CLYDE BURKE, unable to hail a second cab in time, was vainly hurrying on foot to find the direction in which Wilton Byres had been carried. He took the wrong corner. His search was unavailing. He was sure that the cab must have gone from this vicinity.
A tall figure had turned back toward Seventh Avenue. The visage of Henry Arnaud appeared among the faces that passed along the busy thoroughfare. Strolling past the stand where the Chromo drink was served, Arnaud appeared merely as another stroller among the throngs.
Like his agent, The Shadow had given up the search. But where Clyde Burke’s change of tactics were brought about through ignorance, The Shadow’s were the result of knowledge. The master sleuth knew that it was too late to save Wilton Byres, the foolhardy victim who had thrust himself into the zone of death.
The huge electric sign had resumed its normal state. Corners were no longer red. They had changed to white. The borders did not blink. Felix Tressler, stepping to the roof adjoining his penthouse, stood gazing at the sign.
In the mild glow that pervaded the roof, Tressler’s heavy-browed, mustached face showed a bristling expression of malice. The master of doom was triumphant. Again, the circle of death had taken its toll!
CHAPTER XVI
A MAN FROM THE WEST
ON the following evening, a tall, stoop-shouldered man appeared from a train gate in the Grand Central Terminal. A porter was behind him, carrying two heavy suitcases. The man ordered him to bring them to the taxicab entrance.
A tall, placid-faced watcher strolled from a waiting throng. He took up the trail of the arrival and the porter. He closed the gap between them. He was standing by when he heard the man with the bags order a cab driver to take him to the Hotel Metrolite.
The follower stepped in a second cab. He gave the same order. He thrust a bill through the window and told the driver to hurry. This order came from the steady lips of Henry Arnaud. There was a quiet command to the voice that brought a prompt nod from the taximan. The cab shot forth and passed the one ahead.
When the man with the bags arrived in the lobby of the Hotel Metrolite, Henry Arnaud was already there, standing near the desk. His keen eyes saw the newcomer register. They sparkled as they observed the scrawled name: Channing Rightwood.
“Front!” called the clerk. “Room 2016 for Mr. Rightwood.”
Henry Arnaud’s eyes were studying the face and profile of Channing Rightwood. The arrival was pale of countenance. His long chin and large nose formed two noticeable features of his physiognomy. His pointed mustache was of a reddish tinge; his eyebrows and hair were darker.
There was a droop to Rightwood’s lips that formed another peculiarity of his countenance. The man’s appearance, though dull, was at least individual. Any one who had seen Channing Rightwood’s face would remember it.
A faint smile showed upon Henry Arnaud’s thin lips. As soon as Rightwood had gone, this firm-faced observer stepped up to the desk and registered with a flourishing signature. He pointed to a bag that he had brought with him.
“How about the fourteenth floor?” questioned the clerk. “Would that suit you, Mr. Arnaud?”
“I would prefer a room higher up,” announced Arnaud. “Say five or six floors above.”
There was a subtle emphasis upon the word six. The clerk did not notice it; yet it made a subconscious impression. Mentally, the man added six to fourteen.
“A room on the twentieth?” he questioned.
“That will be satisfactory,” came Arnaud’s response.
“Front!” called the clerk. “Room 2020 for Mr. Arnaud.”
UP in Room 2016, Channing Rightwood had removed coat and vest. The arrival was tired after his long train journey from Chicago. He stretched his arms and walked to the window.
He stared at the blazing electric signs about Times Square. There was one among that glittering group that had white corners and borders which did not change their hue. Rightwood, however, did not particularly notice it.
Turning from the window, Rightwood seated himself in a comfortable chair. He picked up a newspaper and glanced at the headlines. One story caught his eye. It told of a mysterious death which had occurred near Times Square. Rightwood read it with interest.
A victim had been found dead in a taxicab. The driver was gone; so was the identification card which told his name and gave his photograph. Detective Joe Cardona, assigned to the case, had discovered that the cab was a wildcat vehicle, unregistered.
No papers had been found upon the victim. The man’s description was given; in fact, a photograph of his dead face appeared in the newspaper. The picture had been taken at the morgue. Death was attributed to a virulent poison. The heel of the man’s right hand showed a jab where a needle had entered it.
Rightwood puzzled over this unusual story. Completing its details, he tossed the newspaper aside and again stared from the window. He yawned. His eyes half closed as he resumed his chair. Then, with a lazy motion, he picked up the telephone and called a number.
“Hello…” Rightwood recognized the voice that responded. “Is that you, Mungren? I thought so… Yes. I’m here in New York… Just arrived by Michigan Central… Yes… I’m calling you about that option.
“What’s that?… Not a good buy?… One minute, Mungren. One minute… No, I still have confidence in Electro Oceanic… I have my reasons… Yes, I have the money, too… Two days yet?… Well, I don’t think I’ll change my mind. In fact, I’m sure I won’t… Talk with you first? Certainly… Tomorrow afternoon at five o’clock… You can’t convince me that I’m wrong, though… I’ll be at your office…”
Rightwood clanked the receiver on the hook. He sat in puzzled speculation. Then his impression began to change.
Seated in the dully-lighted room — only a table lamp was illuminated — Rightwood had an odd feeling that someone else was present. He realized now that the sensation had commenced just as he had begun to speak to Logan Mungren.
Rightwood stared dully toward the window. Beyond was the glow of Manhattan. Here, in this quiet room, he was practically isolated from the world. He had heard no sound; he had seen no one; yet he sensed that eyes were watching him.
SO startling was the impression that Channing Rightwood did not make an immediate move. He pressed his hands against the arms of the chair and tried to shake off the grim obsession that had seized him. His laugh was nervous. He was fighting a strange mental battle against the weird unknown.
Rightwood’s lips twitched. His breath came in nervous gasps. The longer that he tried to steady himself, the more difficult did the task become. A minute passed. The man could stand it no longer. With a hoarse gasp, he leaped to his feet and turned instinctively toward the door.
Channing Rightwood became motionless. Rigid as a statue, he stared with wild, bulging eyes at the figure which he saw before him. He was gazing upon a spectral shape that might have come from some corridor of space!
A being clad in black. A body shrouded by sable-hued cloak. A visage hidden by the broad brim of a slouch hat. These were the eerie impressions that Channing Rightwood gained.
More vivid, more terrible, were the eyes that Channing Rightwood saw. Optics that blazed with the sparkle of fire; hypnotic orbs that stared with commanding force — such were the eyes that flashed from beneath the hat brim.
Then came a terrifying manifestation. A whispered laugh came from hidden lips. Eerily it filled the room. Its dying, mocking echoes crept to Channing Rightwood’s ears. Ghoulish, shuddering taunts thrummed through the startled man’s hectic, maddened brain.