Jerry Fitzroy’s gaze was rigid. The muscles of his eyeballs were no longer functioning. His ears were scarcely hearing. The questions of those who had come to aid him were like distant voices, faint and obscure.
With an effort, the dying man attempted to respond. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. He seemed to sense the lack. He forced out words despite the invisible grip that seemed to clutch his throat. Yet even those words were articulate only in part.
“Tell — mark — secret—”
“Secret mark—”
The terse response came from the doctor.
Jerry Fitzroy’s lips moved; then ceased. Only the eyes remained open; eyes that were seeing, for a light shone in them. Then, gradually, that light faded. The eyes still stared, but they did not see!
The physician arose from beside the body and stood with folded arms. He turned to the house detective.
“You heard what he said?” the doctor asked.
“Yes,” replied the detective. “‘Tell mark secret.’ Something about a secret mark.”
As the doctor nodded, the detective strode quickly to the window. He flashed a light along the balcony. The glare revealed nothing. The detective stepped back into the room.
The doctor was examining the dead man. He seemed a trifle puzzled by the twisted rigidity of Jerry Fitzroy’s body. He shook his head doubtfully.
“A strange form of paralysis,” he declared. “It must have ended muscular activity completely before it affected the brain. I shall call the police and have them send a medical examiner.”
He paused as he jiggled the hook of the telephone. He spoke thoughtfully to the detective.
“Remember those words,” he said. “Those words about a secret mark. They may be important. Only you and I were here to hear them.”
The detective acquiesced with a nod. He thought that the doctor was correct. Yet both the sleuth and the physician were but half right. The words that Jerry Fitzroy had uttered were important; but they had been heard by another than these two.
From the darkness of the balcony, The Shadow had been listening. Somewhere — not far away — The Shadow, too, was pondering over the significance of those dying words!
CHAPTER II
THE HAND FROM THE DARK
A SECRET mark?
The questioner was Detective Joe Cardona of the New York force. Standing beside the desk in Room 1414 of the Metrolite Hotel, he put the inquiry to the house detective and the hotel physician.
“Tell mark secret,” declared the doctor. “Those were the only words we heard him say.”
Cardona paced up and down the room. He looked toward the open window. He stared at the body on the floor, which the medical examiner had just inspected. Cardona walked to the writing desk and curiously surveyed the small collection of articles that had been taken from Jerry Fitzroy’s pockets.
Two objects commanded Cardona’s attention. One was a French coin — a gold twenty-franc piece. The other was a mottled brown feather.
“Outside of these” — Cardona indicated the two articles — “there’s nothing of importance except those papers that show this fellow’s name was Jerry Fitzroy. But a foreign coin and a bird feather — why was he carrying them?”
No one answered the question. The medical examiner was approaching to make his report.
“An unusual form of paralysis,” he declared. “A natural death. I see nothing to indicate violence.”
The house physician nodded to show his agreement with his medical colleague.
“All right,” said Cardona gruffly. “I’ll be here a while. You stay” — he nodded to the house detective — “and we can talk this over.”
As a matter of routine, Joe Cardona knew that all that remained was to order the removal of the body of Jerry Fitzroy. Yet before he sent that rigid form to the morgue, the detective was desirous of learning the answer to the questions that perplexed him.
The Metrolite sleuth watched while Cardona walked across the room and stared out upon the balcony. Cardona had a high reputation in New York. He was a crime solver in a class by himself. But here was a case that had no evidence of crime.
Cardona sat at the writing desk. He studied the unfinished scrawl that Jerry Fitzroy had begun. He grumbled in a dissatisfied tone. A man of intuition, Cardona sensed foul play, even though he could not trace it.
At last Cardona shrugged his shoulders. He reached for the telephone, intending to call and give orders for the removal of Jerry Fitzroy. At that moment, the phone bell rang. Cardona, answering it, heard the voice of one of his men.
“We just arrested a man in the lobby,” was the information. “He came in here, asking for Jerry Fitzroy—”
“What’s his name?” demanded Cardona.
“He won’t tell us. Wants to talk with you—”
“Bring him up.”
Cardona smiled grimly as he hung up the receiver. Here might be a clew. An unknown visitor, coming to visit Jerry Fitzroy after the man had died.
The house detective waited with interest. He wanted to see Cardona in action, grilling this man whom the police had arrested.
THERE was a knock at the door. The house detective opened it to admit two plain-clothes men who were bringing in a stocky, heavy man whose swarthy face was emotionless. Cardona studied the man who had been taken into custody.
“See what he’s got on him,” he ordered.
The plain-clothes men made a quick frisk. They brought forth a businesslike automatic, and handed it to Cardona. The detective stared at the captive.
“Carrying a gun, eh?” he demanded. “What do you know about this?”
The swarthy man was staring at the still form of Jerry Fitzroy. Cardona prompted him with another question.
“What’s your name?”
“You are in charge here?” the prisoner asked quietly.
“Yes,” declared Cardona.
“May I speak with you privately?”
A look of perplexity came over Cardona’s face. The request was an unusual one. Cardona suspected a ruse. At last he nodded to the plain-clothes men.
“Go on outside,” he ordered. “You, too” — he nodded to the house detective — “and wait by the door. There’ll be no trouble here.”
As the men obeyed, Cardona drew a revolver from his pocket and motioned the prisoner to a chair in the corner of the room. A few moments later, Cardona and the swarthy man were alone. Cardona was glowering and suspicious; the suspect was calm and expressionless.
“Spill it,” ordered Cardona. “Your name—”
“Victor Marquette,” came the response, in a quiet voice. “I don’t suppose that you have ever heard of me. I keep well under cover. I am a secret-service agent.”
“With the secret service—”
While Cardona spoke Vic Marquette calmly drew back his coat and turned back the inside of his vest. Cardona saw the badge that gleamed there.
“That is why I wanted a private discussion,” announced Marquette. “There are certain reasons why I do not want my identity known to any but yourself.”
Cardona, knowing that the man was genuine, calmly pocketed his revolver. Marquette’s words explained why he had been carrying an automatic.
The secret-service man’s next statement brought a new revelation.
“I am also anxious,” added Marquette, “that Fitzroy’s identity should not be known. He is — or was — a secret-service man also.”
“Ah!” Cardona’s exclamation denoted understanding. “You and he were working together.”
“No,” responded Marquette, shaking his head. “Fitzroy was working alone. I did not know he was here. But I received a call a short while ago, telling me to meet Fitzroy here at the Metrolite Hotel.”