As on the night before, Eric Veldon had adopted the countenance of a fiend. Twenty-four hours had elapsed since his hideous smile had presaged doom for Merle Clussig. Tonight, that same smile boded disaster for Wycroft Dustin!
CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW LEARNS
A SINGLE light was shining in a square-walled room. Its rays were reflected by glistening walls of shining black. Even the floor had the appearance of polished ebony; the furnishings of the room were all of the same inky hue.
Standing in this room, so motionless that he seemed to be a part of the somber setting, was the Shadow.
Garbed in his habitual black, he formed a sable-hued statue. It was not until his gloved hands appeared from the folds of his black cloak that The Shadow became an object of life.
The gloves which The Shadow wore were formed of thick rubber. The master investigator was in his private laboratory. Before him, on a jet-black table, rested a polished black box. The Shadow opened this object. The action revealed what appeared to be a block of ice.
Vapor ascended in a curling smoke. A tiny heater was located close beside the box. Attached to it was a thermometer. Simulating the temperature that had existed in Merle Clussig’s apartment, The Shadow was watching the evaporative effect of a cake of dry ice.
This amazing investigator had struck upon the truth. The dry ice which he was using was of the harmless variety, being of the usual carbon dioxide formation. But through his observation of its effects, The Shadow was learning what must have happened in Merle Clussig’s room, where carbon monoxide crystals had without any doubt been used.
The vapor from the box was showing a heavy emission of gas. In proportion, a wastebasket filled with dry ice of deadly formation could easily have produced Merle Clussig’s death. The Shadow was putting his theory to the test.
A light glimmered on the wall. The Shadow reached forward and picked up a pair of ear phones, objects which had lain almost invisibly upon the black-surfaced table. The Shadow spoke in a low, weird whisper. A familiar voice came over the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report.”
“Word from Burke. He has located an experimenter in the chemical neutralization of carbon monoxide.”
“His name.”
“Wycroft Dustin.”
“Telephone.”
“Apparently unlisted. It will be in my file of unlisted numbers.”
The Shadow’s whisper became a sinister sound. The black-clad speaker was giving Burbank definite instructions. This work ended, The Shadow replaced the ear phones on the table. The light went out.
With his gloved hands, The Shadow raised the black box to watch the effects of the evaporation.
Definitely, The Shadow was getting to the cause of Merle Clussig’s death. He had made a tremendous step in deduction; yet even his remarkable intuition had not brought him past the present conclusion.
MERLE CLUSSIG had been murdered by that deadly gas, carbon monoxide. Through its release, from concentrated form in the shape of dry ice, the subtle death had been accomplished. Only a capable experimenter could have prepared the killing substance.
The direct evidence, however, pointed to some chemist as being the deviser of the means by which Clussig had been slain. Wycroft Dustin, through Clyde Burke’s inquiries, had been spotted as the possible experimenter.
Still, the evidence did not go beyond Dustin, should he prove to be the man. There was nothing as yet to prove Eric Veldon’s connection with the monoxide case.
Thus Wycroft Dustin could logically be picked as a man responsible for Merle Clussig’s death — but not as a man whose own life was now being threatened. When The Shadow dealt with subtle murderers, he wove a perfect mesh about them. At present, his study of dry-ice evaporation was a necessary step; hence he was intrusting other work to Burbank while he concluded this important experiment.
Time passed. The bulb glistened on the wall. The Shadow’s eyes turned from the box, where the dry ice had nearly completed its process of evaporation. The black-clad experimenter picked up the ear phones and spoke. Burbank answered.
“Call to Wycroft Dustin,” came Burbank’s quiet tones. “His laboratory is open. His assistant is there. He expects Dustin in an hour. I have given him the return number.”
The Shadow placed the ear phones on the table. The light went out. For long, tense moments, The Shadow stood in concentrated thought.
Burbank had called Wycroft Dustin’s laboratory. He had left a return number. That number was a booth in the Grand Central Station. Located at a nearby spot, Burbank would be watching the booth. A ring there would indicate that Wycroft Dustin had returned to his laboratory, and had called the number given his assistant.
Burbank would not answer the call. No one would answer it. Calls to public phone booths in a large terminal invariably went unanswered. Burbank, however, would instantly notify The Shadow that Dustin had returned to his laboratory.
Should Dustin, by any chance, choose to look up the number which had been given his assistant, he would gain no clew whatever to Burbank’s location. The Shadow had used this subterfuge in the past. It invariably worked to perfection.
The Shadow, however, was not thinking of Burbank’s arrangement. His keen brain was responding to a new clew. His thoughts were passing beyond Wycroft Dustin as a perpetrator of crime. The Shadow was drawing a distinct parallel between Wycroft Dustin, now living, and Merle Clussig, who was now dead.
Clussig had been an inventor. Dustin was an experimenter. Last night, Clussig had gone to his apartment to draw up a list of his past inventions. Tonight, Dustin was returning to his laboratory, presumably to engage in work.
Was there a connection between these similar courses? The Shadow saw one. He sensed the possibility of a new crime that might be impending. When The Shadow gained such inklings, he resorted to one definite method — swift action.
THE rubber gloves slid from the long white hands that wore them. The girasol glittered on The Shadow’s finger. Sharp eyes, that shone vividly as the gem, stared toward the tiny bulb upon the wall as The Shadow donned another pair of gloves.
With a swift motion, The Shadow swept toward the end of the little laboratory. His tall form made a contrasting splotch of blackness as it moved along the polished floor. The Shadow’s hand pressed a switch. The room was plunged into Stygian darkness.
The echoes of a grim laugh sighed within the room. The element of mirth was lacking, yet there was a strange tone in the sibilant utterance.
The Shadow, in his report from Burbank, had received a statement of where Wycroft Dublin’s laboratory was located. The assistant had expected his employer back in an hour. There was time for The Shadow to reach that destination first.
Until a few minutes ago, The Shadow had been seeking for a man engaged in crime. His purpose had changed. His intuitive brain had paralleled two cases. The Shadow’s mission was to prevent another stroke of crime.
Although he had gained no clew to the hidden perpetrator of evil, The Shadow knew that another victim was entering the subtle toils of a murderer.
Merle Clussig had died; the jaws of doom were opening for Wycroft Dustin!
CHAPTER VIII. DEATH WINS AGAIN
A TAXICAB pulled up in front of an old building near Tenth Avenue. Wycroft Dustin alighted, paid the driver, and entered a doorway that showed in the side of a dingy wall. The chemist ascended a flight of gloomy stairs and reached the top.
Here the scene changed. The ground floor of the building was a dilapidated place; the second story was modern and well equipped. Wycroft Dustin had chosen this spot for his experimental laboratory; he had spared no expense in planning it to suit his needs.