“Doctor Felton Shores,” announced Saybrook.
“No,” said Adams, in a puzzled tone. “Shores has not been in Holmsford more than twelve years. Why — or, rather, what — makes you wonder about him?”
Saybrook began an explanation. He told Adams of the events of the preceding night; how Shores had come to the Bartram home about an hour after Preston’s death.
“I don’t like it,” declared Saybrook. “Shores has been acting strangely. As for the Hindu — the fellow called Mahinda — I don’t trust him. It looked to me as though Shores and Mahinda went somewhere to hold a confab. What do you make of it, Adams?”
“It might be good as well as bad,” returned the old lawyer gravely. “Perhaps Shores suspects that Bartram died an unnatural death. Perhaps he and Mahinda are considering the case.”
“That may be it!” exclaimed Saybrook. “I haven’t spoken to Shores, of course. I can see it now. Shores would be reluctant to express an opinion. Just as you were—”
“I am glad you spoke of this,” declared Adams. “I would suggest that you watch both Shores and Mahinda. They can suspect you of nothing, because they know you were not in Holmsford at the time Josiah Bartram died. Be cautious, however. Learn all you can, but say nothing.”
“I understand,” said Saybrook.
There was a long silence. Both men were considering possibilities. Adams began to speak; and his voice was filled with doubt. He stated that the possible connection between those in Josiah Bartram’s confidence — namely Shores and Mahinda — with crime was something that must not be entirely overlooked. At the same time, he held to his theory that the two might be investigating on their own.
“Shores was not Pettigrew’s physician,” concluded Adams. “On the contrary, he was Preston’s physician. That balances the matter. It impresses me with one fact, however. I must act at once, with the plan I have in mind. I think that I may be able to forestall future crime. Wait until you hear from me, Saybrook. At the same time, be cautious.”
WHEN the young man left the lawyer’s office, neither he nor Adams knew that every word of their conversation had been overheard and recorded by Harry Vincent. The Shadow’s agent had completed a hundred-per-cent report.
This, however, had depended upon ear alone. Therefore, Harry was not cognizant of an important event which took place after Saybrook’s departure.
Reaching in his desk drawer, Hurley Adams fished until he found a stack of small red cards. He removed two of these, and folded each one carefully within a sheet of paper. Taking two envelopes, he placed one card in each, and sealed the envelopes.
He called his secretary and instructed her to mail the letters. While the girl waited, Adams calmly addressed the envelopes and stamped them.
Harry Vincent missed the significance of this over the dictaphone. He recorded the conversation; that was all. Hence, he was not in the hallway when the girl appeared, carrying the letters.
She went directly to the mail chute, and there encountered an old, stoop-shouldered man who was holding a package of letters. Stepping back, the old gentleman tipped his hat and rested politely on his cane, while the girl dropped the envelopes separately in the chute.
The lawyer’s secretary did not see the keen glint in the old man’s eyes. She did not suspect that he had read both names and addresses. When she returned to the office, Adams asked her if she had mailed the letters. The girl informed the lawyer that she had. She made no comment regarding the old man who had been standing by the mail chute.
In fact, the old man was no longer in the hall when the girl closed the door of the outer office. He had evidently mailed his letters and departed. The secretary was a trifle surprised, however, to realize that such a tottering individual could have mailed his letters and have gone so quickly.
She would have been more surprised had she seen the old man at that moment. He had descended by the stairway, in preference to the elevator. Alone on the steps, he was moving swiftly downward, without the aid of his cane.
The old man’s lips held a faint smile, and in that secluded section of the Holmsford County Building, no one could hear the strange laugh that those lips were uttering. It was a soft laugh — scarcely more than a whisper — but its tones were weird and sinister.
The old man was The Shadow!
He had seen what Harry Vincent had not seen. Although he had not yet received Harry’s report of the conversation in the lawyer’s office, The Shadow had divined the purpose of the letters which had been mailed.
Two letters — a vital factor in what Hurley Adams planned! For those letters, sent by the arbitrator of a band of conspirators, were messages to the last of the group!
The Shadow, by keen intuition and shrewd observation, had not only learned how many yet remained; he had discovered the identities of the persons themselves.
Two more conspirators — with Adams, the total was three. A trio of men, waiting for the fateful day when they would learn the secret hiding place of stolen millions!
Which of those three — between now and that day — were to feel the killing power that could come from fingers of death?
The warning messages had gone out. The Shadow knew — and The Shadow would act. In the meantime, others would learn of danger; others might try to solve this increasing crime!
CHAPTER XII. THE CONFERENCE
“YOU’RE wrong about it, Grady. Forget the idea.”
Safety Director Julius Selwick was speaking from behind his desk in the Holmsford city hall. Howard Grady, chief of detectives, stood before him.
“I can’t forget it, director!” protested Grady. “I agree with you that Maurice Pettigrew was a suicide. But this accidental death in Arthur Preston’s case leaves other possibilities.”
“There were people in the house!” objected Selwick impatiently. “This case is more obvious than Pettigrew’s death!”
“Maybe I’m wrong,” admitted Grady. “Maybe it was all that nut stuff up in the curio room that made me think of murder. Suits of armor — harpoons — all that sort of junk.”
Julius Selwick smiled indulgently. The chief detective left the office. As soon as he was gone, the director’s brow furrowed.
“Murder,” Julius Selwick mumbled. “Grady’s nearer to the truth than he thinks. One — two — three. Well—”
He shrugged his shoulders, and looked up as a man entered, bringing the late afternoon mail. Local deliveries were prompt in Holmsford. Selwick noted that several envelopes bore a noon postmark.
“Got to keep Grady off the trail,” muttered Selwick. “It’s tough enough as is, without him finding out anything. And if there’s any squealing. Well—”
With the indefinite remark, Selwick began to open his letters. An envelope ripped in his hands. Out came a folded paper. From it dropped a plain red card.
Julius Selwick examined the card. He laid it on the desk, and stared at the wall.
The wrinkles deepened in his forehead. He knew the meaning of this message. It was a summons that he had awaited for years; yet which he had not expected quite so soon.
The safety director glanced at a newspaper upon his desk. On the front page was a photograph of the old City Bank building, a landmark for twenty years, now about to be torn down. Work would commence before the end of the week.
Again, Selwick examined the card. He laughed gruffly. He tore it into fragments, and threw the pieces into the empty wastebasket. The torn envelope followed. Selwick laid the rest of his mail aside. He did not care to open it.
A PROMINENT figure in Holmsford business for many years, Julius Selwick had recently been appointed safety director because of his firm, unyielding personality. He had proven himself capable at cleaning up crime. He had laughed at the threats of racketeers who had tried to install themselves in Holmsford.