While The Shadow, stationed in the Hotel Goliath, was awaiting Zorman’s return, agents of doom were already springing to their quarry’s trail.
A new victim had entered the circle of death!
CHAPTER XI
DYING WORDS
GREEN lights of doom. People who saw them by chance did not know their meaning. Those who observed them by design were moving toward the spot that blinking borders had indicated.
Detective Joe Cardona, strolling down Seventh Avenue, nearly bumped into a rotund man who was waddling in the opposite direction. So the detective stepped aside. Lounging along, he happened to gaze at the sign with green corners and white borders. He read the advertisement in the center of the sign, then continued to view the throngs about him.
Grim irony had tricked Joe Cardona. The man whom he had nearly jostled was Bigelow Zorman. The sign which he had viewed was the signal light that marked the rotund man as a victim of prospective murderers.
Within a few seconds, Joe Cardona had been confronted by two important clews. Both had escaped him. Such was the subtle way of the circle of death!
A taxi driver, parked by a convenient corner, watched Bigelow Zorman as he passed. So did a restaurant cashier. The driver looked toward the sidewalk as though expecting a fare. A slouching passer caught the signal and took up Zorman’s trail. Meanwhile, the restaurant man pressed a switch located by his counter.
Twenty seconds. Lights blinked from the borders of the big sign. Zorman’s trail was marked. To a horde of watching eyes, the victim’s course was a single route through hundreds of passing people.
The man behind the soft-drink counter saw the second series of blinks. He changed his position and edged by another clerk. Facing the avenue, he called his wares while he served waiting customers.
“Get the new drink!” he cried. “Chromo hits the spot! Step up, folks! You’ll like creamy Chromo!”
The man was watching as he spoke. He saw a group of persons stopped across the side street while taxicabs whisked out into the traffic of the avenue. Pressing toward the curb was a short, pudgy man. Bigelow Zorman’s face was plain to the clerk behind the counter.
As he reached for another glass beneath the counter, the clerk pressed a switch. He was watchful as he served new customers. He threw occasional glances toward Bigelow Zorman; his quick gaze turned upward toward the huge electric sign with green corners and white borders.
Two happenings occurred simultaneously. As Bigelow Zorman hastened across the street, the borders of the advertising sign blinked. Two short flickers — a pause — then a third. Bigelow Zorman’s new location had been registered.
A man alighting from a taxicab had seen the sign. His quick glance sighted Bigelow Zorman among the throng. This man sauntered along in the victim’s path. Another individual, who looked like a panhandler, came slouching across the street at the same time.
Two agents of doom were close on Zorman’s trail. They were to be thwarted in their purpose — not by one who sought to save Zorman’s life, but by another who also served the master who ruled the circle of crime.
“Try a drink of Chromo!” bawled the man behind the soft-drink counter. “Right this way, friends. Try the new drink…”
Bigelow Zorman glanced toward the counter. He saw half a dozen people drinking a whitish, foamy liquid from tall, slender glasses. He saw the placard which marked the price at five cents. He caught the eye of the man behind the counter. The fellow made a gesture to pick up a glass.
BIGELOW ZORMAN stopped. He dug in his pocket and brought out a quarter as he approached the counter.
The white-clad clerk had raised a glass in his left hand. He set it down. Reaching beneath the counter, he plucked out a glass that was hidden behind a flat post.
The glass already contained a small quantity of a colorless liquid. Bigelow Zorman — nor any one else — did not notice that fact. The man at the counter had his fist about the lower portion of the tall glass.
He placed the glass beneath a spigot and pressed the siphon that shot a fizzy flood of creamy Chromo into the container. He tendered the drink to Zorman. Taking the quarter, he dropped it in the cash register, punched the sale and returned with the change.
Bigelow Zorman was half finished with his drink. He gulped the rest while the clerk was serving another customer. He turned to go on his way. The clerk picked up Zorman’s glass and dropped it in a sterilizing vat. As he reached beneath a counter, he pressed a switch two times.
Bigelow Zorman was on his way with two men following him. Halfway along the block, the followers stopped one at a time. Each, in turn, stole a glance toward the huge electric sign. They saw a change within its corners.
Single lights of red glowed amid clusters of green. The trap had been sprung. The follower who looked like a panhandler shifted away and retraced his footsteps. The well-dressed man, however, continued along Zorman’s trail.
At the door of the Hotel Goliath, Bigelow Zorman paused. He pressed one hand to his stomach. His face seemed a trifle pale. A robed Hindu, at the door of an Oriental restaurant, observed Zorman from across the street. He turned to an ornamental pedestal which was topped by an incense bowl. As he adjusted the smoking container, he pressed a switch just below the top of the pedestal.
Bigelow Zorman entered the Hotel Goliath. The well-dressed man paused to light a cigarette. He saw the borders of the signal sign as they blinked the newest location. Then, with strolling gait, he sauntered into the lobby of the hotel.
Bigelow Zorman had reached the desk. He was pale as he obtained his key. He walked immediately toward an elevator. As he did so, Henry Arnaud arose from his chair and moved in the same direction.
Zorman’s car went up. Arnaud took the next.
THE stranger who had followed Zorman made no attempt to duplicate the example. He had not noted Arnaud’s action. He had merely thrown a passing glance at Zorman. He strolled to a chair near the one which Arnaud had occupied and seated himself to await developments.
Meanwhile, Henry Arnaud had reached the fourteenth floor. As he stepped into the long passage from the elevator, he noted the marked numbers on the wall that indicated the direction to rooms numbered from 1401 to 1424. There was no sign of Bigelow Zorman. The man had gone ahead. His elevator had evidently made a more rapid trip than Arnaud’s.
It was with the swift stride of The Shadow that Henry Arnaud took the passage toward Room 1416. He arrived at the door and paused there. The transom was open. For a moment all was silent. Then came a convulsive gurgle from within. It was the voice of Bigelow Zorman.
The man was trying to blurt out words. His incoherent tone denoted terror. A telephone clattered to the floor. Quickly, The Shadow brought a long, keylike pick from his pocket. He probed the lock of Zorman’s door. It yielded. The Shadow entered.
BIGELOW ZORMAN was writhing on the floor. Prone on his back, his hands were clutched to his stomach. His staring eyes saw the tall form that had entered. They gazed at the hawklike features of Henry Arnaud.
As The Shadow stooped, Bigelow Zorman cried out words that were plain. The death throes were upon him; yet in these last moments of life, his frenzied mind saw the need of warning.
“Right — Rightwood!” gasped the dying man. “In — in danger. Tress — Tress — in danger — Tress—”
With a hideous gurgle, Bigelow Zorman sprawled upon the floor. His arms stretched out. His body writhed in final agony.
The Shadow’s left hand was bringing forth a vial. The girasol sparkled as the hand carried a tiny container of purplish liquid to the stricken man’s lips.