Keen eyes peered everywhere. Nothing escaped The Shadow’s gaze. Glancing upward, he viewed the huge electric sign. Tonight, its incandescent corners were white, as were the borders. The circle of death was quiet.
Again, The Shadow passed the spot where workmen were busy with their drills. His keen eyes noticed the loose boards piled over the grating. They saw a strip of iron at one side; another at the side opposite.
Again, The Shadow mingled with the throngs of Seventh Avenue. He passed the corner where Joe Cardona had spied him. The man behind the soft-drink counter was still selling Chromo. The detective, however, had gone.
The Shadow’s course took him to other streets. His keen eyes noted nooks and isolated spots. They turned to lighted windows. They observed the faces of many passers. At last, in an obscure spot, The Shadow paused. A soft laugh came from the lips of Henry Arnaud.
Turning, this mysterious stroller continued past the Hotel Zenith, where the uniformed doorman was on his nightly job. Again, the echo of a weird laugh.
The Shadow had traced a course through the zone where two deaths had occurred. Yet there he had found nothing but quiet. Not a ripple of crime was on the surface!
Shortly afterward, the light clicked in The Shadow’s sanctum. White hands produced the map of Manhattan and placed it on the table. A white pin and a black; those marked the spots which referred to Dustin Cruett.
Two more pins — white and black. The Shadow set the white one on the Merrimac Club; the black upon the spot where Maurice Bewkel had died. Then, slowly, The Shadow brought the white pin closer to the black, almost to the spot where the window demonstrator had been the first to spy Maurice Bewkel.
With quick strokes of a pen, The Shadow jotted down coded words upon a sheet of paper. His hands folded the sheet and thrust it in an envelope which already contained a sheaf of papers.
Reports had been received. Unwittingly, Joe Cardona had supplied the first. Others had come from The Shadow’s agents. Now the last was being filed. It was The Shadow’s own report.
Tonight’s journey through the side streets near Times Square had brought but inklings of what The Shadow wanted. Yet the task was narrowing. The Shadow, master of deduction, was seeking the riddle that surrounded the circle of death!
CHAPTER IX
THE SECOND WARNING
IT was the next night. Manhattan was aglow. From the open roof adjoining Felix Tressler’s magnificent penthouse, the lights of the metropolis cast their glittering reflection against a dull, cloudy sky.
The evening was mild. Tressler, seated in a heavy armchair, was contentedly smoking a cigar. The lighted tip of his panatella formed a glowing spot in the semidarkness.
Wilton Byres came from the penthouse. The secretary moved with a slinking stride as he passed behind Tressler’s chair. His furtive eyes looked beyond the parapet. They saw the distant electric sign, with its white corners and borders.
“Byres!”
The secretary approached as he heard Tressler’s call. The millionaire had evidently noted his arrival on the roof.
“Yes, sir.”
Byres was obsequious as he came in front of Tressler’s chair.
“That package that came today.” Tressler’s tone was quizzical. “You placed it in the demonstration room, did you not?”
“Beside the tank, sir. As you ordered. You remember, sir, that you left the door unlocked.”
“Very well. Stay in the penthouse, Byres. I expect a visitor to come here this evening.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tressler continued his smoking after the secretary had gone. The panatella dwindled. It became a mere stump. Tressler tossed it in an ash stand. He arose and turned toward the broad doorway that led to the penthouse. Just then Wilton Byres appeared.
“The visitor is here, sir,” informed the secretary. “Mr. Bigelow Zorman, from South Shoreview—”
“Very excellent,” interposed Tressler. “Bring him to the demonstration room, Byres. I shall see him there.”
The secretary departed. Tressler walked slowly along the passage. He came to the door of the room where he had taken Maurice Bewkel. He entered. He noted a large box beside the tank in the center of the room. He turned as he heard approaching footsteps.
BYRES was ushering a short, rotund gentleman into the room. The arrival smiled, with beaming expression upon his fat, friendly face. He advanced with extended hand to greet Felix Tressler. The newcomer was Bigelow Zorman, president of the Electro Oceanic Corporation.
Greetings completed, Tressler pointed his visitor to a chair. He swung toward the door and noted Byres still standing there. He spoke to the secretary.
“All right, Byres.” Tressler’s tone was brusque. “I shall call you when I need you.”
As the secretary nodded and stepped down the passage, Tressler advanced and closed the door. He turned back and took a chair beside Zorman. Both men were facing the tank. They did not see the motion of the door behind them.
Wilton Byres had returned. Again, the secretary was eavesdropping, as he had on the occasion of Maurice Bewkel’s visit.
“I have much to tell you, Mr. Tressler.” Zorman’s tone was solemn. “It concerns the death of Maurice Bewkel. Most unfortunate! Most unfortunate!”
“It was,” agreed Tressler. “I saw Bewkel the night before he died. He was concerned about his option. He wondered how affairs were with Electro Oceanic. In fact, he told me that he had sent an investigator to South Shoreview—”
“He had,” broke in Zorman. “A man named Dustin Cruett. I talked with Cruett when he was in South Shoreview. The man had come up here to report to Bewkel.”
“But he dropped dead,” remarked Tressler, “before he had an opportunity to see Bewkel.”
“Cruett?” Zorman’s tone was wild. “Dead? Like Bewkel? Before Bewkel?”
Tressler nodded.
“This is serious!” exclaimed Zorman. “Mr. Tressler, it convinces me that Bewkel’s death was not an accident! I see a terrible plot — an undercover plot to—”
“Tell me all,” suggested Tressler, “from the beginning. Then, perhaps, I may understand your apprehensions.
BIGELOW ZORMAN settled back in his chair. He puffed nervously at the cigar that he was smoking. His rotund face could not conceal the worriment that he felt.
“Electro Oceanic,” began Zorman, “was a speculative proposition from the start. Its purpose was to produce and install wave motors, such as the model which you have in your tank, here. The Company was well capitalized, and I accepted the presidency. The actual management, however, rested with Perry Harton, who was stationed in South Shoreview.”
“I have met Harton,” nodded Tressler.
“The company,” asserted Zorman, “was extravagantly run. Wave motors were built. The costs, however, were exorbitant. That was to be expected. But when I learned that the efficiency of the motors was too low to produce commercial results, I went to South Shoreview to take charge.”
“So I understand.”
“Our only hope,” continued Zorman, “lay in the development of an improved wave motor. Such a device had been created by experiments at the plant. The place was closed, so far as actual production was concerned.
“I questioned Perry Harton. He told me that the new motor was not yet perfected. Hence he was keeping it a secret until later. I insisted that I see the device. He showed me models. I put them to the test. And the results were most gratifying.
“Tressler, the new motor is a success! I cannot understand why Harton was keeping it for the future. His only excuse was that he wanted large ones built and installed as a final test; and that funds for such building were not available.”