“Because Palermo is not The Shadow.”
“Of course not. But Warwick has quizzed Palermo and he has encountered The Shadow. He must see some connection—”
“Either he thinks they are working together; or he knows the truth, namely that Palermo and The Shadow are opposed to one another. Warwick is a keen man, Harry.”
Harry climbed from the car, and Clyde followed. Together they went to the back of the house. Harry observed the white-boards over the rear window where The Shadow had entered.
“Loose,” he remarked, after a quick inspection. He pried the boards open and tried the window.
“Unlocked. Come along.”
Clyde pushed Harry through the window and his companion helped him follow. They were in total darkness at first; when they had made their way to the front of the building they observed a light at the head of the stairs.
“Come along,” said Harry.
From his pocket he drew a loaded automatic and gave it to Clyde. With his own gun in hand, Harry led the way.
They stole up the stairs. The door at the top was ajar. They could not see who was in the lighted room.
A board creaked under Clyde’s foot. Harry pushed his companion down the hall. They waited in the darkness. They could hear some one coming to the door of the room. The door opened. Palermo was visible as he stepped into the hall.
“Who’s there?” came his voice.
Palermo pressed the button of a flashlight. He turned the instrument along the hall. Its glare revealed the watching men.
Harry did not hesitate. He leaped forward, covering Palermo with his automatic. The physician dropped the flashlight and backed into the room. The young men followed him.
Doctor Palermo sat in the chair beside the desk, his hands above his head.
“What does this mean?” he snarled. Then his manner became suddenly smooth. “Ah! It’s my friend Burke,” he added, in a pleased tone.
After making sure that Burke was master of the situation, Harry went downstairs. He found the telephone, called the number that The Shadow had given him. The low, familiar voice replied.
“Vincent,” said Harry. “At the Brockbank house. Trailed Palermo upstairs in the little room. Burke has him covered. We can hold him.”
“How long?”
“As long as you require.”
A laugh came from the other end of the wire. It was not the usual laugh of The Shadow. It carried no triumph; it bore no mockery. It was a dull laugh that seemed to indicate disappointment. Harry was perplexed.
“Hurry back to the little room and order Palermo to come back with you while you resume conversation with me. Hurry, or you may be too late!”
Harry rushed upstairs wondering. He had been watching the top of the stairs all during his conversation with The Shadow. What had The Shadow meant by the words “too late”?
Harry reached the top of the stairs. He had his automatic in readiness; already his command to Palermo was on his lips. Then he stopped short in astonishment.
The little room was empty! Silently, mysteriously, Doctor Palermo had completely vanished from the room with its single door and its boarded window!
Somehow, he had escaped from the trap — more than that, Clyde Burke had vanished with him!
CHAPTER XVII. THELDA TELLS
“BURBANK reporting.”
The voice came through the receiver of a telephone.
“Proceed,” was the reply.
The speaker was a man clad in black. He sat in the gloom of a dingy room. Only a faint light trickled through from a narrow courtyard outside the window. Opposite was a blank wall.
“Box delivered at five thirty,” said Burbank’s monotonous voice. “Information gained from the janitor.”
“Any description of the box?”
“Exact size not given. Evidently live stock. Box contained air holes.”
“Good. Do you go on duty immediately?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any report on Palermo?”
“Still absent.”
“Good. You are prepared?”
“Yes, sir.”
The speaker hung up the receiver. He rose from the dilapidated chair beside the rickety telephone table.
There, in the semidarkness, his tall form was scarcely more than a fantastic outline.
The man put on a large hat. He threw a dark cloak about his shoulders. Standing for a moment by the window, he drew two automatics from his pockets and examined each in turn. Satisfied with the inspection, he left the room.
Darkness was approaching when the man appeared in the street. His unusual attire seemed inconspicuous as he walked slowly along.
It was a squalid street of the East Side. The warm spring day foretold the approach of summer. Already half-clad children were seeking the evening air. The man stopped as two boys fell in front of him, wrestling.
He stepped by them with a smile. There was a similarity even between the struggles of children and the grapplings of master minds.
The man entered a garage on another street. A few minutes later a coupe drove forth. It was a car built for speed; yet there was nothing striking in its appearance. It was not an automobile that would attract attention.
The deepening shadows of twilight rendered the man invisible from the street. He drove easily, choosing an irregular course. The car turned on to Eastern Avenue. It moved more slowly as it passed a boarded house that bore the number 711.
A policeman was standing outside the building. The man in the car smiled as he went by. The police had been there ever since last night. They had arrived less than a half an hour after the mysterious disappearance of Doctor Palermo.
They had made a thorough search of the premises, looking for a man in black. They had not found him; for he had been wise enough to stay away.
BROADWAY lights were gleaming as the car rolled down that busy thoroughfare. It turned into a side street. There the driver parked it.
He strolled back toward Broadway, a lone individual in the vast throng that moved along the sidewalks.
He seemed even more inconspicuous here. Like so many of the strollers, he was leisurely in his walk.
Choosing a street above Fortieth, he turned from the busy thoroughfare and entered an apartment house.
It was an unpretentious place. A clerk sat at a desk, answering phone calls, asking the business of each arrival.
The newcomer, however, did not approach the desk. Instead he went up the stairway.
His way was blocked by a closed iron grillework. All visitors were supposed to ascend by elevator. The barrier was locked; but the sombre man opened it quickly with the aid of a sharp-pointed steel instrument.
He closed the gate behind him and went up to the fourth floor. He stopped before the door of a corner apartment. He listened to the sound of a woman singing softly.
Again the pick worked, smoothly and noiselessly. The man opened the door and entered.
A woman was smoothing her hair before a full-length mirror in the living room. She was singing when the man came in; now her voice dropped to a gentle hum.
She was exquisitely gowned, apparently about to go out for dinner. The reflection of her face was beautiful, seen in the mirror.
Suddenly her face became rigid. A look of horror spread over her features. Gazing in the mirror, she had seen the image of the man in black.
He stood in the doorway behind her, the collar of his cloak obscuring his face, the broad brim of his hat throwing a shadow over his forehead.
The girl stood motionless. The man in black made no move. A grim, ghastly silence seemed to pervade the room. The girl recovered from her first shock. Still the look of terror remained on her face as she turned from the mirror to view this nocturnal visitor.
Words came from the man at the door — words that seemed uttered by no human lips. The voice was terrifying in its tone. The whispered statement recoiled from the very walls.