade cowered. The Shadow picked up the confession and placed it beneath his cloak. His free hand reached for the telephone.

Slade knew what the gesture meant. A tip to the police. They would be here — to find him. They would receive his confession, learn his crimes!

Slowly, the man's hand crept across the desk. He picked up the glass, with its poison. He brought the glass to his lips. The liquid had no taste. Even though he had poisoned it, Slade could not tell it from water.

He started to put the glass away; but his hand stopped, unmoving, as he saw The Shadow's pistol move.

"You have made your choice," came the sinister whisper. "Abide by that choice, or I shall act as I choose."

The glass went back to Slade's lips. The man did not see it. His eyes were on The Shadow's hands, unconscious of the glass. The black finger trembled. Slade knew that if he hesitated longer, his fate would be decided by his enemy.

In desperation, he shut his eyes and gulped the liquid. He remained, seated with bowed head. He felt no ill effects for the moment. He had a sudden rev of hope. Perhaps the poison — for once— might be impotent!

Slade's eyes opened. The Shadow was gone! Exultant, hopeful, Martin Slade started to arise from his chair. A terrific pain gripped him. He slumped back in agony.

Thomas Telford's old clock on the bookcase ticked off seven solemn minutes, while a man writhed and moaned in torture. At the end of seven minutes, the room was silent.

Martin Slade, sprawled over the desk, was dead.

A silent, black-clad form reentered the room. The Shadow laid the dead man's confession on the desk beside the body. A black-gloved finger rested on the final paragraph — words which Slade had not read. There appeared this statement:

Because my crimes will be known, I have taken my own life.

Underneath the sentence appeared the signature of Martin Slade.

Chapter XX–Iman Singh Prepares

Rajah Brahman was seated in his sanctum. Imam Singh was beside him, listening to final instructions. The rajah, despite his Oriental appearance, was talking in the shrewd tones of Bert Clutten.

"You know how we're working tonight, Tony," he said. "I'm going to work this materialization strong. A long talk, spirit guides and all that — before the fireworks.

"Get going as soon as we set the cabinet. I'll do the rest. Take plenty of time with the make-up. You've got to do the part right."

Tony nodded.

"Show them in," said the seer.

He went into the seance room, and was seated on his throne when the sitters were ushered into his presence. Rajah Brahman looked about with secret satisfaction.

Here were the real believers — ones who had the money. Arthur Dykeman would turn in his cash after this seance. Mrs. Furzeman, from Chicago, was a good believer. There was Thomas Telford — the seer noted that his newfound son was not with him. That was just as well.

Beside Telford sat the one member of the group who might be classed as a skeptic — Benjamin Castelle. The dignified man was very serious to-night, and it pleased Rajah Brahman. After this seance, Castelle would serve a most useful part in the scheme of things.

For Rajah Brahman, with the knowledge of the seer, was sure that to-night Castelle's skepticism would drop away. He was sure that the man, as a new convert, would be high in his praise of Rajah Brahman's psychic powers.