Then the boards moved back into place.
No sound occurred as the window sash was lowered. Something from the blackness had entered the old house.
Only the boards had moved. Still, they were white in color, and white may be seen when it trembles in semidarkness. Eyes peering from a dark room in an apartment house behind the Brockbank residence had seen the motion of those white boards.
There was an immediate result. Stealthy forms crept up the delivery alley. Men in plain clothes stationed themselves on either side of the front of the Brockbank home. The back door was unlocked by a careful hand. Figures entered softly.
There was a light inside the house — a light that could not be detected outside. It was a tiny circle from an electric torch. It moved along the floor amid the sparsely furnished rooms. It arrived at the front stairs, and the person who carried it moved silently upward. The light stopped. It entered the room at the head of the stairs.
The light swept quickly about the room. It stopped on a telephone table. The dust-covered telephone was outlined; then the light was focused on a drawer.
The drawer came open. A thin white hand appeared. Nimble fingers moved through the drawer. They brought out a small key.
The light now sought an old-fashioned desk in a corner of the room. The hand that held the key unlocked the desk. It opened a drawer, and the light of the torch revealed a large brown envelope, thickly padded.
The light was carefully placed on the desk. Two hands, working with incredible smoothness, peeled back the flap of the envelope. Upon one hand was a ring with a stone that glowed a deep red.
It was the hand of The Shadow — the hand which wore the mysterious fire opal, a talismanic gem that seemed to protect its bearer from all harm.
The hands paused as they were taking the papers from the envelope. The light went out. From somewhere in the hall outside the room, the man in the darkness had heard a sound. He was listening now— listening with ears that were wonderfully acute — ears that could detect the slightest rustle.
No further sound occurred. The light flashed again. The papers were drawn completely from the envelope. The hands replaced a wad of folded blank papers.
One hand produced a tiny tube and applied a gummy substance to the opened flap of the envelope.
Delicate fingers smoothed the flap back into place. The envelope, perfectly sealed, was replaced in the drawer.
Out went the light. For nearly a minute absolute darkness prevailed.
A man was listening in that darkness. Not even his breathing disturbed the stillness. The light, still resting on the desk, came on again as the hands unfolded the original papers which had been taken from the envelope.
These papers were as blank as those that had been substituted!
THE hands remained motionless as though the mind directing them had been taken with surprise. Then came a low, almost inaudible laugh. It was a whispered laugh, scarcely more than a faint echo in the gloom.
The light was turned off; the hands reached the telephone table and replaced the key.
Silence prevailed for five full seconds. No one could have known that a man was moving through the darkness toward the door of the room. Perhaps it was that mysterious silence that brought action.
From somewhere in the house came a quick, short, trilling whistle. Some hand must have pressed a master switch. In an instant, the whole house was illuminated.
The little room at the head of the stairs was brilliant. Three men in plain clothes dashed up the stairs, headed for that room. Another— a tall fellow wearing a badge — stepped from a closet in the room. Two more closed in from the hallway. Every one of the six carried a loaded automatic.
In the midst of a suddenly formed group stood the object of their approach — a tall man clad in black.
The detectives stopped short. Their guns covered their victim. They waited before approaching him — waited the command of their leader, a short, stocky man who was one of those who had come up the stairs.
The stern, furrowed face of Stanley Warwick commanded the situation.
The Shadow was completely surrounded. He knew that all retreat was cut off — that, could he escape the men who surrounded him, he would encounter others downstairs and outside the house.
He stood motionless, awaiting capture. The collar of his cloak obscured his face. The broad-brimmed hat hid his forehead. Even his eyes were invisible. Their strange glow was lost in the brightness of the room.
The Shadow’s hands, hidden in the dark folds of his clothing, were pressed against his chest as though to hold his cloak about his face. Handcuffs jangled in Stanley Warwick’s fist.
The detectives waited for their chief to slip them on. Instead, Warwick waited. He stood firm and unyielding, viewing The Shadow as one might study a strange creature captured from the depths of the sea.
Stanley Warwick was perfect in his acting — so perfect that even The Shadow did not fathom his game.
The detective showed slight traces of surprise. He apparently had expected to find some other person there, in place of this black-clad figure. His pretense was so perfect that The Shadow wondered.
“The Shadow,” said Warwick quietly. “Still trying to conceal his identity! You thought, the other night, that you had deceived me. But I suspected you, even then.”
His meaning was plain to the man in black. Warwick was identifying The Shadow as Doctor Palermo, even though he did not mention the name.
It was cleverness on the part of the detective. He, like Thelda Blanchet, had received instructions from Palermo to deceive The Shadow, should he be captured. Not for one instant would Warwick reveal that he was working for other forces than those of the law.
Warwick seemed loath to use the handcuffs to complete the capture. There was a purpose in his waiting — a purpose founded on an explicit order from Palermo.
Warwick did not wish to capture The Shadow alive. He had planned the death of that man of mystery.
Even now he was turning events to his liking.
With his same deliberation, the detective approached and placed the handcuffs on The Shadow’s wrists.
He made no attempt to reveal his prisoner’s identity. He seemed chiefly concerned with the handcuffs, making sure that they were tightly locked.
He stepped behind The Shadow and planted the muzzle of his automatic between the prisoner’s shoulders.
“All right, men,” ordered Warwick. “I’ve got him all right. Go outside, and form along the stairs. I’ll march him down.”
The plainclothes men obeyed.
WARWICK waited, positive that The Shadow would make an effort to escape. And that action would spell his doom. Two detectives were posted on either side of the door, in the hallway. Encountering them, The Shadow would be forced to run the gamut of the stairs.
Any hesitation would lay him open to Warwick’s bullets from behind. Every man in plain clothes had been instructed to shoot the moment escape was attempted. Warwick counted on them to wound and stop The Shadow.
He himself would fire the fatal shot.
“Move,” said Warwick, and pressed the gun more firmly between The Shadow’s shoulders.
The detective did not want to kill his prisoner openly; he required a pretext to explain the killing to his men. Now the moment was at hand. Warwick expected The Shadow to duck and dive for the door.
Instead, the prisoner turned suddenly. As he turned, he extended his shoulder blade. The unexpected twist knocked the muzzle of Warwick’s automatic to one side. The detective fired, the barest fraction of a second too late.
Leaping back, he pointed his gun toward the handcuffed prisoner. As Warwick’s finger again pressed the trigger, The Shadow swung his manacled wrists downward. He hit the gun with the handcuffs. The bullet was diverted to the floor; the automatic fell from Warwick’s clutch.