This was time for investigation, Harry decided. Leaving his car, the young man sauntered across the street. He walked past the sedan; then, seeing no one close at hand, retraced his steps and paused to light a cigarette as he stood beside the parked vehicle.
AS the flame from the match died away, Harry saw the man within. He glimpsed the form of Ernest Risbey, slumped behind the wheel. The man’s upturned face was tilted sidewise. Sightless eyes stared toward the door near the curb.
Those eyes told their story. Harry knew that Ernest Risbey was dead!
Acting quickly, Harry opened the rear door of the car with his left hand, while his right drew a revolver and held it hidden by his body. Harry was ready for the assassin, but the light streaming in from the street lamp showed no one there. The slayer had departed, leaving no clew to his identity.
Upon the dead man’s neck was the tiny crimson spot that showed how doom had come. The mark was slowly fading, that mark which fingers of death had caused!
Quickly, Harry Vincent stepped away from the sedan, closing the door. People were approaching on the street. Harry was fortunate to escape their notice as he hurriedly walked behind the big car.
Arriving at his room in the hotel, Harry found the place empty. He hurriedly penned a coded note, telling what had occurred, and placed the message in the writing-table drawer. Then, knowing that The Shadow would be here shortly, Harry left the room. When he returned, after putting his coupe away, he found that the note was gone.
The Shadow now knew that Ernest Risbey was dead. Until further word came from his mysterious chief, it was Harry’s duty to remain here and await the summons.
Peering from the window, Harry could distinguish Risbey’s car across the street. It was the same as before — and Harry knew that the body of the dead man must still be there, awaiting discovery later in the night.
Keenly though Harry watched, his eyes did not detect the tall form in black that moved away from the side of the parked sedan. Like a creature of invisibility, shrouded in his cloak of sable hue, The Shadow had gone to the spot of death — and had left, unseen.
A phantom of darkness, The Shadow could escape the eyes of all passers. He was seen by none in Holmsford that evening. Nevertheless, his presence was there.
It hovered, later, amid the blackness that surrounded the gloomy mansion where Josiah Bartram had lain during his last illness. Sharp, glowing eyes were peering from the dark when Doctor Felton Shores emerged from the house. The physician had been visiting there again, this evening.
When all was silent on the lawn, a low laugh sounded. Scarcely more audible than the sighing whisper of a breeze, it betokened uncanny mirth. The mockery of that laugh signified a knowledge of hidden mysteries.
Once more The Shadow had been balked by the fingers of death. They were due to work again; and when they did, The Shadow would be prepared for them!
Long after midnight, a phantom shape was watching from the darkened front of the Elite Hotel when a passing patrolman stopped to examine the sedan that was now parked alone on the street. A startled grunt came from the officer as he saw the dead body in the car.
After a brief examination, the policeman hurried away to call up headquarters. In the silence of the street, the whispered laugh of The Shadow resounded once again.
The phantom shape was gone when the patrol arrived to take away the body of Ernest Risbey, the newest victim who had fallen prey to fingers of death!
CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW SPEAKS
LATE the next evening, a large car stopped before the home of Julius Selwick. The safety director alighted, accompanied by Chief Detective Howard Grady. The gruff, heavy-jowled safety director was in no amiable mood. Grady, hard-faced and taciturn, was keeping silence.
Together, the pair went up to the second floor and entered a room which Selwick used as an office in his home.
The room had two doors, one from the front hall; the other an entrance that opened upon the back stairs.
Seating himself at the desk, the safety director stared at the chief detective.
“I still think you’re wrong, Grady,” he growled.
“I think I’m right,” responded Grady. “This Risbey death is murder.”
“Maybe the Risbey case is murder,” declared Selwick. “That looks bad, I’ll admit. But you can’t go on figuring a string of crimes. What bearing does this have on the deaths of Preston and Pettigrew? Bosh!”
“There’s something wrong in Holmsford,” declared Grady calmly. “That’s why I’m not giving up on any point. People don’t die in odd ways, one after another — particularly when they are all prominent persons in the same town. I’ll tell you something I’ve been thinking about tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised if old Josiah Bartram had been murdered, too!”
“Rot!” snorted Selwick. “Listen, Grady. If you want to do some heavy work, concentrate on this Risbey case, but let the others ride for the time. Be careful and methodical. Don’t come to conclusions too quickly. It takes time to solve a murder mystery.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Grady.
Julius Selwick then settled back in his chair. The man looked very tired. Grady noted it, and made a comment.
“You’ve been working too hard, director.”
“I always work too hard,” admitted Selwick. “This job has been wearing. I’m going to resign shortly, Grady. After that” — Selwick smiled — “you won’t have such a tough fellow to deal with.”
“I’ve got no kick,” answered Grady, with a grin. “You’re a good man to work for, director.”
There was a long pause. Grady wondered what Selwick was thinking about. He would have been surprised had he known.
Julius Selwick was considering Hurley Adams. There were reasons, tonight, why he wanted a man detailed to watch the old lawyer. But there were also reasons why Selwick could not give such an order.
The principal reason was Grady.
With the chief detective’s mind set on solving murder, it would be an unwise step to have him on the trail of Hurley Adams. It was bad enough that the detective should see a link between the deaths that had been mentioned. Selwick realized that he must be tactful with Grady.
“Tonight,” said Selwick, “I’ll think over what you have said. I’m going to rest a while, Grady. Suppose you stay here. Sometimes, after I have rested a bit, I get a good hunch. You go downstairs and bring in those four men of yours. Have them come up here, and you can give them their orders. Don’t make too much noise — that’s all.”
Grady nodded. Selwick had referred to four detectives who had come in another car, which was waiting in the street outside of Selwick’s drive. Grady had intended to leave with them after a conference with the safety director.
SELWICK stared downward at the desk when Grady had gone. If the chief detective’s suspicions made it unwise to keep a man on the trail of Adams, it would, at least, be easy to have some men stationed here where they could serve as bodyguards.
But Selwick did not want to show any anxiety concerning his own safety. That was why he had made the pretext of needing a short rest. There was a couch in the room adjoining this office. He could lie there a while, and consider matters, while Grady and the four detectives were close by.
Selwick suddenly gained the impression that some one had entered the room. He stared upward, and his blood froze as he saw, facing him, a tall form clad in black.
Like a monster of the night, this strange being had entered, unheard and unseen. Piercing eyes gazed from beneath the brim of a dark slouch hat. Firm, black-gloved hands projected from the folds of a flowing cloak. One fist held a leveled automatic.