Fallow turned the knob. He stepped through the door, regardless of Thorne’s angry protest. The barrier slammed shut. Frederick Thorne was alone.
RESENTMENT showed upon the millionaire’s sallow face. Pacing across the room, Thorne indulged in furious scowls. Viewed from the slit between the curtains, Thorne’s countenance was venomous. A purplish shade had come to the millionaire’s forehead; veins swelled as he clenched his fists in fury.
Striding suddenly to his desk, Thorne pressed a button. A few moments later, the door opened. A liveried servant stood in view.
“Mr. Fallow left?” quizzed Thorne.
“Yes, sir,” replied the servant. “He seemed in a hurry, sir — and very angry—”
“That will do. Summon Mr. Shelburne. He is in the library.”
“At once, sir.”
The door closed. Thorne paced more calmly. His course carried him across the path of darkness on the floor. The millionaire, deep in thought, did not notice that motionless sign of an ominous presence. He swung as the door opened.
A smug-faced man had entered. Tall, stoopshouldered, the visitor had a manner that was half humble, half crafty. Shelburne was of middle age; baldheaded, he made an odd figure as he tilted his pate forward and peered upward toward Thorne.
“You were right, Shelburne.” Thorne resumed his seat as the baldheaded man approached. “There is no chance of changing Fallow’s decision. The man is a fool.”
Shelburne nodded in agreement.
“I was wise enough not to question him at length,” resumed Thorne, opening a desk drawer and bringing out a packet of papers, “but what he said substantiates your reports. He talked of the committee and intimated that he had given them full rights to his invention.”
Again, Shelburne nodded.
“The committee is our only chance.” Thorne was looking through the reports as he spoke. “These men have judgment. They are not fools, like Fallow.”
“You will not gain results through them,” interposed Shelburne, with a reluctant shake of his head. “I have warned you, sir. You will find that my reports are accurate. They are determined to carry out the arrangements which they have made with Fallow.”
“Perhaps,” remarked Thorne, dryly. “But when Fallow fades from the picture, it may be possible to deal with them. I am relying upon you, Shelburne.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thorne flung the packet back into the drawer. He arose and made a gesture.
“It is time for you to leave,” he said to Shelburne. “Return with a new report tomorrow.”
Shelburne bowed himself out.
THORNE strolled about the room. At last he went to a corner closet, brought out a hat and light overcoat and donned the garments. Thorne pressed the buzzer; he was at the door when the servant arrived.
“I am going out,” he told the man. “Straighten the office; then lock the door. I shall not be back until midnight.”
“Yes, sir.”
The servant’s work was brief. A few minutes later, he, too, had left.
It was then that the maroon curtains moved. From their rustling folds appeared a figure that seemed like the solid counterpart of the silhouette which now shifted on the floor.
It was a form clad in black. Shoulders were concealed by the folds of a sable-hued cloak. The upturned collar hid the features above it; so did the projecting brim of a slouch hat. A soft laugh came from hidden lips.
That sound — a shuddering whisper — was token of the stranger’s identity. This mysterious visitant was The Shadow. Supersleuth opposed to crime — a master fighter who warred in behalf of justice — The Shadow had an uncanny ability of prying into crooked schemes.
Black gloved fingers held a thin, curved pick of steel. With this instrument, they opened the lock of Thorne’s desk drawer. In the mellow light, the packet of papers came into view. Gloved hands spread the documents while keen eyes, burning from inkiness beneath the hat brim, studied the reports.
His inspection finished, The Shadow replaced the papers. The drawer clicked shut. The Shadow merged with the darkness of the curtains. A window sash raised noiselessly; then lowered.
The side wall of Frederick Thorne’s Manhattan residence adjoined an unlighted courtyard. Unseen against the blackened surface, a batlike figure moved downward from the window. Squidgy sounds — lost in the murmur of the street — were indications of the suction cups which The Shadow had placed on hands and feet.[1]
Off in the distance was the glow of Times Square. The glare of the metropolis did not reach the narrow space beside the building. The Shadow was shrouded in blackness when he reached the courtyard. Only the faint swish of his cloak betokened his departure toward the thoroughfare.
Eyes of the night! Such were the eyes of The Shadow. They had spied tonight, while listening ears had heard the conversations in Frederick Thorne’s paneled office.
Meldon Fallow had left; so had Shelburne. Frederick Thorne had departed. Last of all had gone The Shadow. His was the final part in a drama that had opened with the rejecting of a five-million-dollar offer.
His would be the final part should the play become a tragedy of crime!
CHAPTER II. A MASTER OF CRIME
IT was precisely nine o’clock when The Shadow made his departure from the home of Frederick Thorne. The mystery of The Shadow’s presence; the keenness with which he was investigating the millionaire’s affairs — these were indications that the master sleuth suspected evil to be afoot.
Yet The Shadow had gained no evidence that immediate crime was pending. He had seen Fallow leave in indignation; he had seen Shelburne depart to act the part of spy; he had seen Thorne follow with the air of a man who intended to await developments.
The Shadow, therefore, was planning his own efforts along the channel of investigation. Until he saw a move that promised menace, it was his game to watch the factors whom he might uncover.
Fallow — Shelburne — Thorne — three men involved in negotiations that involved five million dollars! The fact that Fallow had spurned Thorne’s offer did not alter the value of Fallow’s invention. The rejection of millions actually added new worth to the inventor’s creation.
Desire for possession, craving for wealth — these were factors that could mean the beginning of crime.
Force could gain where other measures might fail. As yet, however, The Shadow had gained but one important fact: namely, that Shelburne was a spy in the employ of Frederick Thorne.
Actual agents of crime — men who could be depended upon for theft and murder — were lacking in the game. The Shadow knew that they might already be on the move; to trace them at present would be impossible. Hence The Shadow, after leaving Thorne’s, had no new lead to follow.
IT was half past nine when a stocky man appeared from the obscurity of a side street and began a strolling pace northward on Tenth Avenue. This section of Manhattan was far from Thorne’s.
Unwatched, unsuspected, the stroller continued at an easy pace. Street lights showed the hardened features of his face. Blunt-nosed, with protruding jaw, this man carried an expression that seemed both challenging and hostile.
At times there was something almost furtive in his bearing. Quick glances over his shoulder showed that he was on the lookout. When he passed a corner where a uniformed policeman was standing, the man showed no concern. It was evident that he had no present fear of the law. If a criminal, this stocky stroller was certainly one who had managed to avoid clashes with the police.
1
Note: In describing the remarkable adhesive power of his rubber suction cups, The Shadow mentioned certain facts concerning the history of these pneumatic contrivances. Some forty years ago, an acrobatic act was staged in Paris, wherein the performer walked upside down along a board suspended from the dome of a theater. This feat was accomplished with the aid of suction disks that gripped and released automatically by pressure of the performer’s foot.
Each disk measured four and one half inches in diameter, with a thickness of five-eighths of an inch. One disk proved sufficient to sustain the performer’s weight while the other was being moved to a new position. Short steps were necessary in the accomplishment of this act.
The Shadow’s suction cups are similar in principle to the original devices used by the Parisian acrobats.
Though approximately the same in size, they have been improved for use on vertical as well as horizontal surfaces.
In the acrobatic performances, a net was stretched beneath the performer in case of a fall. This is a hazard against which The Shadow has no protection. His improved suction cups have, however, stood the most exacting tests to which he has submitted them.
MAXWELL GRANT.