“Like what?” questioned Goggins, with a pleased grin. “Chairs— tables— anything.”
“I require a desk,” stated the stranger. “Something substantial, of good quality—”
Goggins stroked his whiskers. He nudged his thumb over his shoulder. Turning, he led the way toward the rear of the shop; then into a side room. An array of desks — from battered relics to modern office equipment — was before the customer’s eyes.
Keenly, the tall visitor studied the furniture. Goggins watched him, hoping that he would see the desk he wanted. At last, there was a shake of the firm head.
“I have seen desks,” said the stranger, “that have drawers of double width — but at one side only. Desks with ornamental tops divided with patterned lines.”
“Such a desk!” exclaimed Goggins. “I had one like it only to-day. It came in here from the truck last night. Today — it is gone.”
“Too bad.” The potential purchaser shook his head. Then, in a quiet tone, he added: “Who bought it?”
“Some new customer,” informed Goggins, with a shoulder shrug. “He came in this morning. He looked around. He saw the desk and took it.”
“You delivered it, I suppose?”
“No. He sent a truck of his own. Two men came in and carried it out. He paid cash — gave no name.”
The stranger turned and strolled toward the outer door. Old Goggins followed, insisting that a similar desk might be obtained later. Then the customer was gone. Ephriam Goggins blinked as he stared from the door of his shop. The tall visitor had vanished like a specter.
THE disappearance was not so mysterious as it had seemed to Goggins. Leaving the door of the shop, the stranger had paced along the street. In almost instinctive fashion, he had edged toward the inner portion of the sidewalk to merge with the gloom of dark-fronted buildings.
Such was the method of The Shadow. Though he had come to the furniture shop in disguise, posing as an ordinary customer, he made his departure in a fading, inconspicuous fashion. Even without his black-hued cloak and hat, The Shadow’s swift leave-taking had been deceiving to the blinking gaze of Ephriam Goggins.
In his brief visit to the old man’s shop, The Shadow had substantiated his theory of a concealed killer in Meldon Fallow’s apartment. He was convinced, however, that Goggins had been an innocent factor in the affair.
Some one had planted the desk in Fallow’s place. Perhaps the inventor had bought it at some shop.
Possibly he had received it as a gift; or its purchase might have been suggested by a supposed friend or acquaintance. There was also the possibility that a substitution had been made during the inventor’s absence from the apartment.
Fallow, himself, might have been able to tell the story of how he acquired the desk. The inventor, however, was not alive to speak. The important point, to The Shadow, was that the desk had unquestionably figured as a hiding place for some murderous monster.
The brain in back of Fallow’s killing had learned that the furniture had been sold to Ephriam Goggins. He had let the old dealer’s movers carry away the desk; then he had arranged its prompt purchase. The Shadow had arrived too late to uncover the desk at the furniture shop.
Full night had fallen. Blackness was the shroud beneath which The Shadow could travel cloaked in black.
Following his departure from the furniture shop, the singular being was untraceable. It was not until an hour afterward that his phantom form manifested itself. A silent shape moved through the darkness of the courtyard beside the secluded home of Frederick Thorne.
As on his previous visit to the financier’s residence, The Shadow scaled the wall with ease and agility. He reached the window of the office. His gloved hand thrust a thin wedge between the portions of the sash.
The window yielded.
Gaining the inner ledge, The Shadow peered through the heavy velvet curtains. Clad in his black garments, he formed an invisible figure. His keen eyes saw the lighted room. The place was empty; but everything indicated approaching occupancy.
The Shadow waited. A sinister figure from the night, he was again present to learn the affairs of Frederick Thorne, the man of wealth who had shown such interest in Meldon Fallow’s invention.
The Shadow’s trail was broken. The removal of the desk from the shop of old Goggins had left no evidence or further trace. Clues might be sought later; for the present, The Shadow could profit best at Thorne’s.
Thus he remained, a specter of darkness. The master of the night was seeking shreds of evidence that might enable him to piece the chain of crime.
The Shadow was seeking the unknown.
CHAPTER VII. HENCHMEN MOVE
WHILE The Shadow, lurking behind the folds of the maroon curtains, was awaiting the return of Frederick Thorne, a strange scene was taking place in another portion of Manhattan.
The setting was the lair of Charg. A wiry, shock-headed man was standing before the ornamental screen behind which sat the chief. Like Jerry Laffan, this minion of Charg was awestruck as he viewed the hazy form beyond the semitransparent barrier.
“Who are you, intruder?”
It was the rasp of Charg. The standing man chewed his puffy lips. Hardened of face, with the pug-nose of a prize fighter, he did not look like a man who would yield to fear. Yet his voice gave a quiver as he replied:
“I am Bart Daper. I am the servant of Charg.”
“Your token?”
“Two.”
“Make your report.”
“All is ready.” Daper’s voice was steadying. “I have the truck. I picked up the box. It is loaded.”
A pause. Then came Charg’s harsh tone.
“You will wait for Laffan. He will meet you at the appointed spot. Follow his instructions. Make your report tomorrow night. Are my instructions plain?”
“They are.”
Another pause. Daper waited tensely, expecting words that he knew would come, yet which he seemed to regard as fearful and ominous.
“Charg has commanded.”
“When Charg commands, his servants obey.”
Bart Daper blurted his reply to Charg’s sinister statement. He swung quickly toward the door as he heard the final intonation from behind the screen:
“Then go. To linger with Charg means death.”
Daper did not wait to see Charg’s arm reach for the light switch. He was already on his way to the door when it raised. He passed the lifted barrier and heard it clang behind him. He shuddered as he departed by the elevator.
Evil was afoot tonight. The fact that two minions had reported to Charg was proof of it. Insidious work was under way, unknown to The Shadow. Had the master sleuth encountered luck in his visit to Ephriam Goggins, he might even now be on the trail of Charg’s hard-faced henchmen.
But The Shadow’s trail had ended; and at the very time when Bart Daper departed from Charg’s lair, The Shadow was engaged in watching another type of henchman — one who served Frederick Thorne.
THE SHADOW was still concealed behind the curtains of the paneled office. Shelburne had entered the room, accompanied by a servant. Apparently, Shelburne had been ushered in here to await Thorne’s arrival. This was proof that the man of wealth would soon appear.
Minutes ticked by. Ten — fifteen — twenty. Shelburne busied himself at times by reading over papers that he had placed on Thorne’s desk. At intervals, however, the spy became impatient. He arose and paced the floor; a troubled expression showed on his sly, smug face.
Thirty minutes. The door opened and Frederick Thorne entered. The multimillionaire was attired in tuxedo. He nodded curtly to Shelburne and walked to the desk. The smug spy stood aside while Thorne took his swivel chair.