Only two people know Lamont Cranston's secret identity as the Shadow, a vigilante of justice: his greatest love, Margo Lane, and his fiercest enemy, Shiwan Khan. Then Khan ambushes the couple, who find the slimmest chance of survival . . . in the uncertain future.
NEW YORK CITY / 1937
ONE
“IN THE BAR room of Jack & Charlie’s 21 Club, toys dangled from the ceiling. Airplanes, ships, and
trucks — whimsical gifts from rich and famous patrons. First-time visitors were usually distracted by the playful clutter overhead, but Lamont Cranston was a regular, and had been since the place opened. Besides, his focus tonight was totally on his dazzling companion.
The venue had been Margo’s choice. She knew this place was Lamont’s favorite, and tonight was a very special occasion. She had hinted on the car ride that she had something special to tell him. Usually that meant a lead on an intriguing new case, but with Margo Lane, you never knew. She was full of surprises, both naughty and nice, which was one of the many, many reasons Lamont adored her. As his partner in the crime-fighting business, Margo was the only person in the world who knew all his secrets.
Except one.
Tonight, Lamont had planned a little surprise of his own. Out of all the women he had known — and there were many — no one else had impressed, challenged, and excited him like Margo. From the day he met her, he knew they were meant to be together, and the ring he was hiding in his pocket would seal it. Assuming she said yes.
As for Margo’s little secret, Lamont was very curious. But clearly she was going to make him wait just a little bit longer.
“Remember this place during Prohibition?” she asked, looking around the room. Lamont stretched his tuxedoed arm to signal a waiter for refills. His first drink had given him a pleasant buzz, and he didn’t want to lose it.
“I remember the liquor shelves would tip back whenever Jack and Charlie got wind of a raid,” he said.
“And then,” said Margo, “all the pretty bottles would slide right down into the sewer.” With her long, slender arms, she made a swooping gesture, goofy and elegant at the same time. “Such a waste!”
Margo was wearing a white Schiaparelli evening dress, with black velvet flares over her bare shoulders and a matching bow in front. In the room’s amber glow, she could not have looked more beautiful. Lamont noticed that even the bartender, no stranger to stunning women, had angled himself for a better view. A waiter appeared with two fresh drinks on a silver tray. An old-fashioned for the gentleman. Champagne for the lady.
Lamont and Margo plucked their glasses off the tray before the waiter had a chance to place them on the table. As the young man started to turn back toward the bar, Lamont put a hand up to stop him in his tracks.
“Shall we order?” he asked Margo.
“Why not?” she said, running a manicured fingernail around the rim of her glass. “But please, Lamont — nothing heavy.” She passed her other hand lightly over her belly, with its barely perceptible bump, so slight Lamont hadn’t yet noticed.
“Two lobster salads,” said Lamont, without even glancing at the menu. It was September. A good month for lobster. He put his glass to his lips and sipped, feeling the sweetness of the sugar on his tongue and the warm burn of whiskey in the back of his throat.
“Well?” he said, leaning forward. “You had something you wanted to tell me?”
Margo just smiled, her thin eyebrows slightly arched.
“Is that the Titanic?” she asked, pointing toward a corner of the ceiling, where a model of a large steamship hung between two pairs of brass opera glasses.
“I think that would be in poor taste, considering,” said Lamont, squinting into the collection overhead.
“It’s probably the Queen Mary.”
“You’re probably right,” said Margo.
She looked like she was about to say something else. But before she could speak, two plates were already being set on the table. The service in this place was impeccable. On each plate, gobs of snowy-white lobster meat nestled in a tangle of chopped greens, topped with a lace of cream sauce and flecked with small croutons. Lamont and Margo each speared a morsel of lobster. They lifted their forks and tapped them together in a playful toast.
“To us,” said Lamont.
“To secrets,” whispered Margo, her eyes on his. She slid a chunk of lobster into her mouth as Lamont took his first small bite.
“You can’t hold out forever, you know,” he said, “I have my methods.”
“Maybe I’m just holding out for dessert,” said Margo. Her eyes widened. She dropped her fork. “Lamont!” Her voice was suddenly pinched and pained. At the same moment, Lamont felt a hot rush in his skull, like somebody had just set his frontal lobes on fire. His throat tightened in a sharp spasm and his hands flew up reflexively to his neck. Margo’s head rolled back as a small stream of white foam oozed from between her rose-tinted lips. Her slender body went limp.
Lamont knew instantly what had happened. But his vocal cords were tightening. He could barely squeeze out the word.
“Poison!”
TWO
“LAMONT LURCHED TO his feet with so much force that the small round table crashed to one side, dumping a clatter of glasses and plates onto the floor. Guests at other tables sat frozen in place. A busboy backed up against the wall, his metal tray trembling against his chest. Margo was already past standing, almost past breathing. White foam now cascaded in a bubbly froth across the bow on her dress.
Lamont spun his chair aside and reached for her. He slid one arm under Margo’s knees, the other behind her shoulders. Her head was loose and hanging back, her eyes half shut.
As Lamont staggered toward the door with Margo in his arms, a few waiters jumped to push chairs and serving carts aside. Lamont couldn’t think. He could hardly see! Through the small window in the front door, he could barely make out the vertical lines of the iron gate outside. Just a few more steps until they were outside.
Near the door, a maître d’ loomed. Not moving to help. Just staring, arms folded across his chest. In a flash, for just a split second, Lamont saw the man’s elegant evening suit replaced by a golden robe. Or did he? Was he delirious? Was this really happening? Margo! Margo was all that mattered. He barely noticed the foam spilling from his own mouth, running down the front of his tux, dripping onto the tips of the maître d’s expensive shoes. As Lamont kicked the door open, he felt the maître d’ lean toward him.
“Was everything to your liking, Mr. Cranston?” he asked with a cruel smile.
In that moment, Lamont knew the truth. Now he realized there was only one chance. One way to possibly save Margo and himself. And he knew it was the longest of long shots.
The sidewalk was a few steps up from the restaurant’s sunken entrance. Lamont stumbled on the lowest step, hard enough to scrape a hole in his trousers. He adjusted his grip as he struggled to hold Margo up. Her high-heeled shoes hung from her small feet by thin, glittery straps. Then, through the fog and fever clouding his brain, Lamont heard a maniacal, deepthroated laugh.
He knew that laugh.”
Extracted from The Shadow, out now.
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