The envelope was addressed to police headquarters. Then the flashlight went carefully past the envelope.
In the shallow space behind, fingers held the light so that it shone through the sealed packet. It showed two typed initials that were significant.
Those letters were J. T.
They meant much to the keen brain of The Shadow. Among those loose letters that he had previously viewed had been one with the name of James Throckmorton scrawled upon it.
The Shadow knew the name and address of the next victim!
THE SHADOW’S hand reached forth to grasp the projecting letter. It was an instant too late. The mechanism of the clockwork whirred.
A sharp click, and the letter dropped into the slit below. It was on its way from its hidden source, off through a narrow opening that led into the mail chute to the hotel letter box!
As the envelope traveled free, another missive moved down to take its place. Like the first, this was held by two small clips that pressed against the upper end.
These were the devices that had made those tiny marks which Detective Joe Cardona had not noticed!
The Shadow ignored the new letter. One had just gone out on schedule — forty-eight hours after the note that had proclaimed the death of Thomas Sutton.
The next one had two days to wait. It was not urgent now.
The baseboard moved down; the bit of flooring came up. The hidden cache was closed. No longer did The Shadow’s flashlight twinkle.
Death was stalking tonight. Another victim was marked for oblivion. The Shadow alone knew his identity!
Out of the apartment went The Shadow. Back, past the mail chute, to the elevator shaft. He crept between the doors as he opened them.
He must wait for the car to ascend. It meant delay, but a dash down the stairs might involve more serious consequences.
The elevator was coming up at last. It reached the ninth floor. Down it went. When it reached the ground, The Shadow slipped from the mezzanine.
There, on the steps, he waited for an instant. There was excitement in the lobby. The mail box had been opened. In it had been found the letter to the police.
“J. T.!” Mayhew was shouting. “Who is J. T.? Give me that phone quick. Shoot upstairs, you. Find out who’s been around the mail chute—”
The Shadow drew into seclusion as a plainclothes man came dashing upward. The elevator, too, was rising. With the way now clear, The Shadow glided quickly to the ground floor.
He was nothing more than a thin black silhouette — an untraceable phantom as he swept from the hotel.
He had been detained too long. He had discovered the riddle of those death notes.
He must make use of what he had learned. For death hovered over a helpless man — and The Shadow alone could prevent it!
What was that death to be? That was the mystery. There was not far to go. Only in person could The Shadow thwart the intended crime.
The time element was uncertain; there was no telling what had been intended until the scene was reached.
A coupe shot westward from the street behind the hotel. Five blocks it sped, then it stopped. From it emerged a man in black, who disappeared swiftly into the surrounding gloom, toward an old, four-storied house.
The Shadow was racing death!
CHAPTER XV
THE FOURTH VICTIM
IN a top room of his secluded home, James Throckmorton was seated at a table which served him as a desk. Throckmorton was a man past middle age. He was a student of many subjects, a hobbyist of set ideas.
Tonight, he was alone, wrapped completely in his immediate interest. He was reviewing the first proof sheets of a book which he had prepared on ornithology.
To Throckmorton, this was a task that required the utmost care. The proofs had come from the publisher that afternoon, in exact accordance with a promised delivery.
The study of birds had been a lifelong joy to this man. His comments on the habitats of certain avifauna were matters to which he had given wholehearted consideration.
So absorbed was James Throckmorton that he had paid no attention whatever to the passage of time. This was his one chosen spot when he had work to do, this little room at the top of the house.
Throckmorton had locked himself in this room shortly after eight o’clock. Armed with his favorite pipe, he had set to work to review his writings.
Tobacco smoke clouded the atmosphere; but the man was oblivious to it.
Besides his penchant for a pipe, Throckmorton had an old-fashioned tendency in favor of gas illumination. True, his house was wired with electricity; but when it came to serious work, Throckmorton believed that the best of gas lamps were unsurpassed.
Such a lamp now rested on the table. It was connected by a hose to a special gas jet on the floor. With this illumination, Throckmorton could read for hours without tiring.
More than once, in the past, his first knowledge of the passing of time had been the rays of morning as they issued through the thick glass skylight that formed the only window for this upper room.
As Throckmorton made marginal notations on the proof sheets, he shook his head a bit and glanced at the pipe. He noticed the cloudiness of the room.
The pipe in his hand was the cause. He set the brier on the table. He had been smoking too steadily, he realized.
Once more he became attentive to his task, but a weariness fell upon the man as he worked.
The atmosphere of the room seemed stifling. Perhaps it would be wise to open the skylight for a few minutes.
Stepping upon the chair, Throckmorton fumbled with the fastening of the skylight. He felt dizzy. Breathing deeply, he detected the odor of illuminating gas amid the heavier, more pungent aroma of tobacco.
He sniffed again; then swayed and clutched the handle of the skylight. It refused to budge.
The man’s efforts weakened him. The chair seemed to wabble beneath him. With a gasping cry and a wild grab to save himself, James Throckmorton toppled from the chair and sprawled upon the floor.
The fall half stunned him. Already weakened, the man could make only a feeble effort to regain his footing. He tried to crawl in the direction of the door.
He failed. Footsteps came pounding up the stairs from the floor below. Throckmorton’s manservant had heard the crash of the body and the chair. He was coming to ascertain the cause.
Knocks sounded at the door. The man’s excited voice was crying out. Throckmorton did not respond. He was past the point of speaking.
His body, half turned toward the door, was incapable of further motion. He was overcome by the fumes of gas that had insidiously filled the room while he had been at work.
The door was firmly latched, and Throckmorton had the only key. It was an old habit of his — a sure device that eased his mind against unwanted disturbance.
The servant’s pounding was in vain. It could neither arouse the master, nor could it avail against that heavy barrier.
The footsteps clattered down the stairs. The servant was running for help.
Only the quick action of powerful men could burst through to the room where Throckmorton lay helpless. The task was too great for one, alone.
AS the servant rushed from the front door of the house, he looked in both directions. It was a deserted neighborhood. The lights of the avenue offered the nearest and quickest aid.
The servant hastened in that direction. Running, he did not notice the man who had been hurrying from the opposite direction.
It was not surprising that the servant failed to see this stranger, for the newcomer was dressed entirely in black, and was scarcely discernible in the darkness.
The door of the house was open. The man in black lost no time entering. He saw the stairs ahead and dashed upward. He reached the deserted second floor, and kept on upward.