The door of 516 was closed. Harry tapped lightly. No response. Harry spoke softly, leaning close to the door. Still, no reply.
Harry sensed a trap, and his hand tightened on the handle of the automatic which he carried in his pocket. He tried the door. It was unlocked. Harry entered.
The room was dark. Harry turned on the light; the room was empty. He noticed the key lying on the bureau. Strange that Powell had not taken it with him. Harry looked for baggage, but saw none. Then he spied what appeared to be a shoe, protruding from the foot of the bed. He moved forward to investigate.
There, in the space between the front of the bed and the window, Harry saw the body of Wallace Powell. The man was dead!
He had been barbarously murdered. The collar had been pulled from his throat as strong hands had choked him. His head had been driven forcibly against the radiator in the corner.
Powell's features were a ghastly sight.
Harry had seen death often — but seldom death so frightful as this.
The sight dazed Harry. It was the last thing he had anticipated. He had felt sure that Powell would be safe here, in the hotel. But the man was dead, and his precious bag was missing.
Stooping forward, mind clearing, Harry searched the dead man's pockets. Not an article remained in them. The murderer had rifled them. All that Harry had gained was the precious map. WHO
had done this murder? Harry remembered that Powell had feared someone might rob him of his secret and try to sell it in his stead. Had some unknown party entered and accomplished such a deed?
Harry instinctively thought of how Powell must have felt during the brief death struggle.
Perhaps he had believed that his antagonist was a hireling of Harry's.
There was not a moment to lose. Harry knew that he must leave the place immediately.
Fortunately, no one had seen him talking with Powell. Harry's own room was, luckily, located on the same floor.
Tense with excitement, Harry stole to the door and extinguished the light. Then he stepped into the empty corridor and closed the door behind him, wiping the knob quickly with his handkerchief to eliminate any telltale marks that might have indicated his entrance.
Wallace Powell was dead. His secret was gone. Harry Vincent's plans had been foiled by an unknown murderer!
With all the cards in his hand, Harry had lost — and the only clue to all this mystery was a road map upon which the dead man had traced a few penciled lines!
A problem, Harry felt, that would have astounded anyone — except The Shadow. But The Shadow was not here!
Wallace Powell had checked out of the Burnham House; checked out, expecting to return. But he had checked out permanently, now.
Chapter VI — A Fiendish Crime
The room was pitch-black when Stuart Bruxton awoke. He recalled that he had been sleeping fitfully. Two or three times he had half awakened, fancying that he heard sounds near his door. The sounds had ceased on each occasion, when Stuart had uttered drowsy growls. Now, for the first time, he began to realize where he was.
A peculiar sensation gripped the back of his head. In the midst of chaotic recollections, Stuart remembered the drink that the old man had given him.
It must have been doped — probably a powder in the glass. The old man had turned his back when he had poured the drink.
The direct cause of Stuart's awakening had been his injured leg. It was twisted beneath him in a painful manner. He tried to stand up, and found that he was barely capable of the effort, due to stiffness. He felt for his coat, which he had thrown over a chair. He found his watch and a box of matches. He lighted a match and saw that the time was midnight.
The throbbing in his head continued, but Stuart, despite his weakness, felt the need of action. He looked about the room, lighting a few matches, and managed to make a careful inspection of the iron shutter. No escape from the window he decided. The shutter was barred from the outside. The door offered no encouragement. It was a huge barrier, that might have belonged in a medieval castle. Stuart found one of the chairs, and realized that its frailness rendered it useless as a battering ram against that door.
He listened, hoping to hear some sound. Even the faint whispers of the storm would have been gladdening, but the storm was evidently ended long ago.
Stuart wondered why his life had been spared until this hour. He remembered those noises outside the door. Perhaps they had been afraid to attack.
The only answer that seemed logical was that the old man might be alone in the house.
Perhaps Grady had gone on some errand.
Stuart realized, upon thought, that probably the pair thought he was armed, and were waiting to try some strategy. Whatever their plan might be, he felt that now he would be safe until morning. But there was no surety.
Back on the bed, Stuart continued to listen. He heard an occasional noise, seemingly at some distance from the room. It sounded like a creaking somewhere in the house, but it was repeated too often to be such an ordinary sound.
Stuart rubbed his forehead. It was growing very stuffy in this unventilated room. The house had seemed musty and chilly when he entered; now it was stuffy and warm. Breathing was a difficult task. Stuart seemed to have caught a cold during the eventful evening. But now his nostrils scented something. Smoke!
He listened in alarm. Now he knew what the noise was — the crackling of fire! A terrible thought swept over Stuart.
The old man had set the house on fire — and he was here to be burned alive!
There was no time for lingering, now. Furiously, Stuart battered at the iron shutter, but to no avail. He seized a chair and beat against the door.
He demolished the chair with a few strokes, and he seized the other one. The result was the same. Then Stuart smashed away with the broken pieces, until they were splintered to bits.
The barrier still remained unopened.
Wearied, Stuart rested on the side of the bed. It would take a miracle to save him now.
The old man's scheme was dastardly.
Stuart knew that the fire must have been kindled directly beneath this room. The old house was a stone-walled structure, but the interior was a mass of wood. Within a few minutes, the place would be a holocaust, and he would be the victim.
The building was in an isolated spot. The flames would only be visible on the side of the hill which Stuart had descended in his car. There, the bridge was down over the river.
Help would be delayed — and the worst thought was that if help did come, it would not start on its way until the flames were first seen. By that time the old building would be a mighty torch, flaming skyward. Stuart felt the heat greatly now. The crackling had become a furious noise. A lighted match showed him that a mass of smoke was coming in through the slender crack beneath the door. He could smell nothing but the smoke now; still, he was astonished at its volume.
Sounds broke loose in the walls. Timbers were giving way. Once the flames came through the floor, there would be an open way — but the route would be through a roaring furnace! He was trapped, with fire beneath, eating its way up the sides. A hopeless position, to be followed by a terrible death. The doomed man leaped savagely upon the bed, breaking it apart, seeking to use the pieces in another futile storming of the door.
Nevertheless, it was the only task that could keep Stuart's mind from the death that lay so close. He not only beat upon the door, he shouted at the top of his lungs, seeking to outdo the roaring crackle of the flames.