“Some day,” said Palermo significantly, “this sapphire will be yours, Thelda. But I must keep it for the present — until I have dealt with the unknown dangers which surround it.”
“The man who was here last night?” Thelda’s question expressed grave concern. Palermo dismissed it with a laugh.
“A creature of little account,” he said. “I would not have troubled with him, myself. I gave the word to Macklin. That was all.
“But something went wrong with Macklin’s plans. The man did not die. He was rescued — by another.
We have an enemy who may be troublesome. That is why I say to wait.”
BEFORE the girl could reply, Hassan entered. He went to the corner of the room, and opened a sliding door that revealed a dumb waiter.
The Arab pulled the cords, and the carrier came in view. On it rested the strange Oriental image of a dwarfed, seated figure.
The statue was of bronze; its arms were crossed, and its fierce, ugly face stared straight ahead with glaring eyes.
“What is it?” questioned Thelda, in an awed voice.
“The image of Chong,” replied Doctor Palermo. “I have long desired it for this Oriental den. It is said to have come from the imperial palace in Peking.”
He helped Hassan lift the image from the carrier. The two men were barely able to raise it. They placed it upon a taboret in a corner of the room, a place that had evidently been prepared for the bronze statue.
A long shadow appeared upon the floor; but no one observed it, so intent were they in their examination of the Oriental statue. As Doctor Palermo stepped back, the shadow disappeared in the direction of the hangings on the wall.
“Perfect!” exclaimed Doctor Palermo. “Perfect!”
Thelda Blanchet glanced at her wrist watch.
“I must go,” she said. “It would be well if I were there when—” She glanced toward Hassan, and stopped her sentence. “It would be well for me to go.”
Doctor Palermo bowed. He smiled slightly as he detected the look of tenderness in the girl’s eyes. Thelda followed Hassan down the circular staircase.
Minutes ticked by. Doctor Palermo sat on his thronelike chair, and stared steadily at the image of Chong.
The physician himself was as motionless as the statue. A long interval had passed before he moved. Then only his lips acted, as they spoke aloud.
“The image of Chong,” said Doctor Palermo. “Patient, unmoving, and unyielding. With it here, I shall know absolute security. It is a perfect reproduction.”
His voice rose, and he seemed to be playing a dramatic part, as he spoke venomously.
“One man blocks my path to power! One man! I shall eliminate him!
“Tonight, his identity is unknown to me. Soon I shall know him. Once I have seen him—”
He did not complete the sentence. A sudden intuition told him that he was not alone in the room.
He turned quickly, expecting to see the form of Hassan. Then Palermo became motionless, his gaze transfixed.
A tall man in black cloak stood in the center of the room. The figure’s hands were hidden by its folded arms. The man’s face was invisible because of the black brim of a large turned-down hat. Yet, from beneath that brim, glowed two eyes of fire!
“Once you have seen him”—it was a whispered voice that came from the man in black—”once you have seen him — what then? Answer my question! The man you seek is here!”
CHAPTER VIII. ANOTHER MAN DIES
THE two men stood motionless in the Oriental room. They were like living statues, as silent and as still as the glaring bronze image that faced them. They were a marked contrast, these two — Doctor Palermo, in his strange Chinese robe; the man in black, with his face obscured from view.
The physician viewed his unwelcome visitor warily. He did not fear the apparition, nor could he ridicule it.
His crafty brain was working, seeking a way to meet this unexpected foe.
He bowed courteously, and spoke suavely to the man in black, choosing his words with his customary care.
“It is a pleasure”—said Doctor Palermo—”a rare pleasure, to meet you. It has cleared a slight doubt in my mind.
“Last night I felt positive that the young man who called on me was directed by one who possessed a keener mind. Now I am sure of it.”
The black-clad man did not reply.
“Though you choose to conceal your identity,” continued Doctor Palermo, “it may interest you to learn that I know who you are. I have heard of you in the past.
“I have been told”—the physician’s voice became ironical—”that there is a man who lives in the underworld, who masquerades in black, and who frightens chicken-hearted gangsters.
“You, I believe, are that man. You call yourself The Shadow.”
As he spoke the final words, Doctor Palermo raised his left hand in a slight gesture. The action was seen by the man in black. Quick as a flash, he wheeled, and spread his arms apart.
He revealed an automatic in each hand. With one gun he covered Doctor Palermo. The other covered the top of the circular staircase. Hassan had appeared there, silent and grim.
The Arab was crouching for a spring. In another instant, he would have been upon his master’s foe.
The Shadow motioned with the gun that covered Hassan. The Arab understood his meaning. He crossed the floor, staring sullenly at the man in the cloak, and took his position beside Doctor Palermo. With a long, sweeping motion, The Shadow placed both revolvers beneath his cloak.
“DOCTOR PALERMO,” he said, in a deep, sinister whisper, “I have come to warn you. To warn you that you must answer for your crimes.
“You are twice a murderer; and last night, but for my intervention, you would have been responsible for a third death. But before you die — and death will be your punishment — I offer you an opportunity to clear the name of a man you have wronged, and to restore those things which you have stolen.
“In return, I shall grant you the privilege of choosing your own death, at your own hands — an easy task for a man of your scientific knowledge.”
Doctor Palermo smiled slowly. He realized that he was at the mercy of this man, yet he sought to defy him by forced bravado.
“You speak of murders,” he said, “and also of thefts. What proof have you that I committed them?”
“I need no proof. I have received a full report of Clyde Burke’s visit here last night. My brief visit to your laboratory confirmed my suspicions.
“But that you may understand my knowledge, I shall enumerate the counts against you.”
Palermo listened in silence.
“One,” said The Shadow, in a tone of judgment. “You murdered Horace Chatham. I may add that you dissected his body in your laboratory.”
The man in the Chinese robe shifted uneasily. This statement was uncannily true.
“Two,” came the whispered voice. “Disguised as Chatham, you killed Seth Wilkinson.”
Palermo offered no denial.
“Three and four,” continued The Shadow. “Each of these men was robbed by you. From Chatham you took—” There was a momentary pause. The eyes beneath the black hat seemed to be reading the physician’s mind. “From Chatham, you took a purple sapphire.
“From Wilkinson, you took”—again that ominous pause—”a paper signed by yourself, leaving in its place a forged note.”
Doctor Palermo’s face became solemn. He seemed to be considering The Shadow’s accusations. A pallor came over his features.
Acting mechanically, he sat down in the thronelike chair, and rested his hands upon its arms. The Shadow loomed before him, like a sentinel of doom.
“You accuse me of those crimes,” said Doctor Palermo hoarsely. “Suppose your charges are true. Are they all?”