“Does Hoffer prepare your prescriptions also?” questioned Lagwood, still accepting Sayre as a staff physician.
“Yes, indeed,” responded Sayre promptly.
“A remarkable pharmacist,” commented Lagwood, receiving the bottle and replacing it on the shelf. “Exacting in his methods, thoroughly reliable. His one fault is the fact that he will allow no other pharmacist to work with him.
“That is why I use my own titles for his compounds. For instance, I have called this particular prescription ‘Neutralizer Number Six!’ Should I require more of it while Hoffer is absent from his place, any one of his inexperienced clerks could find the large bottle and pour out the quantity desired.
“I use that method with all of my prescriptions. It saves me a great deal of delay. When experimenting, I frequently need fresh supplies. Well, commissioner” — Lagwood paused to turn to Barth — “I can only say that I hold the same hopes for these patients that I did for the others. I doubt that we shall have results within forty-eight hours; after that, we can look for prompt recoveries.”
Sayre strolled out while Barth was following. Lawson followed. He smiled as he spoke to his friend.
“I’ll bet Lagwood would have hit the ceiling if he’d realized you weren’t on the staff,” remarked Lawson. “He’s a great stickler for rules. I nearly fell over when he handed you that bottle. You fixed it, though, when you chimed in about Hoffer.”
“How?”
“Lagwood thinks that Hoffer is the only real pharmacist in New York. So that made it fine when you agreed with him. No one ever argues about Hoffer when they talk with Lagwood. After all, Hoffer does know his business.”
“Where is his place?”
“Two blocks over. Very conveniently located.”
WHEN Rupert Sayre drove away from the Talleyrand Hospital, he drove past Hoffer’s Pharmacy. When he reached his office, he put in a telephone call and talked with Lamont Cranston. Sayre’s face, usually serious, wore a smile. The young physician knew that his millionaire friend was pleased.
For Cranston had particularly requested Sayre to learn if Lagwood had tried any vapor treatments; and if so, to find out regarding the particular compound used and the quantity that had been prepared. Sayre had learned that Hoffer had made up such a prescription; and that only a small quantity of it had been sent to the hospital. He told Cranston that Lagwood had none left; but that Hoffer probably had a large amount available.
AT the Cobalt Club, The Shadow made another telephone call promptly after he had talked with Rupert Sayre. A thick voice came over the wire. The Shadow spoke; but he used neither his own whisper nor the quiet tones of Lamont Cranston. Instead, he talked in a voice that was a remarkable imitation of Doctor Seton Lagwood’s. The Shadow remembered the physician’s accents, as he had heard them at Troxton Valdan’s.
“Hello. Mr. Hoffer?” There was a slight upward inflection in the pretended voice of Lagwood. “Yes… This is Doctor Lagwood… Ah. You recognized my voice…”
“Tell me this, Mr. Hoffer. The neutralizer… Yes, number six. I wish to be sure of its exact quantity… Yes… You are sure? I see… Ah, yes, I had forgotten that I told you to store it away… I think it would be best to make certain. Yes, I shall hold the wire…”
Thin lips framed a smile as minutes passed. The Shadow knew that Hoffer was searching the cellar for the stolen neutralizer. He prepared for the conversation that was to follow Hoffer’s return. The thick voice suddenly recurred, in apologetic fashion. Feigning Lagwood’s tone, The Shadow became indignant.
“What! You cannot find it…” The Shadow paused to hear Hoffer’s sputtered excuses. “I cannot understand your negligence… No. No… I do not need it today, but it should be available… What is that? Ah — you still have the formula… Of course… I see. You will make up a new supply… The same amount… Very good, Mr. Hoffer… Yes, store it until I require it… This time, be sure of where you place it…”
Afternoon passed. The Shadow remained at the Cobalt Club. No calls came from Burbank. The efforts of the agents were in temporary abeyance. Yet The Shadow, calm in his guise of Cranston, was quietly at ease.
He had learned data regarding Troxton Valdan, but he saw no reason to trace the dead chemist’s previous actions. If Valdan’s visits to Providence concerned the gas that induced the death sleep, the schemer who had met the chemist in the Rhode Island metropolis would certainly have covered up his tracks.
The Shadow had also learned details regarding Felix Currian and those who had been at the house on Long Island. Those facts merely backed up The Shadow’s knowledge that crime had been perpetrated. The battle at Currian’s was now no more than a past episode.
THE SHADOW was looking toward the future. He was planning his own actions; he was counting on the aid of one agent, Cliff Marsland. Through Cliff, The Shadow had already gained information that had led to a thrust against crime. He was positive that Cliff would play an even more important part in the next epoch.
Dusk arrived. Lamont Cranston left the Cobalt Club. He became a cloaked being of blackness. As The Shadow, he emerged from his limousine and arrived in the vicinity of Hoffer’s Pharmacy. He entered the blind alley that Harry Vincent had described. He used the same method as Skeet when it came to dropping into Hoffer’s cellar.
A tiny flashlight blinked. The Shadow, as readily as Skeet, discovered the closet shelf. A new jug had replaced the stolen one. The Shadow noted its label. His flashlight went out. Silently, The Shadow left the place and returned to the limousine, parked a few squares away.
Stanley drove to a new destination when he heard the bidding of his master’s voice through the speaking tube. Again, the chauffeur parked and waited while a shrouded form glided from the car.
Stanley knew his master for an adventurer. He was accustomed to these peculiar trips in the limousine. He also was used to the extended periods of absence — months at a time — that marked Lamont Cranston’s globetrotting tours. Stanley, like Cranston’s other servants, had been trained to obey orders and to avoid all speculation regarding his master’s affairs.
Stanley had never once suspected that there were two Lamont Cranstons. The real one and another who frequently took his place while the genuine Cranston was abroad. At present, Lamont Cranston was actually journeying in the vicinity of Timbuktu. The master whom Stanley was serving was dwelling as an impostor at Cranston’s New Jersey home.
Knowing nothing of this, it was not surprising that Stanley had never identified these limousine trips in Manhattan with the activities of The Shadow. Blissfully ignorant, Stanley was parked within half a block of the most carefully hidden spot in all New York — the entrance to The Shadow’s sanctum.
One hour passed. Stanley was dozing. Again came the quiet voice of Lamont Cranston, ordering Stanley to return to the uptown street near Hoffer’s Pharmacy. The chauffeur obeyed in his accustomed fashion. Once more, he was oblivious when the figure of The Shadow left the car.
The tiny flashlight glimmered through the cellar of the drug store. It approached the closet. Then came darkness. A pause; a trifling noise; a final glimmer. The rays revealed the big bottle on the shelf, exactly as The Shadow had found it. The green liquid glistened while the flashlight blinked.
The Shadow departed. He laughed softly as he moved through the blind alley. The Shadow had completed his task. He had discovered the new supply of neutralizer. He had gone to the black-walled laboratory that adjoined his sanctum, there to make the tests that he desired.
The bottle was back upon the shelf, where it could be found when again required. Nothing in its position or appearance could reveal the fact that a mysterious intruder had temporarily removed the bottle and replaced it.