Below it was the piece of steel that The Shadow had inserted. This, alone, had stopped the descending hammer.
With right hand steady, The Shadow reached forward with his left and pinched the little hammer. The bit of steel was removed.
The gripping fingers, firm as steel itself, let the hammer descend slowly. The motion was imperceptible.
There was no striking force when the hammer had completed its descent.
The hand drew away, but remained motionless above the box.
Even in the gathered darkness, the fire opal glowed mysteriously. Its dull-red rays were like the reflection of the sun that had set.
The lid of the box went down. The Shadow replaced his gloves.
His black-clad fingers wrapped the cigar box within its original paper, so perfectly that there was no change in its appearance. It rested on the table exactly as it had been before.
A single light shone in the living room when The Shadow glided through the door from the small private room.
The black-clad man stopped short and pressed his body against the wall.
By the side of a large fireplace, he became a thing without motion — another of the long, uncertain shades that lay upon the floor and walls and ceiling of that gloomy room.
ARTHUR WILHELM was at the telephone. He had just came from the city.
His back was turned toward the spot where The Shadow stood. He was speaking to Professor Roger Biscayne.
“All right, Roger,” Wilhelm said. “I’ll dig up those agreements that Harshaw signed. Funny we didn’t think of them while I was at the commissioner’s office.
“Sure, I know where they are… No trouble at all. They’re in my desk. You’ll want them tonight?
“Oh, I see. Call you at the Redan Hotel, at ten o’clock.”
There was a pause; then Wilhelm continued in response to some statement that had come over the wire.
“You mean the little chess set that Harshaw gave me for a present, when he was tickled because I said I’d help him out… The little board, with the chessmen?
“I don’t know what became of that thing… No — I don’t know anything about the crazy game. I had to take it to make the old fellow feel good.
“That’s right… You’re right, I remember now… I put it in the closet of my room… You think it might be important?
“I’ll take a look for it right now. If it’s there, I’ll find it right off… All right, hold the line.”
Wilhelm laid the phone aside. He called, and a servant appeared.
“Hang on to this phone,” ordered Wilhelm, “until you hear me talking upstairs.”
With that, Wilhelm ascended to the second floor. The servant stood by for a few minutes, then hung up. Evidently Wilhelm had found the object that he sought.
The servant was gone. As soon as the room was empty, The Shadow glided toward a wide window.
He raised the sash and slipped out into the darkness. He became a phantom shape, amid the long patches of blackness that spread across the lawn.
His work had been accomplished. He was bound on some new mission.
ARTHUR WILHELM was dining alone that evening. He liked to dine alone, in solitary state.
He ate slowly and thoughtfully. His mind was considering the strange death of Silas Harshaw.
Wilhelm had seen the old man only a few times. Twice, Silas Harshaw had been in this house. Roger Biscayne had conducted most of the negotiations that pertained to Harshaw’s work.
Biscayne had known how to handle the eccentric old inventor. Good fellow, Cousin Roger, thought Wilhelm.
It was well after eight o’clock when Arthur Wilhelm arose from his chair and strolled into the living room. He had dined heavily.
He sat down in the gloomy room and rested. At night, he became drowsy and lethargic. Then he bethought himself of the papers that Roger Biscayne wanted.
He walked to the little private room and turned on the light. He sat at the desk and unlocked a lower drawer. He rummaged there for several minutes.
At last, Wilhelm discovered that which he wanted. It was a folder that contained the agreements he had made with Silas Harshaw.
Dully, Wilhelm read over the papers. He could not see how they would be of any value, for they were not at all specific in their statements, so far as any definite invention was concerned.
They applied to all Silas Harshaw’s labors. They were virtually an option that had expired with Harshaw’s death.
Arthur Wilhelm had brought the small chess set with him. He laid it on the desk with the papers. The wrapped box from the tobacconist was in plain view.
Wilhelm’s eyes glowed in anticipation. Fresh cigars had arrived. One would be enjoyable right now.
He picked up the box and undid the paper wrapping. He held the uncovered cigar box between his hands, admiring it with the eye of a connoisseur.
Setting the box on the desk, Wilhelm, as was his custom, removed a knife from his vest pocket. Opening the blade, he carefully pried the lid of the cigar box.
Both hands lifted the top. Wilhelm was staring toward the box, a glowing smile upon his countenance. The smile vanished. Wild concern replaced it.
Instead of the cigars that he had expected, the box contained a round-shaped metal object.
Its purpose dawned on Arthur Wilhelm. The object was a bomb! The apparatus on the top was a detonator! This box had been sent to blow him into eternity.
Somehow — almost miraculously — the hammer had fallen, or had not been set.
The raising of the lid should have caused the explosion. It had failed because the spring had already acted!
Death had been planned tonight. Arthur Wilhelm was to have been the victim. This time, death had failed to strike.
The hand of The Shadow had intervened!
CHAPTER XIX
THE WORD OF THE SHADOW
HALF PAST NINE at Silas Harshaw’s apartment. Joe Cardona was pacing the floor of the study, nervously puffing a cigarette. Weston and Biscayne had not arrived.
Doctor Fredericks was here, reading a newspaper in the outer room. Cardona was anxious to begin operations, but he had thought it best to bide his time until the others arrived.
Detective Sergeant Mayhew entered. Cardona knew what he wanted. The thought worried the star detective.
Mayhew was here to state that the men were at their posts in the hotel, again watching the mail chute. Another letter was due tonight!
That letter would bring an announcement of death. Its arrival would be a crucial test for Joe Cardona.
He had stated that the killings had been ended. He had given no proof to support his statement.
The proof was one that Cardona dared not reveal. His proof was — the word of The Shadow!
Why did Cardona trust that strange, mysterious voice that had spoken over the telephone from nowhere?
The detective’s only answer was that he had heard the voice in the past; and its words had always proven true.
“I’m going down to the lobby,” said Mayhew. “We’re not going to miss out tonight. That chute has a glass front. Every time a letter drops, it will be reported.
“Before, I had the boys looking for people. Tonight, they’re watching for letters, too. There’s a post-office man down there, ready to open the box.
“Good!” said Cardona. “I’ll come down with you. I want to meet the commissioner when he comes in.”
Doctor Fredericks joined the two detectives as they went to the elevator. The three descended to the ground floor.
Mayhew instructed the operator not to go above the ninth story. While Cardona waited in the lobby, Mayhew went up the stairs.
A few minutes later, Commissioner Weston entered the hotel with Professor Biscayne.
The two men joined Cardona. The detective explained why he was waiting. It was nearing ten o’clock, the time when the mail would be collected.