The Shadow was laughing softly as he prowled about the room. He came to a point directly opposite the window. There he stopped, and his flashlight searched the wall.
The glow revealed the spot where a bullet had buried itself in the woodwork.
This spot was less than three feet from the floor. In the corner of the room, The Shadow’s light showed a footstool.
The hidden man moved to the corner where old Harshaw’s sculptured objects still rested undisturbed. Again, that low laugh. The light went out. Something was lifted softly from the table.
Now, The Shadow was gone from the study. He was in another part of the apartment — the room which had served Harshaw as laboratory and workshop.
Here, the man in black made a careful survey. He discovered a drawer that bore the letter “E.” That was the drawer for which The Shadow searched.
He slid it open, and discovered several papers. They were mostly crude, hand-sketched diagrams that meant nothing, in themselves.
They might have pertained to some contrivance, but without the actual apparatus, they were useless.
The Shadow paid but little attention to these sketches. He replaced them carefully.
Then, from his pocket, he drew an envelope. It was sealed, and on its face it bore the words:
DETECTIVE CARDONA — IMPORTANT
The characters were written in a shaky scrawl. They had been formed by the hand of The Shadow.
They were identical with the writing that had appeared upon the envelope that had been received by Thomas Sutton — the wrapper which had contained the notation concerning the gold-headed cane.
The Shadow had seen that envelope in Cardona’s office. Strangely enough, its scrawl coincided exactly with other envelopes that The Shadow had found in this apartment last night!
Those envelopes were in the hiding place by the window, where The Shadow had discovered and replaced them.
What was The Shadow’s purpose?
Only time could tell, but the soft, sinister laugh that echoed now was the forerunner of some clever scheme.
The Shadow’s work was now completed. The softly moving form swished from the workshop.
It traveled to the outer door, and made its exit from the stairway. The Shadow was seen no more that night.
But his voice was heard by one who had not expected the sound of those weird, whispered tones!
AT headquarters, Joe Cardona was puzzling over the facts of the Throckmorton death, trying vainly to link them with the other killings.
Within twenty-four hours, another letter would be on its way, announcing one more death!
The telephone rang.
Listlessly, Cardona answered it.
The detective gasped as he recognized the voice from the other end. It was a voice he knew — a voice that he had heard before.
A voice in which he believed, despite the doubts of others.
It was the voice of The Shadow!
“Cardona?” came the weird whisper.
“Yes,” replied the detective.
“Five deaths!” were the sinister words.
“Five?” questioned Cardona.
“One: Silas Harshaw,” tolled the voice. “Two: Louis Glenn. Three: Thomas Sutton. Four: James Throckmorton. Five—”
The voice ended.
“Quick!” cried Cardona. “Name the fifth!”
“You shall know the name tomorrow night,” came the low, deliberate voice. “It is not necessary now. Death — will — not — take — place!”
Cardona pressed the receiver close to his ear and listened intently. Was there more to come? Yes! The voice was speaking again!
“Think of death that has occurred,” said the voice of The Shadow. “Do not consider death that I shall thwart. Think of those that went before.
“Listen!” The voice was hissing. “I shall go back. Throckmorton kept a diary. Sutton made out checks. Glenn smoked cigarettes. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” exclaimed Detective Cardona eagerly. “I understand. Throckmorton’s diary — I haven’t looked for it. Sutton’s check book — I passed it up.
“Glenn’s cigarettes I have them here. But what” — Cardona paused breathlessly — “what of Harshaw?”
A low laugh tingled in Cardona’s ear.
“Harshaw?” questioned the eerie voice. “What of Harshaw? The answer to his death remains in his apartment.
“You will find it if you search. But be careful. Heed this warning.
“The death dealt to Harshaw was dealt to another. It will strike again to those who use no caution. Go back, Cardona, to your first clew.
“Seek for death at the place of death. There you will find the trail.”
The receiver clicked at the other end of the wire. Joe Cardona sank back in his chair.
The detective’s face was white and tense. Every word that the mysterious voice had spoken echoed through his brain.
There were clews to every death! Danger still lurked at the apartment where Silas Harshaw had been slain! These statements, meager though they might seem, meant worlds to Cardona.
But more important than them all was that one emphatic utterance that pertained to tomorrow night. Those words had been spoken by The Shadow — the man who never failed!
“Death — will — not — take — place!”
CHAPTER XVII
THE THREE CLEWS
IT was the next afternoon when Professor Roger Biscayne entered the office of Police Commissioner Weston. Accompanying the spectacled psychologist was a droopy-faced man of about fifty years of age.
The man was bald-headed, save for a fringe of gray above his ears; and he was dressed in a light-brown suit, cut in a youthful style that ill became his elderly appearance.
“Well, well!” exclaimed the commissioner cordially. “You’ve brought Mr. Wilhelm with you as you promised, eh?”
“Yes,” said Biscayne. “My cousin was anxious to join us here. He has been quite concerned over the death of Silas Harshaw.”
“Terrible tragedy, commissioner,” Wilhelm was saying, as he shook hands. “Terrible, sir, terrible. Think of the man — murdered!
“Of course, Roger has told you that I was financing his work. A genius, that man — but a bit eccentric. Too bad he’s gone. Too bad! Couldn’t find anything about his invention, could you, Roger?”
It was evident that Arthur Wilhelm mourned the loss of the remote-control machine as well as the death of Silas Harshaw.
The few thousands that the millionaire soap manufacturer had invested was a paltry sum to him, but he had counted upon them producing many times their value.
“No news, Arthur,” declared Biscayne. “But when Detective Cardona arrives, we may hear something. You say he has obtained results, commissioner?”
“So he has stated,” replied Weston. “He has been investigating all day, and will be here, soon.”
“A detective, eh?” queried Wilhelm, resting back in his chair. “There isn’t a one can come up to Roger here, commissioner.
“That’s what he should have gone into — detective work — instead of wasting his time with a lot of highbrows. How about it, Roger?”
“Maybe you’re right, Arthur,” said Biscayne, with a smile. “I’ve been doing a bit of detective work lately, though, and I can’t say I’ve accomplished much.”
“You need more practice, Roger,” bantered Wilhelm. “Any time you want to start an agency, I’ll give you a few thousand for a beginning.”
“I understand you were out of town, Mr. Wilhelm,” said the commissioner.
“Yes,” replied the bald-headed man. “Took a trip to California. Had to get back by this morning, for a directors’ meeting.
“Well, New York is the place! Especially with Cousin Roger around. We’ve been good pals, he and I. Closest in the world even though he has gone highbrow!” He laughed.