Some were in perfect order; others needed repairs.
One, in particular, pleased the collector. It was a huge, old-fashioned pistol, with bulging trigger unhampered by a guard.
Preston had fired the weapon several times in the past, and had been surprised at its power and accuracy. Tonight it lay at the right of the table, already listed, with the guns that Preston had pushed over toward the suit of armor beside the door.
Ammunition, in the form of cartridges, bullets, and supplies of powder, was also present. In a sense, Preston’s curio room was an arsenal. The longer that the merchant had continued with his hobby, the more painstaking had he become.
In his present inspection of antique firearms, Preston was thoroughly engrossed in his work. The party in progress on the ground floor was as completely out of his consciousness as was the figure of The Shadow nearing the window of the third-floor storeroom.
But another event was taking place much closer by; and Arthur Preston had no cognizance of it. The visor of the helmet on the suit of armor beside the table was turning slowly and noiselessly. Eyes from within were studying the merchant-collector at his work.
The right arm of the statuelike figure moved. The hand swung slowly toward the table. That hand was a flexible gauntlet — a portion of the armor itself. The fingers moved. They grasped the heavy, old-fashioned pistol that lay upon the table.
Fingers of death! They were at work again, incased in mail.
A modern revolver would have been difficult for them to handle. This old firearm offered no trouble. The hand, swinging upward, pointed the pistol directly toward the form of Arthur Preston. The forefinger, separating itself from the rest, found the trigger, and paused there. Preston, as he now sat, was in no position to receive a death shot.
A low chuckle came from the helmet atop the armor. Preston did not hear it. The chuckle was repeated — louder — with a hollow, metallic tone. This time Preston noticed the sound. He looked up to find himself facing death.
The man within the armor had calculated well. He knew that whatever action Preston might take would put the merchant at a disadvantage. Preston responded naturally. He slowly began to raise his hands. A moment more, and his body would be uncovered.
Then, acting upon new and more virile inspiration, Preston leaped forward to seize the mailed fist that held the gun.
The pistol responded with a burst of flame. Point-blank into Preston’s body went the heavy bullet. The merchant, in his leap, crashed against the suit of armor and nearly toppled it; then, with a groan, he sank to the floor. The pistol, dropped by the gauntlet, clattered beside him.
As Preston, almost helpless from the wound, stared upward, he saw the mail-clad hands rise and remove the helmet. With glassy eyes peering through gathering darkness, Preston recognized the face and cried out hoarsely.
Portions of armor clanked upon the table. Within a few seconds, the assailant had stepped forth.
Preston’s fading eyes could see his back as he deliberately replaced the portions of the armor.
The man had calculated well. Arthur Preston had closed the door of the curio room. The sound of the shot had not been heard below. With a dry chuckle, the murderous fiend gained the door and opened it with those same fingers that had worn the knightly gauntlet. He knew that his victim was dying. He did not choose to utilize a shot from another weapon.
AS the door opened, Arthur Preston, half rising from the floor, gained a convulsive return of life. His eyes, half blinded with the veil of death, could see the enemy escaping. Preston’s voice came back. His strength returned. Drawing himself half to his feet, he made a wild grasp for his assailant and at the same time; uttered a tremendous scream.
The man turned. Again, Preston cried with all his might. The man who had shot him pushed him to the floor. The next shout died in Preston’s throat; but those he had previously uttered seemed to come in echoing answer from downstairs. Some one had heard the dying man’s call!
Rapidly, the man who had been in the armor hurried down the hall and descended a convenient flight of stairs. A call came up from the ground floor. There was another from the distant wing of the house.
At that moment, the door of the storeroom opened and a tall form in black stepped into the hall.
Too late to block the path of the killer, The Shadow at least could see the dying man upon the floor of the curio room. With long, swift stride, he gained the spot where Arthur Preston lay.
The dying man’s eyes were seeing darkness. As the black cloak loomed above him, it produced an entire blanket of darkness. Preston, however, sensed the presence of a human being — and the whisper that he heard told him a friend was near.
“Hurley Adams” — the dying voice came in a choking gasp — “find Hurley Adams! Death! Josiah Bartram! Maurice Pettigrew; Hurley Adams; make him tell — to save — the others. Josiah Bartram—”
The effort of repetition was too great. Gasping, Arthur Preston collapsed upon the floor, and lay in a huddled hump.
The merchant was dead. The Shadow, delayed in his departure from the home of Hurley Adams, had arrived too late to save the victim.
Footsteps were pounding upon the stairway. Calls were coming from the rear of the house. The Shadow was trapped in this room with a murdered man! To be captured would mean that crime would be blamed upon him.
Capture!
The Shadow’s low laugh mocked the word itself. But The Shadow had a definite motive in desiring to leave this place unseen. He must not be confused with the real murderer. The scene of crime must remain exactly as if The Shadow had not entered. That was the way of The Shadow.
KEEN eyes spied the windows at the ends of the room. They were blocked, and too small to admit the passage of a living person. The eyes turned upward. The soft laugh whispered grimly through the room of death.
The skylights, heavy frames of glass, were unfastened. The one on the right could not be viewed from the door.
With a swift motion, The Shadow gained the table where the firearms lay. Poised there, he shot his body forward. His fingers caught the wooden framework beneath the skylight. One black hand pushed the glass upward, as another held him suspended above the floor.
People were outside the room. They had seen Preston’s body from the end of the hall. Startled cries came to The Shadow’s ears. The black-cloaked form writhed upward. Like a huge coil of ribbon, it wavered through the opening. The glass barrier descended.
With amazing swiftness and superhuman agility, The Shadow had left the scene of crime a split second before the first of the rescuers had arrived. No token remained to tell of his presence. Upon the darkened roof of the Preston home, he could move away and descend to safety totally unseen.
Fingers of death!
They had worked tonight despite The Shadow. They had slain a new victim. The Shadow had arrived too late to see them or to recognize their owner.
Arthur Preston, dying, had tried to tell what had occurred. His lips, now sealed with death, had blurted forth incomplete statements. He had named two men whose deaths had already been recorded in Holmsford: Josiah Bartram and Maurice Pettigrew.
He had also named another — Hurley Adams. Why had Preston cried that name? Hurley Adams was the man who held the key to the situation of long-forgotten crime. He was the man who had marked Arthur Preston’s name tonight.
“Find Hurley Adams — make him tell — to save the others—”
That had been a portion of Arthur Preston’s gasped message. What others were there? Who were they?
Hurley Adams could tell!
The Shadow had found Hurley Adams tonight. He had heard the man tell facts to Willard Saybrook. He had heard Adams name two men as victims of the insidious fingers of death. He had heard Adams refuse to divulge the names of others who were threatened.