The means which he had adopted to prevent injurious results without decreasing the intensity of the rays, had been Clussig’s greater work — so the inventor believed. Eric Veldon had voiced the same opinion.
The promoter, himself an expert in the field of scientific research, had insisted upon experimenting with Clussig’s devices.
Veldon claimed to have a laboratory. Where was it? Clussig did not know. Veldon stated that he had put across other inventions. What were they?
Clussig could not answer. He knew only that Veldon was able to tap some source of ready money, cash which had come in most handily.
Worked almost to death, wearied and in need of rest, Clussig had gained temporary respite through his association with Eric Veldon. He had taken this apartment, and had led a life free from worldly care.
Lately, restlessness had begun to dominate the inventor’s mind. With it had come a mistrust of Eric Veldon.
Was the promoter a thief — one who stole inventive ideas in return for mere subsistence? Clussig felt sure that there were other men depending upon Veldon to market their inventions. Were they experiencing the same delay?
Veldon had been talking with a backer. Was he deceiving the moneyed man also? — Clussig wondered.
He began to make new notations. Veldon had promised an interview tomorrow night. Clussig decided that it would be best to make an impression when he met the promoter’s wealthy client.
Then came a new disturbing thought. That fellow in the hallway! What had he been doing here?
Within the little room, Clussig began to feel a horror of the waxlike face that he had seen. He wondered if it would be best to inquire who the man might be. The inventor decided to find out. He stopped his work, leaned down beside the desk, and reached for the telephone which was standing on the floor.
A peculiar dizziness came over Merle Clussig. With his left hand, the inventor gripped the edge of the desk. With his right he fumbled for the telephone. His fingers became listless. As they touched the metal instrument, they clutched weakly.
Clussig’s left hand gave way. The inventor lost all grip. Tumbling heavily from his chair, he crumpled to the floor.
New minutes went by. Merle Clussig did not move. His body had become a pitiful figure. His face was ghastly. Over it was creeping a gruesome darkness. In this room, alone and undisturbed, the inventor had fallen victim to a horrible fate.
Unobserved, unable to cry for help, this man had been struck down by some insidious force that had lost no time in accomplishing its nefarious end.
Merle Clussig was dead!
CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW SEES
WHILE Merle Clussig, alone and unobserved was experiencing the prelude to death, fate was playing its tricky hand in the whole affair. Clussig himself had signed his death warrant when he had told the telephone operator to admit no reporters to his apartment.
Down in the lobby of the Starleigh, a visitor was waiting to see Merle Clussig. Clyde Burke, reporter from the New York Classic, had arrived less than five minutes after the inventor had gone upstairs.
Seated in one of the uncomfortable lobby chairs, Clyde was puzzling over certain incidents which had attended his arrival here. At the Classic office, the reporter had received a telephone call from Burbank.
He had been instructed to look up Merle Clussig and obtain an interview.
Clyde was a reporter who could exert the privilege of choosing his own assignments. He had left the Classic office promptly. He had arrived at the Starleigh in a taxicab. Something had occurred immediately.
Approaching the apartment house, Clyde had observed a man coming out. The fellow had walked along with a peculiar gait. Clyde had seen his face beneath the light of a street lamp. The sight of that countenance had caused the reporter to stop in wondering amazement.
As a police reporter, Clyde had come openly in contact with certain persons of the underworld. As an agent of The Shadow, Clyde had also encountered such individuals on other occasions. Clyde seldom forgot a face, and, this one was familiar to him. That square jaw, with its pock-marked chin, was the sign of recognition.
“Spud” Jagron, small-time racketeer, who had disappeared some time ago — he was the man whom Clyde Burke saw upon the street. Spud, Clyde recalled, had incurred the enmity of more influential racketeers, and it was generally believed that he had paid the price of indiscretion.
Nevertheless, as Clyde had seen the man pass around the corner of the apartment building, he felt more convinced that the fellow was Spud Jagron. He decided that the racketeer must be laying low, living in an obscure apartment at the Starleigh.
IN the lobby of the apartment house, Clyde had encountered his second surprise when he had approached the little booth where the switchboard operator was stationed.
In response to his inquiry for Merle Clussig, the girl had asked if Clyde was a reporter. When Clyde had answered in the affirmative, naming the Classic as the journal for which he worked, the operator had stated that Mr. Clussig was not at home.
Instead of leaving, Clyde had decided to wait a while. Time had rolled along. No one had come in or gone out. The reporter had become impatient. His thoughts had been directed more toward Spud Jagron than to Merle Clussig; now, with ten o’clock approaching, Clyde had decided that it was useless to waste further time.
The reporter approached the operator’s booth. The girl looked up and spoke sharply.
“I told you that Mr. Clussig was out,” she stated. “I do not know when he will return. Probably not tonight.”
“No?” inquired Clyde, as he noted the girl’s tone. “I had an idea that he would be here. Would you mind ringing his telephone to make sure that he is out?”
“I know that he is out,” asserted the girl.
“How do you know that?” quizzed Clyde.
“Because he told me so,” said the operator. “He told me that he was going out — that he would be out—”
“So far as reporters were concerned?” interposed Clyde.
The girl became impatient. She stared at Clyde Burke, and the reporter met her gaze with a smile.
“I understand,” he said. “I should have known it in the first place. Mr. Clussig told you not to ring his telephone — which means that he is out — if any reporter called. Is that it?”
“I have my instructions,” snapped the girl. “That’s enough.”
“Did Mr. Clussig give any reason for his action?” queried Clyde. “Did he state why he did not wish to see reporters?”
“No,” admitted the operator.
“That makes it different,” asserted Clyde. “I have an idea why Mr. Clussig might not want to see reporters. He wishes to avoid an interview. I came here for a different purpose. I have a business proposal which might interest him. Signed articles, under his own name. It is to his advantage to see me.”
The operator hesitated. Clyde became convincing in manner.
“Suppose,” he suggested, “that you call Mr. Clussig. Simply tell him that Mr. Burke is here, and would like to speak to him. Mention that I came from the Classic, but do not refer to me as a reporter.”
“If I call him,” declared the girl, “will you agree to leave in case he decides not to see you?”
“Yes,” replied Clyde.
“All right,” said the operator.
The girl plugged the switchboard, and rang Clussig’s apartment. There was no answer. Again she rang; still no reply. She looked toward Clyde in perplexity.
“He must be there,” said the operator. “He said positively that he would be in. That is, except to reporters. He is an odd sort of a man. I–I wonder if anything could have happened—”