Singularly enough, Inspector Golshark was fuming at his own stupidity. He had been sure that Collister had surprised an intruder, and he had overlooked this point that should have been so obvious.
“Examination will show the cigar to be of the same brand as the one in the library,” continued Arnaud. “You can make that inspection later on. What concerns us now is the conversation that must have passed between Collister and his guest.
“The fact that Collister quietly laid his cigar aside indicates that he performed some action before he was attacked. I am sorry that you opened the wall safe, inspector. Otherwise, I might be able to prove that Collister took something from it.
“That is purely speculation. What I do know is that Collister laid an object upon this desk — in fact, not only an object, but some papers.”
Golshark recalled that he had seen Arnaud look at the desk, when he was in this room before. Now he stared in wonder as the impromptu investigator indicated certain marks that had escaped his notice.
“Just a trifle dusty,” observed Arnaud, pointing to the desk. “Enough so that an object placed there — perhaps a package — would leave its trace. Note the smudges of fingers that picked the object up. Two hands, sliding, several inches apart.”
Inspector Golshark stared in amazement, and the detective followed his example. Henry Arnaud quietly pointed to another spot, and there showed a very slight impression with an extended smudge beneath it. He pointed out a recurrence of this phenomenon at a portion of the desk where a chair stood.
“A document of some sort,” commented Arnaud. “A document, laid here. Let us suppose, inspector, that the visitor showed some credentials to Winston Collister; that in return, Collister gave the visitor a package; and then requested a receipt.
“This pad” — Arnaud paused as he pointed to an innocent-looking object at the side of the desk — “is a new one. One sheet has been torn from it, as you can see by simple examination. Pen and ink — our unknown visitor signing — and then—”
“Then what?” demanded Golshark, in spite of himself.
“Then the trouble,” asserted Arnaud. “A signature that did not satisfy. The visitor had received what he desired. Collister wanted it back. The result — murder. The killer went away with the credentials, signature, and stolen goods.”
“Yeah? Wait a minute.” Golshark had reached the limit of his patience. “Go back a bit. You said something about a cigarette. I suppose the guy that got away was smoking one, eh?”
“He smoked one.”
“Say — you seem to think you know a lot about this—”
“I know the ways of certain criminals.”
“Yeah? Maybe you know who this one was?”
“No. I might tell you the name which the man assumed. I might tell you of a murder that he performed before. But I cannot — as yet — reveal his true identity; nor do I know what he came here to obtain.”
“If you think you’re pulling a fast one,” came Golshark’s antagonistic growl, “it’s time you got the idea out of your noodle. This boloney about a guy smoking a cigarette—”
Henry Arnaud raised his hand. Inspector Golshark glowered and became silent. There was something in Arnaud’s action that showed he intended to put his theory to the proof.
CAREFULLY, Arnaud lifted the cigar from the ash stand, and laid it on the desk. He pointed to the partly consumed end.
“That cigar,” he declared, “was smoked longer than the time it takes to smoke a cigarette. Here, in the vortex of the ash stand, we see traces of light ash that indicate a cigarette. The smoker finished his cigarette. Naturally, when a hollow-legged ash stand is available, one drops his cigarette into it.
“Let us hope, inspector, that this ash stand was emptied recently. If so, we will find but one cigarette within it — a cigarette of a very peculiar brand — a cigarette which bears the name ‘Pharos’ upon its cork-tipped stump. Remember that name. ‘Pharos.’”
As he spoke, Henry Arnaud seized the ash stand and swung it high above the desk. He inverted it, and a tiny white object fell out.
As Arnaud thumped the ash stand back to the floor, the inspector leaped forward and seized the object that had dropped. It was the cork-tipped remainder of a cigarette.
With the detective staring over his shoulder, Golshark eyed the stump. Upon it he read the name of the brand the single word:
Pharos
Inspector Golshark was stupefied. His lips were moving as he mumbled words of amazement. Three full seconds ticked by as Golshark dully realized that this remarkable discovery substantiated all the other statements that Henry Arnaud had made.
With a sharp grunt, Golshark threw the cigarette butt on the desk, and shoved the detective to one side, as he turned to challenge Henry Arnaud.
“Hey, you—”
The words stopped short. Inspector Golshark blinked in rage. The man that he wanted was no longer here! When he had set the ash stand back upon the floor, Henry Arnaud had walked from the room, while Golshark and the detective were pouncing upon the cigarette butt.
“Get that guy!” cried Golshark, thumping the detective. “Get him — he knows too much—”
The inspector was springing from the room, with the detective at his heels. His shouts, as they reached the hall, brought a policeman running from the front door.
“Where is he?” demanded Golshark. “Arnaud — the wise-faced guy—”
“He went outside, inspector.”
“Get him! He may be the bird we want — the murderer, come back. Hurry!”
Golshark was springing forward like an enraged bull. As he reached the front door, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a tall form at the sidewalk of the avenue. Drawing a revolver, the inspector shouted a command to stop.
“Hey! Arnaud! We want you!”
A taunting laugh rippled from the darkness. Its eerie tones made Golshark falter. Then, with an oath, the inspector raised his revolver and fired at the spot where the man had been.
Another burst of mockery was the reply. Golshark dashed forward as he heard the gibe.
“Get him! Get him! Spread out!”
Other police were coming in answer to Golshark’s order. They scurried in various directions, hoping to discover the man who had so quickly disappeared. Golshark, uttering wild imprecations, stood alone at the end of the walk.
A car swirled along the avenue. Only its dash lights were illuminated. Golshark looked after it as it went by, and noted that the tail light was out. He could not see the license tag.
To Golshark, the car meant nothing, until he heard the strident cry that came from its interior.
The laugh again! Long, loud, and creepy, it burst through the night with sinister merriment. Curses died on the foiled inspector’s lips. He saw the car swing up a side street, and in an instant it was blotted out by darkness. The echoes of the laugh still persisted.
The laugh of The Shadow! Though Inspector Golshark had never heard it before, he recognized it as the token of some amazing personage, and in his heart he knew that the man who had sent that laugh was too clever to be apprehended now.
The mysterious investigator was gone. As Henry Arnaud, he had come; as The Shadow, he had departed. Too late to find the spot where murder had been destined to strike, The Shadow had gained new clews.
He had seen the traces of crime an hour after it had taken place. He was closing on the trail of the supercrook who used murder as a stepping stone to wealth.
This was barely the beginning of crime. The Shadow knew that murder would strike elsewhere. But until he had gained closer access to the unknown killer, The Shadow could only follow the murderer’s trail.