"I haff told you what those men haff been," resumed Orlinov. "I haff told you that they haff been dead. You would like to know who they haff been? Giff me that pen from your pocket. Then can I write the names of them—"
Cliff's hand was moving toward his vest pocket. He realized suddenly that his fountain pen was gone. It was the pen that he had used in writing his message to The Shadow — the pen filled with the special ink that vanished after it had dried and been exposed to the air!
Realization dawned. Cliff knew that Orlinov was tricking him. His hand slipped away from his vest pocket, reaching for the handy revolver. Something cold pressed against the back of Cliff's neck. It was the muzzle of a gun. He knew that another move would mean instant death. He paused and waited.
"Ah!" exclaimed Orlinov, with a leering grin. "You are too wise to move. That iss goot — for you. You were not so wise to sit with your back toward that door. It iss Petri who holds that gun against you.
"You tink that you are wise, perhaps. You haff made a great mistake. Remember what you haff told me that one mistake can be too much. Why did you leave that fountain pen so carelessly?" The Russian's voice took on a tone of sarcastic reproach as he chided his victim.
"Yess" resumed Orlinov, "I haff found that pen this morning. I haff written with it. That iss strange writing that goes away so quick. Perhaps you haff found out too much. Perhaps you haff told someone. That iss why I haff talked to you tonight. You haff seen those men who still liff. That iss because you, too, will soon be one of those men.
"When a man iss bad for us, we kill him. But not if he iss to be of use. It may be that you will be of use. It may be that you will not. We shall see, yess?"
Cliff's face was obdurate. He expected Orlinov to question him, now that he was suspected of a plot. The Russian's eyes were blazing, and Cliff detected a suppressed frenzy there. Let the man try, thought Cliff. He would learn nothing of The Shadow!
Orlinov seemed to be reading Cliff's thoughts. He laughed as he rose and came closer.
His eyes stared toward Cliff's face. His lips formed a wicked, evil grin.
"You will say nothing? Goot! It does not matter. If you haff learned nothing, it can do no harm. If you haff heard — last night — that will be no goot. We haff made things so that it cannot matter." His shrewd eyes were watching to see if Cliff betrayed alarm. Orlinov would gain nothing by his survey of Cliff's poker face. The bearded man shrugged his shoulders.
"You tink that you are strong?" he questioned. "You tink that you are wise? We shall see of that. You haff been sent here by someone. There iss just one man that it could be. That iss the man they call The Shadow."
Cliff failed to indicate that the surmise was correct.
"You tink that you will not talk," laughed Orlinov. "That iss not needed now. That chance you will haff some time after this — if it iss needed. You will know then how I haff found the way to make people talk.
"There iss one thing that can keep you from trying to be wise. You haff seen the men who haff once died. They keep quiet now. Yess, they haff known what it iss to die. So you shall see the same. My goot friend, the doctor, he hass given me a way."
Lacking understanding, Cliff expected to receive a revolver shot from the man stationed behind him. But as Ivan Orlinov approached and stood beside him, Cliff realized that something different was to take place.
Orlinov was speaking quietly, now, except for guttural chuckles that interrupted his words.
"Yess," he was saying, "if this man, The Shadow, hass tried to make trouble, he iss too late. He will find trouble for himself. So it may be that we shall not find you to be of use to us. We shall see." The words made Cliff tighten his lips. He realized now that there had been ample time for Orlinov to communicate with New York.
By a mere chance, the Russian had picked up Cliff's pen. Thus had he divined the reason for Cliff's presence here. Orlinov — Tremont — and a third whom the Russian called the doctor — all were superfiends. The plot against Matt Hartley was not scheduled until tonight. Cliff knew well that Glade Tremont was now cognizant of the new turn that had occurred here in Glendale. The Shadow must be warned!
But how?
Instant death threatened Cliff Marsland if he dared to move. He was staring straight ahead, seeing neither Orlinov nor Petri. He did not see the bearded Russian's hand approach his arm, carrying a tiny, shining object in its grasp.
The sharp point of a hypodermic needle stung Cliff's arm. He sat motionless, still staring.
He felt a strange, unexplainable weakness. The room was growing black about him. His body swayed. He forgot the pressure of the gun upon his neck. His veins seemed chilled — freezing within his body. Orlinov laughed as Cliff Marsland's body slumped in the chair and became rigid. Cliff heard that laugh from the midst of whirling blackness. Then his brain ceased to function. Orlinov stood looking at the form in the chair. To all appearances Cliff Marsland was dead. The same fate had befallen him as that which had been the lot of Clark Murdock, when the chemist had struggled with Doctor Gerald Savette.
A laugh came from the Russian's bearded lips. In his native tongue, he spoke to Petri, the stalwart servant who still stood with gun in hand. Petri answered. He and Orlinov picked up Cliff Marsland's body from the chair.
Together they took their burden up the stairs to the second floor, Heavy though Cliff was, the Russians carried him with ease.
Orlinov ordered his man to set the body on the floor. Then the bearded Russian unlocked a door that led to one of the smaller rooms. The two men carried the rigid form into the apartment and placed it upon a couch beside the wall.
There was no indication that Cliff Marsland still lived. A corpselike pallor had settled on his face. But Ivan Orlinov, leering hideously, showed more interest in that form than he would have wasted upon a mere corpse. He knew that his victim would awaken later.
Cliff Marsland had become one of the dead who lived!
Chapter XII — Tremont's Visitor
It was nearly ten o'clock when a trim coupe swung up the driveway by Glade Tremont's home. The lights of the car went out. Glade Tremont stepped to the ground, and entered the side door of the house. The lawyer had arrived before the hour of his appointment with Matt Hartley.
When Tremont reached his upstairs study, he turned on a light by the desk. He looked about the room. Though his glance was keen, it did not detect that shadowy shape that stood beyond the bookcase. The lawyer walked over to the closet and opened the door. In so doing, he passed within two feet of The Shadow; yet he did not see the form of the man in black.
The closet door, swinging wide, formed a barrier between Tremont and The Shadow. The lawyer left the door half open, and returned to his desk. He sat there, meditative.
Slow minutes went by. Glade Tremont was apparently waiting for the arrival of a visitor.
Ten o'clock came. The telephone on Tremont's desk began to ring. The lawyer raised the receiver.
"Hello?" he questioned. "Yes. This is Mr. Tremont… Ah — Matt Hartley?… I've been expecting you… Fifteen minutes? Yes, indeed. I shall be here… You have your car? Come right up the drive by the house. Look out for my car. You can park in back of it… Good… Yes, I am alone…" The lawyer's voice dwindled. He replaced the receiver on the hook, and his cold, stern features took on a malicious look.
Resting back in his chair, Tremont half closed his eyes and folded his hands across his chest. He seemed to be enjoying the thought of Matt Hartley's coming visit.
Thus unobservant, the lawyer did not notice a long shadow that stretched across the floor toward the outer edge of the desk. A form followed that streak of black. The Shadow glided from his hiding place. Tall and silent, he stood before the desk — a figure of doom.