Shrieks of laughter came from Harlew’s lips. He was gleeful as he watched the friendly second hand, clicking off bits of time which now seemed released. Five seconds; ten seconds, fifteen—
Hunching upward in his chair, Harlew arose with the air of a man about to sign a momentous document. He was holding the pen firmly; although his wrist seemed weak, it was through joy, not fear. Placing his left hand on the sheet of yellow paper, Harlew jabbed the pen point downward.
A dab of ink upon the paper. That was all. A wild gasp came from Harlew’s lips; the sound of sudden anguish. The man’s stooped body straightened upward. The pen dropped from Harlew’s helpless hand. It clicked against the face of the clock, which now marked twenty seconds past midnight.
Harlew threw his hands toward his back. His fingers clawed helplessly. The stricken man circled as he staggered toward the door. Desperately, he clutched at the key; it came loose from the lock and fell. Harlew swayed. His legs collapsed. He sprawled headlong upon the floor, arms in front of him.
His hands reached weakly as though they sought the pen which lay upon the desk. Harlew tried to gasp a name.
With a final effort, he brought his left hand flat to the floor, one finger — the little one — doubling underneath the palm. His right hand thudded as it formed a loose fist. With an effort, Harlew brought it up and down; this time, across his left wrist.
From that instant, Schuyler Harlew did not move again. Protruding from the center of his back was the instrument that had caused his death — a long, thin-bladed knife, pointed like an ice pick, with a cylindrical handle no thicker than a spool of cotton thread.
As the last gasp came from Harlew’s bloated lips, the little clock upon the desk told the time that death had taken. The long hand had reached one minute after midnight. The tiny indicator had clicked off ten seconds more, on another downward run.
Like a knell for the man who had met his doom came a distant, booming chime. Its dongs resounded in slow, funereal tone, as though they, not the knife blade, had been responsible for the end of Schuyler Harlew.
One — two — three — the strokes continued. The final toll ended the count of twelve. That distant clock, accurately set, had marked the midnight hour. It also, on this night, signaled the dead line which Schuyler Harlew had feared. It told the limit of the time which the threatening fiend had given to the man who had planned to betray him.
Schuyler Harlew was dead, his body contorted, his hands and arms in a peculiar twist. The yellow paper, Harlew’s message to The Shadow, still rested on the desk. Beyond it was the little clock which had played so great a part in Harlew’s hopes and fears.
The little timepiece ticked on and on, the only object that seemed alive within this room of death. Schuyler Harlew had set it only a few days before. He had supposed then that its time was accurate.
In that supposition he had been wrong. Thus had his actions been guided by a false belief. The booming tones of the distant chime had tolled the solemn truth.
The little clock on Schuyler Harlew’s desk was seventy seconds fast!
CHAPTER II
MURDER DISCOVERED
IT was early the next evening. At headquarters, Detective Joe Cardona was seated alone at a desk. Cardona, known as an ace detective, was at present in a special capacity. He was Acting Inspector Cardona, serving in place of Inspector Timothy Klein, who was confined to his home by illness.
There was one thing which both rankled and pleased Cardona. Since Inspector Klein had gained a state of convalescence, it was Joe’s duty to report constantly to his superior. The acting inspector had no reason to resent this condition that had been imposed upon him; indeed, Cardona would have willingly kept Klein informed of the details which took place at police headquarters.
But Cardona had a hunch that Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, through visits to Inspector Klein, was keeping tabs on what Cardona was doing. This was why Cardona felt uneasy. He knew that he rated high with Weston; at the same time, he felt an inferiority complex so far as the commissioner was concerned.
Weston — to use Cardona’s own mental phraseology — had the “Indian sign” on the star detective. A keen, dynamic sort of man, the police commissioner had more than once expressed the opinion that Cardona relied too much on hunches. So far as Weston was concerned, Cardona preferred to let him judge by results rather than by actual observation of Cardona’s working methods.
The tingle of the telephone bell presaged something important. Cardona lifted the receiver, grunted a hello, and began to make notations on a slip of paper as he listened. His hieroglyphics recorded, Cardona hung up the receiver. He waited a few minutes, then, with a grim look, went back to the telephone and called Inspector Klein.
“Just got a call from Mowry’s precinct,” informed Cardona. “Murder up there. Man dead in a rooming house in the Bronx. Told them to hold everything until I got up there.”
“Unusual circumstances?” queried Klein’s voice.
“Yeah,” returned Cardona. “Guy stabbed in the back; third-floor front room. No way anybody could have got into the place, and out again. Besides that—”
Cardona paused thoughtfully. Klein’s voice came promptly over the wire.
“Well,” added Acting Inspector Cardona, “the guy left a note. I want to see it. May be something important. It’s addressed to The Shadow—”
“To The Shadow?” Klein’s question was a surprised echo.
“Yeah,” admitted Cardona, “to The Shadow. So they told me from the precinct. I’ll call you after I get up there, inspector.”
Cardona hung up the receiver with a bang. He was angry; and with reason. He could see trouble when this news reached Commissioner Weston.
JOE CARDONA, during his career as detective, had seen positive proof of The Shadow’s prowess. In fact, Joe owed his life — not once, but several times — to The Shadow’s intervention.
Yet always, Joe had seen The Shadow only as a mysterious being, garbed in black, or in a disguise that veiled his true features.
The mention of such a personage in Cardona’s reports had aroused the ire of Commissioner Weston. According to the commissioner, The Shadow — until he could be given a more tangible identity — must be regarded as nothing more than a myth.
A letter to The Shadow!
If such a note were important, it would be best to let it reach The Shadow somehow. But to give it to reporters would be a great mistake. Commissioner Weston’s antagonism would be aroused. Reporters, to Cardona, were both bane and blessing. He hated their interference; he liked their commendation, when it appeared in print.
Looking toward the door, Cardona found an answer to his very thoughts. Smiling from the frame of the doorway was a young man about thirty years of age, light in weight, and almost frail in build, but whose face showed both experience and determination. Cardona recognized Clyde Burke, reporter of the New York Classic.
“Hello, inspector,” greeted Burke, with a friendly wave of his arm.
“Lay off that inspector stuff,” growled Cardona. “I’m Detective Cardona — Joe to you.”
Rising as he spoke, the detective faced the reporter. There was a contrast between the two. Burke’s face was tapering; his blue eyes and frank smile were disarming. Cardona, with square jaw, swarthy countenance, and glowering eyes of deep brown, was harsh and outspoken. Forty pounds heavier than Burke, though the two were of a height, Cardona showed a challenge as he stepped toward the reporter.
“Did you hear me talking on the telephone?” he demanded.
“Couldn’t help it, Joe,” returned Burke.
“What did you hear me say?”
“Something about a murder up in the Bronx. A letter in his room. Addressed to The Shadow—”