Placing his handkerchief upon the left hand of the dead man, the ruffian clamped the lifeless fingers to the telephone receiver. He used Hobston’s hand to knock it from the hook.
With the revolver pointed to the open window of the office, the murderer stood in readiness for clicks through the receiver. His vile face showed its vicious grin. Evil had gained a triumph.
Murder had been this villain’s first crime. Then had come robbery. The third step in the sequence was under way. This man who had slain George Hobston; this crook who had rifled the investment dealer’s safe, was ready to complete his evening’s work.
Simply, but with craft, he was planting his crimes upon Howard Norwyn, the young man who was lying helpless behind the locked bars of the vault room!
CHAPTER II
FROM THE NIGHT
WHILE grim events were taking place on the thirty-third floor, the lobby of the Zenith Building still maintained its hollow quiet. Two men came walking in from the outer door; simultaneously, the clang of metal announced that the elevator had reached the ground floor.
Two passengers alighted. Like the two men who had entered, they went to the registration desk to sign. The watchman was busy, checking the names of two persons who had entered and watching the departers tabulate the time that they were leaving.
Other eyes observed the cluster at the table. These were the eyes of a watcher at the outer door. Standing against the wall, in from the sidewalk, was a tall figure that was remarkably inconspicuous.
Dressed in dark suit, this spying visitor might well have materialized from the blackened fog. He formed a shape that was almost spectral. Brief minutes had passed since his arrival here; he moved inward through the door. It became the form of a man whose close-fitting suit was glistening with moisture from the drizzle. In his right hand, this arrival carried a black briefcase.
There was something amazing in the stride of this tall personage. Where other footsteps had clicked upon the marble flooring of the lobby, his paces were swift and noiseless. Swinging to the right side of the lobby, where the window of a darkened shop showed black, the intruder was almost invisible as he headed for the elevator.
The watchman turned to see the two men who had registered go toward the elevator. Swinging about, he observed the other two men making their departure. He missed a glimpse of the extra arrival who stood a dozen paces from the elevators.
It was when the watchman turned toward the outer door that the tall intruder came suddenly to life. His quick, noiseless steps brought him to the elevator; he moved into the car just as the operator was about to close the doors.
The two men who had registered were engaged in conversation. The operator was sleepy and had no interest in his passengers. No question was put to the carrier of the briefcase. The operator closed the doors. The elevator was ready for its upward trip.
It was at that moment that the watchman found another duty. A buzzer had been sounding beside the registration table. It indicated a call from an office. The watchman picked up a telephone and growled into a mouthpiece.
“Hello… Hello…”
The watchman received no reply. Instead, he heard a sound that startled him. Over the wire came the report of a revolver. Then a gasp, a gargling, incoherent groan. A voice tried to mouth words. It failed. The thump of a falling receiver was the final token.
“Hello… Hello…”
The watchman looked at the board. He saw the number of the office from which the call had come: 3318. He hung up the receiver and wheeled toward the elevators. The lone night car had started upward. Its dial showed that it had stopped at the eighth floor.
The watchman hung up the receiver. He waited for breathless seconds. Then he raised the receiver with shaking hand and put in a call to the police. He knew that crime had struck within the Zenith Building. He was sounding the alarm.
THE elevator was leaving the eighth floor. Two passengers had left it — they were the men who had registered — and only one remained. The operator looked toward the tall personage who held the briefcase.
“Thirty-five,” announced the passenger.
The operator nodded. The car sped upward. It reached the thirty-fifth floor. The passenger alighted. The doors closed and the elevator began its downward trip.
A soft laugh came from the lips of the visitor who stood in the corridor of the thirty-fifth floor. Long, white hands opened the briefcase. From it, they drew the folds of black cloth.
This became a cloak which slipped over shoulders. A slouch hat settled on the visitor’s head. Black gloves were drawn over white hands. A brace of automatics came from the brief case and disappeared beneath the folds of the cloak.
Then the case itself was rolled into small compass. It went out of sight beneath the cloak as the tall visitant moved in the direction of a stairway. This being who had passed the watchman was indeed a creature of the night.
It was The Shadow who was descending from the thirty-fifth floor of the Zenith Building.
Crime had already struck in the Zenith Building. No word of its completion could have reached The Shadow. Yet he was here, in the building where one man lay murdered and another was held a prisoner, to have crime planted upon him. George Hobston’s suite of offices was on the thirty-third floor. The Shadow had alighted at the thirty-fifth. His course had become a descent. He reached the thirty-third floor and there he stopped.
The corridor was silent. A full four minutes had elapsed since the watchman in the lobby had received the telephone call from 3318. The Shadow had been in the elevator when the watchman had gained word.
An automatic bristled in The Shadow’s fist as the black-garbed visitant stopped before the door of 3318. The free hand turned the knob. The Shadow entered the suite. A tiny flashlight appeared in his left hand. It sent a shining disk of light about the outer office.
The room was empty. Striding to the inner office, The Shadow saw that this dimly lighted room contained but a single occupant. That lone man was dead. The body of George Hobston lay sprawled where the murderer had left it.
THE SHADOW saw the telephone upon the desk. The receiver, lying beside the instrument itself, was proof of what had happened. The Shadow knew that a call had been made below. That call, moreover, had been given during the last four minutes.
Approaching the body, The Shadow detected something else. It was the trace of revolver smoke; a faint odor of burned powder that was most noticeable close to the desk. The Shadow’s eyes saw the swirling of heavy fog from the opened window. The Shadow knew the answer.
A shot had been fired close by this desk. Yet, as The Shadow viewed Hobston’s body, he could tell that the man had been killed from a greater range. A soft laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips. It sounded weirdly through this room of death.
Subtle in his conclusions, The Shadow could see factors that others would not note. Hobston’s dead left hand was clamped to the fallen receiver. His right hand, however, was loose as it stretched toward the telephone.
An inconsistency that others might pass; yet to The Shadow, it was evidence of what had actually occurred. Beginning with the scent of powder — an odor that would soon be disseminated throughout the room — The Shadow had gained a starting point.
A murderer, he knew, had deliberately given an alarm. Why? The answer must be here. Already, The Shadow was looking toward the spot where it could be found — the grilled door to the lighted vault room.