The man in black carefully swung the end panel of the screen open. Then he began to move about the room.
His inspection was brief and thorough; but it yielded no tangible results. A letter lay upon a table, addressed to Jeremiah Benson. Its contents were of no importance.
The Shadow spied a telephone. He slipped quickly to the door, opened it, and peered into the hallway. Back he went, to the phone. His black-garbed finger dialed a number. A voice responded over the wire.
"Report," came The Shadow's order.
"Communication begun," came a quiet tone — the voice of Burbank. "Instructions given.
Awaiting regular report."
"Signal if necessary," said The Shadow. "Call this number" — he read from the mouthpiece of the phone "and use the false-number system."
"In emergency only?" came Burbank's voice.
"Emergency only," was The Shadow's low response.
The telephone was replaced and set exactly as it had been before. Then, the man in black performed a surprising action. He picked up a newspaper that lay beside a table, and quickly removed half a dozen of the inner sheets. Carrying them with him, he moved behind the screen.
He was out of sight for fully two minutes; then he reappeared from the other side of the screen. He seated himself in Jeremiah Benson's chair, just back from the window. There he waited, a silent, motionless figure, gazing toward the screen and the door beyond.
A key clicked at the door. The Shadow was on his feet, moving with incredible quickness. So rapid was his motion that when Benson entered, the man in black was no longer in view. Benson was accompanied by Delmuth. The two were engaged in conversation. Benson took the chair by the window. Delmuth sat opposite him. They talked in an abstract fashion for a while.
"Have a cigar?" questioned the old man.
"Sure thing," replied Delmuth. "I would enjoy one."
Benson arose and obtained a box of cigars from a table drawer. He paused, reached to the wall, and turned on the switch that controlled the wall brackets. This illuminated the portion of the room where he was standing, and he glanced at the box in his hands.
"These are the right ones," affirmed Benson. "I want you to try these Havanas, Delmuth."
He sat down in his accustomed chair and proffered the box of cigars. There was nothing in the old man's action to indicate that he might have noticed anything unusual.
But when he took a cigar himself, he lifted two, and then dropped one. It was a prearranged signal. Delmuth gave an imperceptible nod.
As the old man laid the box aside, the telephone bell rang. Benson answered it, spoke a few words, and hung up the receiver.
"Someone calling the wrong number," was his comment. "I thought maybe it was the call that I expected."
Delmuth, sitting by the window, was listening to the old man's comment. His ears failed to detect a slight noise that came from nearby.
"Well," said Delmuth, "I think I must be going. Glad to have seen you again, Benson."
"Wait a moment!" exclaimed the old man. "I haven't given you those addresses I promised. Here. I'll write them out for you."
Taking paper and pencil, the old man began to write. Sidney Delmuth was watching him, feigning careless interest.
Actually he was intently keyed upon the words that the old man's hand was forming: He is behind the screen. We will trap him. Remember the plan.
Close the door softly when you leave. I expected this. I noticed that the screen had been moved — saw it the moment I entered.
Delmuth folded the sheet of paper and placed it in his pocket. As he turned toward the door, his eyes glanced sidelong at the screen.
Jeremiah Benson's ruse had worked. The turning on of the wall lights had caused a dull glow to shine through the thin cloth screen, from the wall brackets behind.
Dimly visible in that filtered light was the crouching silhouette of a human figure!
Sidney Delmuth closed the door as he went out. It did not latch. Delmuth had wedged a wad of paper into the latch socket when he had come in with Benson.
In the deserted hall, Delmuth drew a revolver from his pocket. He placed his hand upon the knob of the door.
In the apartment, Jeremiah Benson stepped through the door that led to his bedroom.
There, in darkness, the old man drew an automatic.
With marked agility, he crept to the edge of the door and pointed his gun directly toward the screen in the corner of the living room. The muzzle covered the crouching shape.
Watching, Benson saw the door move open. Delmuth's hand came along the wall. It swept suddenly forward and toppled the screen toward the floor.
Benson was springing forward, his finger on the trigger of the gun that covered the area behind the screen. Simultaneously, Delmuth was coming through the door.
They were sweeping toward their prey — the man whom they believed was hiding in the corner of the room. Both were headed toward the same objective — death to The Shadow!
They stopped as suddenly as they had sprung. The silhouetted form had fallen forward with the screen. There was no one there!
Fastened flat against the inside of the center panel of the screen was a mass of newspaper, cunningly fashioned to resemble the silhouette of a man. The shadow that the plotters had fancied was the form of a living being was nothing more than a paper shape, designed to deceive them!
All that was needed to cap the climax of this artful deception was the sound of jibing laugh from without the window through which The Shadow had departed. That was The Shadow's way — to mock those whom he tricked. But the laugh was not forthcoming.
For The Shadow had departed the instant that he had heard the telephone conversation that Jeremiah Benson had held with the party who had called the wrong number. That had been Burbank's emergency signal!
Even now, The Shadow was talking on a telephone, half a block from the apartment house where Jeremiah Benson dwelt. He was receiving a report from Burbank; a report that told of interrupted plans of a wireless communication that had not been resumed as ordered. The Shadow swung out into the night. A swift, flitting figure, he moved unseen into the darkness and disappeared. No trace of him remained.
A few minutes later, a sleek, high-powered roadster was whirling southward along one of Manhattan's avenues. The muffled purr beneath the hood signified the terrific speed that lay in that powerful motor. As the car sped through the Holland Tunnel, a low, solemn laugh came from the driver. The man at the wheel was invisible in the darkness of the deep-seated car. The lighted dial of a dash-board clock showed half past twelve.
At quarter of one, the car was on the broad highway, sweeping onward at a pace that would have defied pursuit by the fastest motor-cycle patrolman. The giant motor roared in ceaseless rhythm. The speeding automobile shot along the road with bulletlike pace. Other cars, scenting its approach, swung to the side to let it pass.
The hands that held the wheel were steady and firm. The minute hand of the dashboard clock was creeping slowly upward. The pointer on the speedometer was wavering as it indicated a speed of one hundred and ten miles an hour. Yet the huge car, built to stand such a pace, held to the road unceasingly. The Shadow had work to do that night. He had sixty-five miles to go, and every moment was precious. A human life lay in the balance. Could he save it?
The Shadow never fails!
Chapter XV — The Drop of Death
A coupe was traveling along a lonely road. Its speed decreased as it reached a sharp hill.
Halfway up the incline, the driver shifted into second gear, and turned the car to the left. The rear wheels wallowed through a film of thin mud, then went along over a dirt road. The car kept climbing, and finally came to a stop on the summit of the wooded hill.