Grady was dashing up the stairs, leaving his subordinate dazed in a chair.
The murderer still lingered in the darkness beyond the side door of the room. He was watching the final death agony of Selwick’s frame. He had believed that all others had rushed forth in pursuit. The murderer did not realize his error until Howard Grady dashed into the room.
The chief detective had his revolver in his hand. He saw Julius Selwick’s dead form. Instinctively, he glanced beyond. He saw a dim face in the darkness. He caught a fleeting recognition as he fired at this murderer.
Grady had not reckoned with the fingers of death. The chief detective had foolishly rushed into the room.
The hand beyond the door was already raised. Its revolver shone within the range of light.
Howard Grady had suspected too much. He now knew too much. The murderer’s safety depended upon the prompt elimination of Holmsford’s chief detective.
Fingers of death! While all but one of them clutched the gun, the other pressed the trigger before Howard Grady could fire. Another shot burst through the little room. A bullet winged its way to Grady’s heart.
The chief detective crumpled. A blot of blood appeared upon his shirt front.
Fingers of death had taken another victim!
Maddox, the detective downstairs, heard the second shot. Duty roused him from his lethargy. He came slowly up the stairs and staggered into the lighted room. His senses came back swiftly as he recognized the bodies on the floor.
Julius Selwick and Howard Grady — both dead! The detective was stupefied at the carnage. He stood looking at the bodies, forgetting that he was, himself, an easy target for any one who might be lurking there.
But the menace was gone. The murderer had left, seeking promptly an easy egress by the stairs that led to the side door of the house. Only a half-dazed man remained, unable to begin immediate pursuit.
Fingers of death had struck again. Had their fell work reached its climax?
Only The Shadow could know!
CHAPTER XVI. THE EMPTY ROOM
WILLARD SAYBROOK was restless. Seated alone in the living room of the Bartram home, he was trying to read a book, but actually his mind was hard at work on other matters.
Last night, Doctor Felton Shores had called again. The physician had strolled about the house as though he owned it. Saybrook had paid no apparent attention to the fact. But in the morning, he had become extremely thoughtful when he had read of another death in Holmsford.
Saybrook had paid a prompt visit to the office of Hurley Adams. The old lawyer had sadly admitted that Ernest Risbey was another of the conspirators. But Adams had assured Saybrook that no further crime would follow. In fact, he had told the young man that he might soon be able to reveal the name of the murderer.
Somehow Hurley Adams had then seemed more at ease, and his quietude had lulled Willard Saybrook.
Nevertheless, the young man, upon his return to the Bartram house, had decided that nothing could be lost by action on his own part.
Saybrook was familiar with the house, but there were parts of it that had perplexed him. There were storerooms on the upper floor that had not been touched since Josiah Bartram’s death. This was due to a simple clause in the will that had stated that nothing should be disturbed on the premises until after the estate had been properly settled.
Similarly, there were rooms on the ground floor that were useless. One of these was an old parlor in the corner; the other was a small workroom where Josiah Bartram had kept plans and specifications of buildings. Both of these rooms, filled with unneeded furniture and discarded articles, were locked so that they would not be disturbed.
Mahinda had the keys; and, so far as Saybrook knew, the Hindu never troubled to visit either place.
Saybrook was familiar with the rooms, for they had been open occasionally during Josiah Bartram’s declining months of life. Until tonight, however, Saybrook had paid no attention to them. The cloud of suspicion that still made him wonder about the cause of Josiah Bartram’s death now made the young man speculative regarding what lay behind those locked doors.
Although he had never liked Mahinda, Saybrook had been more observant of Doctor Shores than he had of the Hindu. He had come to regard the servant as merely a freakish type of foreigner. Hence, last night, while watching Shores, Saybrook had not observed that he, himself, was being watched by Mahinda.
TONIGHT, now that Grace Bartram had retired, Saybrook was trying to read a book; and he did not realize that Mahinda, in the hallway, was studying every change of emotion that manifested itself upon Saybrook’s face.
It was not until the doorbell rang that Saybrook knew the servant was close at hand. Looking up, he saw Mahinda going in answer to the summons.
Doctor Shores was the midnight visitor. The physician smiled as he saw Saybrook. He shook hands with the young man and sat down in a chair.
“Terribly busy,” commented the physician. “All worn out. Need a rest. You’re a life-saver, Saybrook, you night owl! Every time I come by the house I see a light in the living room, and I just have to drop in to say hello. It relieves me to talk a while with some one after a strenuous day. All asleep at home when I get there.”
Saybrook nodded agreeably.
“Reading?” questioned Shores, in an affable tone. “Go right ahead. Don’t let me disturb you. I’ll sit around and take it easy for a few minutes. More comfortable here than home. Puts me in good fettle.”
Saybrook returned to his book. The physician’s suggestion evidently had a purpose. Saybrook decided to watch while pretending to read. He noted that Mahinda was not around. Saybrook was playing for a break. It came.
When the young man appeared deeply engrossed in his book, Doctor Shores arose and strolled about the room. He finally went into the hallway, and disappeared. Saybrook laid his book aside. He stole to the door of the living room.
Neither Mahinda nor Doctor Shores was in sight.
Quickly, Saybrook crossed the hall into the dark dining room. From there, he reached the pantry and opened a side door that led back into the hall. From that spot he could view the narrow passage that led to the old, disused parlor. The passage went by the door of the old workroom, which was set down a short pair of steps.
Saybrook watched. He saw the door of the workroom open. Out came the white-clad form of Mahinda.
The servant went through the hall, and Saybrook realized that it was too late for him to get back to his book. So he waited in the darkness of the pantry. The door of the workroom opened a minute later. This time, Felton Shores emerged.
With prompt thought, Saybrook let the door of the pantry close. He hurried across the room and raised the pantry window. He dropped out upon the lawn, circled to the front of the house, and began to rap at the front door. Mahinda opened it. Saybrook could see Shores standing in the living room.
Saybrook did not deign to give Mahinda a direct explanation. Instead, he spoke nonchalantly to Doctor Shores.
“Stepped outside for a whiff of fresh air,” he explained. “Too much reading makes me groggy. Forgot all about the latch.”
“Late reading is tiring,” observed Shores, in a professional tone.
Saybrook picked up his book, closed it, and laid it aside. He removed his coat and vest, and made himself comfortable for a chat with the physician. They talked of minor matters, but through the conversation, Saybrook could see that Shores was nervous. The physician’s mind was unquestionably worried.
Mahinda stalked in and out, according to his usual fashion. At last, Doctor Shores prepared to leave.