CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND CRIME
THE home of Loring Dyke was one of those old-fashioned residences so common in the districts north of Times Square. A narrow, three-story structure, it formed part of the row of houses which occupied the entire block.
Its front was of stone; high steps led to the first floor. Beneath the steps was the entrance to the so-called basement, although this lower section of the house was more a ground floor than a cellar.
The front of the basement was occupied by a dining room; the rear, by pantry and kitchen. The first floor held parlor and library — huge, gloomy rooms that one entered from a long hall.
The front room of the second floor was Loring Dyke’s usual bedroom. The other rooms, side and rear, formed his personal suite, of which Shelburne had spoken. The third story served as quarters for servants.
WHILE The Shadow was arriving at his chosen place more than a block from Dyke’s, a stoopshouldered, sour-faced man was standing in the lighted kitchen of the old residence. He was dressed in what appeared to be his best suit; a heavy bag beside him accounted for his other apparel.
The man was making ready to leave the house.
The manner of this fellow indicated that he was one of Dyke’s servants. Yet there was something about his air that marked him as other than a menial. In the light of the kitchen, his face showed a mingling of craft and nervousness — a peculiar medley of expression that was unaccountable.
As he stooped to pick up his heavy bag, the man made a quick glance toward the side of the room, where the closed shaft of a dumbwaiter was in view. Then came a furtive gaze toward the rear door which was locked and bolted.
Footsteps brought new nervousness. The servant stood waiting. Some one was coming downstairs. Then the arrival appeared from the pantry. An expression of relief showed upon the servant’s face. The man who had come was a servant, like himself.
THE newcomer, however, did not wear a shifty look. His face was that of a faithful servant — one who had served a single master for many years. A puzzled expression showed upon his countenance as he addressed the man with the bag.
“Why are you still here, Talbot?” he inquired. “I thought that you had left for your vacation.”
“I am going now, Parsons,” returned the shifty man. “I came down here just to make sure that everything was locked and in order.”
“That was unnecessary,” declared Parsons. “The house should have been locked before. Further duty belongs to me, Talbot.”
“All right,” grunted the man with the bag. “No harm done. I didn’t mind staying on duty a while longer, seeing as this is my last night.”
He picked up the bag and started for the door to the pantry. Parsons stepped aside to let him pass.
Then, just as Talbot had reached the pantry, Parsons stopped him with a question.
“Did the express men come for that box? I don’t see it hereabouts.”
“They came,” assured Talbot. “I let them take it out. It was at six o’clock.”
“Six?” Parsons looked puzzled. “The last time I was down here was at half past seven. I am sure I saw the box at that time.”
“Six o’clock,” insisted Talbot, nervously. “That’s when they took it. You must have thought you saw it, Parsons.”
“Maybe I was mistaken.” Parsons was slow in the admission. “The box has been here since yesterday. Stupid of those express men, to leave it at the wrong house.”
Talbot grunted agreement.
“A heavy thing, that box,” resumed Parsons, “even though it was so small. What do you suppose was in it?”
“Typewriters, maybe,” suggested Talbot. “It was about big enough to have held two of them, Parsons. One stacked up on the other.”
“Like as not,” agreed Parsons. “Move along, Talbot. Leave the latch closed when you go out. I’m going to my quarters.”
Talbot moved into the dining room. There he set down the suitcase. Parsons passed him and ascended the stairs to the first floor. Parsons was already on the steps to the second when Talbot arrived in the first floor hallway.
Alone on the gloomy floor, Talbot again rested his suitcase. He mopped his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief; then lifted his bag and proceeded to the front door. He followed the instructions given him by Parsons. He latched the front door behind him as he left.
A taxi chanced to be passing as Talbot reached the street. The servant hailed the cab and gave a destination — a corner where a subway station was located. The cab made the trip in less than five minutes. Talbot alighted and descended to the subway platform.
There, in the light of the station the servant pulled an envelope from his pocket. He tore it open and nervously unfolded a paper. His face lighted with a hopeful gleam. There was a key with the message; Talbot pocketed it, then tore the paper into pieces and tossed the fragments to the track.
One minute later, a train roared into the platform. Talbot boarded it, with his bag. The train pulled away; the eddying air currents from beneath its wheels whisked up the pieces of Talbot’s note and scattered them into hopeless obscurity.
MEANWHILE, new events had begun at the home of Loring Dyke. A strange action was occurring in the room where Parsons had found Talbot — the lighted kitchen in the basement.
The key was turning in the lock. As though twisted by an invisible hand, the back door of the house was yielding to some intruder. Then the key slowly removed itself. It was in the grip of long, thin pincers that had been thrust into the key hole from the outer side. The pincers relaxed. The key dropped dully on the linoleum floor.
The knob of the door turned. The barrier did not yield. It was still bolted. The key, turned by a cunning hand, had released the lock — that was all. The dropping of the key, however, was indication that the worker on the other side had counted on the presence of the bolt.
A piece of pliable steel came through the key hole. Its visible end was a wire loop. The steel curled upward as it appeared; the loop dragged along the inner surface of the door. Probing, like a living thing, the wire loop neared the knob of the bolt.
There was something snakelike in its movement; the loop was the head of a serpent; the curled steel its body. The loop wavered back and forth; then settled over the knob of the bolt. The steel straightened and twisted. Guided by a pulling hand, it drew the bolt from the socket.
The loop detached itself. The steel coil disappeared. The door opened and a figure appeared within the kitchen. Tall, entirely in black, The Shadow stood within the light. Cloak, gloves and hat completely hid his form, save for the eyes that showed beneath the brim that projected over his forehead.
Those eyes sparkled keenly. They turned from view as The Shadow closed the door and replaced the key. With door locked and bolted, The Shadow’s burning gaze centered upon the shaft of the dumbwaiter.
The Shadow advanced. His gloved hand raised the door of the little lift. The car itself showed within; it was furnished with a shelf in the center. Altogether, the dumbwaiter was two feet square and three feet high. Though the shelf was firmly in place, it was plainly detachable.
Not only that; the shelf had obviously been removed. Slivers of wood showed at the end of the groove in which the shelf fitted. Some one had pulled the central slab loose; then set it back in place.
This discovery seemed to impel The Shadow. Moving forward with silent swiftness, his tall shape dwindled with the darkness of the pantry. It was a gloomy, ghostly figure when it appeared in the dull light of the first floor. Phantomlike, it continued upward and reached the stillness of the second story.