By the faint glow of the windows, The Shadow was able to pick his stealthy way until he found a flight of steps that led to the ground floor. He followed them.
The Shadow reached an outer door. It was bolted. He drew the fastening and moved to a flight of stone steps, closing the door behind him. This house must have been left open for Diamond Bert. The crook, however, had bolted doors behind him.
The steps were just away from the circle of light that came from a street lamp. They formed an excellent spot of blackness. The Shadow paused; he edged toward the wall of the house in preparation for a choice of departure. Then he made a quick whirl as a figure came upward from beside the steps.
The Shadow had closed in upon a crouching watcher. Simultaneously he and the waiting man discovered each other. An instant later, they had come to grips, staggering out to the sidewalk. There, The Shadow twisted free. His form was plain in the sphere of lamplight.
His antagonist uttered a startled exclamation, just as The Shadow swung a gloved fist toward the fellow’s jaw. The blow struck. The man slumped and lay half groggy on the sidewalk. The Shadow, stooping forward, recognized a wizened face that he had seen before. The man was Hawkeye, the trailer whom Slade Farrow had dispatched to cover Diamond Bert.
Hawkeye had followed his quarry. Blocked when Diamond Bert had bolted the door of the house, the trailer had waited. In the dark, he had decided that The Shadow must be Diamond Bert, returning.
Thinking himself discovered, Hawkeye had sought battle.
The Shadow plucked Hawkeye to his feet. The little fellow was groggy; his feet responded mechanically as The Shadow carried him along the way. At the end of the block, they reached a street where an elevated structure towered above dingy-fronted shops.
A cab chanced to be standing by the curb. The Shadow opened the door and hoisted Hawkeye into the rear. The driver, hearing the noise, turned. The Shadow spoke in a quiet tone, giving him the address of Slade Farrow’s apartment.
The driver saw the door shut. He thought his passenger had closed it. He did not note that Hawkeye was slumped in the seat. He did not see the gliding shape of The Shadow. The driver shoved his car into gear and pulled away.
THE SHADOW faded with darkness. From then on, his course was untraceable. Only at intervals, in unfrequented spots, did a splotch of blackness manifest itself as it moved ghostlike beneath the glow of lighted patches.
This manifestation of The Shadow’s presence finally occurred upon a dim, narrow street that fringed the Chinese district. Edging into darkness, The Shadow stared across the thoroughfare, toward the front of a gloomy shop. Above barred windows glittered the gilded name: “Tam Sook.”
The shop of the Chinese merchant. Yet the place showed no signs of occupancy. The Shadow glided across the street; he found a side door, locked. A pick clicked in the darkness. At length, the barrier opened. The Shadow entered the silent house.
Ten minutes later, The Shadow reappeared upon the gloomy street. His search had proven futile. The house was empty. This was new evidence of Diamond Bert’s cunning. The crook had taken on the guise of Tam Sook; but he had not come to occupy the merchant’s shop.
A soft laugh in the darkness. A gliding shape beneath a lamp-glow. Then the figure, like the whispered mirth, had faded into nothingness. The Shadow, silent and unseen, was moving toward the lighted district of New York’s Chinatown.
CHAPTER XI. CRIME BEGINS
TWENTY-FOUR hours had elapsed since The Shadow’s encounter with Tam Sook. During that period, he had found no trace of the man whom he sought. Diamond Bert Farwell had closed the trail behind him.
Somewhere in Manhattan, the supercrook was at large. Crime was due to occur. The Shadow had no clue toward its location. He knew that a stroke might come as early as to-night. Yet The Shadow could do nothing more than wait.
AMID the traffic of Times Square, a limousine was honking its horn while the chauffeur fumed. Seated in the back was a restless, gray-haired man who showed impatience at the delay. At last the breaks came.
Just as a huge advertising clock delivered ten clanging strokes as aftermath to discordant chimes, the traffic began to move.
Twelve minutes later, the chauffeur stopped in front of an old but well-preserved house that stood on an uptown street. This was the brownstone residence of Norris Tatson, millionaire philanthropist. It was Tatson himself who had arrived. He was the gray-haired man in the car.
There was something querulous in the millionaire’s manner as Tatson stepped from the limousine and hobbled forward on a heavy cane. The chauffeur was standing by to aid him. Tatson pointed to the front of the house and spoke to the man.
“Look there, Charles,” wheezed Tatson. “No light above the door. What ails Gorwin? He knew that I was coming home.”
“Perhaps he did not expect you so soon, sir.”
“So soon? I told him that I would be here by half past nine. This is negligence on his part.”
“He never failed before, sir.”
“That is no excuse. Charles. It is unnecessary for you to take Gorwin’s part. I shall reprimand the fellow the moment that I see him. Come. Help me up these steps.”
Charles aided. Tatson rang the door bell. There was no response. While Tatson fumed, the chauffeur produced a key and unlocked the door. Tatson hobbled in; Charles followed. They passed through a vestibule. Then the millionaire stopped with a startled exclamation. Charles stared past the stooped form of his employer.
On the floor lay Gorwin, the servant whom Tatson had decided to reprimand. The man was stiff in death.
His pale face was staring upward. The front of his livery was stained with a crimson splotch. Gorwin had been shot through the heart.
“Come, Charles!” exclaimed Tatson. “Into my study! This may mean robbery. Come. At once.”
The chauffeur hurried ahead of the hobbling millionaire. He opened the door of the ground-floor study.
The room was empty and undisturbed. Tatson made his way to the wall. He pressed a panel upward.
The action revealed a compact wall safe. Tatson found it securely locked. He chuckled harshly.
“No one found it,” he declared. “My gems are untouched. Poor Gorwin” — the millionaire clucked as he remembered the dead servant — “well, Charles, I must call the police at once.”
“What about Mr. Joland?” inquired the chauffeur, in an anxious tone.
“Joland!” exclaimed Tatson. “My word! I had forgotten him. He should be here. Run upstairs at once, Charles. See if you can find him.”
The chauffeur departed while Tatson made a call to the police. That done, the millionaire hobbled restlessly across the room, anxiously awaiting the chauffeur’s return. Hurried footsteps on the stairs announced that Charles was descending. The chauffeur entered the study.
“Did you find Joland?” snapped Tatson.
“No,” replied the chauffeur. “He is gone.”
“What!”
“He left this, sir.”
The chauffeur displayed a yellow telegram. Tatson pushed it aside and ordered Charles to read it.
“Not without my glasses,” he explained. “Tell me what it says, Charles.”
“It’s from Newfield, sir,” stated the chauffeur. “Addressed to Mr. Joland. Advising him that his father is quite ill. Asking him to come to Newfield at once.”
“I see. What time of delivery is marked on the telegram?”
“Eight thirty, sir.”
“Hm-m-m. Joland must have started shortly after that. Were his things packed, Charles?”
“Yes, sir. The room was pretty much mussed. Mr. Joland must have changed suits. There was one thrown over a chair.”