To-day, however, Julius Selwick appeared perturbed. In fact, his mental attitude had not been at its best for the past week. Howard Grady had noticed it; so had others; but none had made direct comment.
The safety director’s office opened on a much-used corridor, and as Julius Selwick rose to leave the office, an old gentleman hobbled in on a cane. He paused in front of the desk and offered a query.
“Is this the health director’s office?” he questioned. “I am from—”
“Two doors down the corridor,” informed Selwick.
“Pardon me, sir,” acknowledged the old man, with a bow.
The action was not noticed by Selwick, who was walking from the desk. He did not see the old man’s eyes. They brightened as the head was lowered. There, in the wastebasket, the old man spotted the fragments of the red card with the torn envelope.
He was the same old man who had been in the Holmsford County Building, beside the mail chute on the ninth floor. The Shadow, visiting the safety director’s office in Holmsford. The Shadow — perfectly disguised.
The old man followed Selwick from the office, and the safety director pointed out the office that he wanted. It had an anteroom, with a closed panel where one was required to ring a bell.
The old man bowed and entered. He did not ring the bell, however.
Spreading his arms, he pressed the ends of his ornate cane between his hands. The walking stick collapsed to tiny size as the hands came together. It dropped into the old man’s pocket. Whisking the hat from his head, the old man turned it inside out. It formed a new headpiece — no longer a brown hat with turned-up brim, but a gray one, with brim sloping downward.
Gloves peeled away; slender fingers ran over the old man’s face. The stooped form straightened. A waxed mustache made its quick appearance.
Within thirty seconds from the time that he had entered the office, the old man was a new individual — a stern-faced, mustached person, whose age appeared about forty. Leaving the office, the transformed stranger reached the elevator in time to take the same car as Julius Selwick.
From then on, The Shadow, in his new personality, did not lose sight of the safety director. Both arrived at the Elite Hotel, and it was not until Julius Selwick had entered the dining room for dinner that his trailer disappeared.
Harry Vincent went into the dining room shortly afterward. He, in turn, watched Selwick.
Harry was acting under new and mysterious orders, received by telephone in his room, whither he had returned at noon. He had filed a report on the dictaphone conversation. That had been removed from his table drawer during a temporary absence.
IT was nearly eight o’clock when Julius Selwick left the dining room. Harry followed and took a seat in the lobby. Various persons were passing through. Selwick lounged about, and Harry kept close watch.
He saw Selwick take the elevator and go upstairs.
A short while afterward, a small, darkish man came in and passed directly before the seat where Harry was stationed. Hardly had Harry seen him approach the desk before a small card nestled itself upon the chair arm, where Harry’s hand was resting. Turning curiously, Harry was surprised to see no one. There was a pillar directly behind him, but Harry had seen no one step out of view.
Looking quickly at the card, Harry was just in time to read this coded message: Watch the man who just entered. Cover him when he leaves.
The writing did a fadeout before Harry’s eyes. He knew the source of the note. It was from The Shadow.
That was sufficient. From now on, Harry had but one duty: to keep an eye on the stranger, who was now at the desk.
Harry observed the man’s features closely. Sallow and with short-clipped brown mustache, the face was easy to remember.
This man, like Selwick, headed for the elevator. Harry saw no one following him. He did not know that The Shadow, still disguised, had entered another car while he had been observing the man he was to watch!
Even to his trusted agents, The Shadow was a being of mystery. Harry had long known that fact; he recognized it now as never before.
The darkish man left the elevator at the fifth floor. At that very moment, Harry, in the lobby below, was learning his identity. Two men, close by, were discussing the stranger.
“You know who that was?” questioned one.
“Who?” asked the other. “The guy with the mustache?”
“Yes.”
“Sure I know who he is. Ernest Risbey. Wish I had his jack.”
“Guess he cleaned up plenty before he sold out his casting factory.”
Harry made a mental note of the name. Ernest Risbey. Evidently a prominent citizen of Holmsford.
ON the fifth floor, Risbey was totally oblivious to the fact that his name had been mentioned in the lobby.
He was also oblivious to some one who was watching him at close range. Sharp eyes were upon the mustached man as he stopped at the door near the end of a corridor — eyes that peered from a side passage when Risbey went by.
Three light taps. The door opened at Risbey’s signal. The man entered a gloomy room to find two others awaiting him.
One was Hurley Adams, with gray hair and pale face. The other was Julius Selwick, heavy-set and firm in visage. Risbey closed the door and joined the pair.
“We are all here,” remarked Hurley Adams, in a low tone.
Julius Selwick nudged his thumb toward a door at the side of the room.
“The next room is empty,” explained Adams. “I made sure of that before I engaged this one. I stated that I wished to be in a quiet spot. You saw my name and room number on the register?”
Both Selwick and Risbey nodded.
“To business,” declared Adams quietly.
The door at the side of the room was slowly opening. Inch by inch it unclosed, unseen by the three who had forgotten it. The blackness beyond the door seemed to project itself into the room.
The door closed, as silently as it had opened. The tall form of The Shadow stood in view. The gleaming eyes shone momentarily; then The Shadow merged with darkness beyond a huge dresser that was set against the wall.
“To business?” Selwick put the question. “The time has not yet arrived.”
“An important time is here,” responded Adams. “This is an emergency. We must settle a pressing problem.”
Selwick became silent. Risbey’s face took on an expression that was half cunning, half worry.
“Millions are at stake,” asserted Adams slowly. “Those millions were to be shared by six. Tonight, there are but three of us.”
He paused to look at the other two men. Both seemed to share a momentary worry. Was that expression feigned or was it real?
“Within a week,” continued Adams, “we shall — I hope — meet again to divide the spoils. Unfortunately” — he said the word as though he meant it — “three of our number have died within the past week.
“That fact is not to my liking. I should have preferred to see all share and share alike. Some plot has arisen — a plot of elimination. Unless our secret has been betrayed, the plotter is one of us three. He is more than a plotter; he is a murderer!”
“I feared this,” said Risbey, with sudden nervousness. “Those three deaths have amazed me. Tell me, Adams. You believe that one of us—”
“Is a murderer? Yes!”
Risbey shifted restlessly in his chair. Adams watched him intently. After a short pause, the lawyer turned to Selwick.
“That is my opinion,” Adams repeated. “What is yours?”
“I don’t know,” responded Selwick, in a gruff tone. “If your idea is correct, Adams, it’s either you or Risbey. I’m not worrying. Nobody’s going to get me.”