The hidden men watched the gray-coated figure of Stanley Warwick as the detective entered the Marimba Apartments.
The arrival of this man seemed significant. Both watchers were tense.
“We’ll soon know,” replied Harry.
Three minutes went by. A buzz came from the corner of the room. It was the telephone, which had no bell. Harry went to the instrument and spoke in a low voice.
“Vincent,” he said. “Yes — Right — Man was noted from here — About five feet six — Gray coat — Short brisk walk — Description perfect— Right. Will report.”
He hung up the phone and turned to Clyde, who could barely see him in the light that came from the street.
“That was Burbank,” said Harry quietly. “Stanley Warwick went up to the fortieth-floor. Keep on watch while I report.”
He dialed a number on the phone. It was a private line, Clyde noted, not a phone connecting within the apartment. There was a short pause; then Harry evidently made the connection.
“Vincent,” he said. “Opposite Marimba. Observed man enter. Burke identified him. Stanley Warwick, detective. Burbank called in. Warwick up to forty.”
There was silence as Harry received his reply. Then:
“Orders received,” he said.
The phone hung up, Harry returned to the window.
“We are to stay here,” he said. “Check the time of Warwick’s departure. We are not to follow him. The Shadow evidently knows Warwick’s business here.”
“You have no idea—” began Clyde.
“I have an idea, of course,” returned Harry, with a low laugh. “It is entirely my own; but I believe Stanley Warwick has received a tip.
“From some source unknown to himself, he has received information that has enabled him to piece together fragments of the Gunner Macklin mystery. His visit here tonight is the result.”
“That sounds feasible,” said Clyde. “Yet, after all, we do not know.”
Harry Vincent, standing back from the window, was lighting his pipe. Clyde Burke could see his face illuminated in the tiny glare of the match. He saw his companion’s lips move slowly as they phrased the cryptic sentence:
“Only The Shadow knows!”
CHAPTER XIII. WHAT WARWICK LEARNED
STANLEY WARWICK sat facing Doctor Albert Palermo. They formed a remarkable contrast.
The detective’s face was furrowed with deep lines. He was a rocklike man whose appearance also bespoke energy. He had removed his gray coat and now appeared in a wrinkled suit.
One easily recognized him as a man who did not care for formalities — a hard-headed investigator who could not be deceived by the gloss of gentility.
All this was apparent to Palermo; yet the suave physician preserved his air of smoothness. He was wearing a business suit of the latest cut. Immaculate to the extreme, he exhibited an air of superiority.
He summoned Hassan with a handclap. The servant appeared with two glasses of golden liqueur.
Warwick gruffly declined the drink. Palermo waved the servant away.
“Let’s get down to business, doctor,” said Warwick, in a deep voice. “You called me on the phone a short while ago. Said you wanted to see me. I have never met you before. Why did you call me?”
“I wanted some information,” replied Palermo. “I thought perhaps you might know who was investigating the death of a man called Gunner Macklin.”
“Is that all?” Warwick laughed grimly. “Did it ever occur to you that the detective department knows how to manage its own affairs?”
“I have known the detective department to welcome information,” replied Palermo, in an unruffled tone.
“What information do you have?” questioned Warwick sharply.
“That will be divulged,” returned Palermo, “only when I see the man who is handling the case.”
“Spill it now, then,” retorted Warwick suddenly. “I’m the man on the Macklin job.”
“Ah!” Palermo seemed pleased. “That is excellent, Mr. Warwick. How far have you progressed?”
“Farther than you think, Palermo.” Warwick’s words were brutally frank. “Far enough to ask you a few important questions.”
Palermo raised his eyebrows slightly.
“So you have information already?” he questioned smoothly. “You must be quite clever, Warwick. Or else—”
“Or else what?”
“Or else some one has been giving you ideas.”
“I’ll tell you how far I’ve gotten,” said Warwick, leaning forward in his chair. “That’s far enough to ask you how you happened to be in Florida the same time as Gunner Macklin.”
“A logical question,” purred Palermo. “But not one that would have occurred to you merely because Macklin said something about Florida when he was dying.”
The detective did not reply. He sat back and looked wise.
“Warwick,” said Palermo thoughtfully. “You’re the only man capable of sifting this thing to the bottom.
Evidently you’re working alone on the case.”
“I’m not saying that,” returned Warwick cautiously.
“You aren’t saying it, for obvious reasons,” laughed Palermo. The wide, evil grin appeared momentarily upon his face. “Sometimes detectives have said too much when alone with men whom they suspect of murder. Is that what you mean?”
Warwick remained impassive.
“Don’t worry,” continued Palermo. “You are safe here. Whether or not you are the only man who suspects me, the case is in your hands. You can follow it as you choose.
“You have been tipped off. You don’t know by whom. But I know. You don’t like tip-offs unless they fit in with something you already know.
“Macklin talked of Florida. So when some one called you and said: ‘Doctor Palermo was in Florida at the time Macklin was there’—well, you decided to look into it.”
WARWICK was still studying the physician. He gave no indication that Palermo’s words had struck home. Nevertheless, the speaker continued:
“The tip-off came some time before I called you. Therefore my call must have been a surprise. Something like a coincidence, wasn’t it?
“There was no coincidence about it. I simply surmised that you were due to be tipped off. I hoped that I was first. But your voice, over the phone, betrayed you. It had just that touch of surprise that is easily detected by a keen listener—”
“Palermo,” came Warwick’s interruption, “you may know a lot; but you think you are too wise. Let me do the talking. I know more than you believe.
“Answer this question. What were you and Gunner Macklin doing in Florida?”
There was no reply.
“What do you know about Lloyd Harriman? He was there at the same time.”
Doctor Palermo met the detective’s gaze unflinchingly. The two men stared coldly at each other. A grim look appeared upon Warwick’s face.
“What do you know about Lloyd Harriman?” he demanded, through clenched teeth.
Doctor Palermo smiled mildly as he rested his chin upon the knuckles of his hand.
“Do you intend to answer me?” quizzed Warwick.
Doctor Palermo pursed his lips. He seemed about to speak. While Warwick waited, the physician made a slow and deliberate reply that brought a gasp of amazement from the detective. For Palermo did not speak in words. He spoke in letters.
“N… O,” he said.
“Y… E… S,” replied Warwick, staring as a man in a daze.
“Noyes,” said Palermo quietly, pronouncing the letters as if they were one word.
“Seyon,” was Warwick’s peculiar response.
Palermo pressed his hands to his chest. One hand was spread; the other showed two fingers.
“The Silent Seven,” hissed Palermo.
Automatically the detective put his hands to the lapels of his coat. One hand was spread; the other formed a fist.