The black-cloaked form sank back as Detective Stanley Warwick entered the room, followed by another plainclothes man.
The newcomers stopped short when they encountered the ghastly form of Chong. Both stared at it as though they were seeing some absurd shape that had reached the world from another planet.
Warwick’s eyes passed beyond the body. They saw the black-clad man who occupied the massive chair.
“The Shadow!”
Warwick’s cry was one of triumph as he leaped forward, with his companion close behind him. The detective was drawing an automatic as he sought to capture the man who had previously eluded him.
He was met by a taunting laugh. It rose in mockery as the detective’s hand came from his pocket.
The black-coated fingers of The Shadow pressed the arms of the throne. A burst of smoke obscured his figure. From the midst of the cloud came another peal of uncanny, frenzied laughter, as of a demon leaping into an inferno.
The detective staggered back as the smoke cleared away. The throne was empty; yet the laugh still echoed from the tapestried walls of that bizarre room.
Like Palermo, The Shadow had disappeared, leaving no trace of his departure. The master mind of the villain had created the illusion; the avenger had used it for his dramatic and sensational exit!
WHILE the two detectives still stood in amazement, The Shadow appeared in the apartment beneath. He walked slowly through to the anteroom, where he found the heavy door smashed to bits.
He picked up the suitcase that lay inside the door — the only remaining evidence of unknown visitors. He dropped in the cut straps with which Harry Vincent had bound Hassan, the Arab.
The door of the elevator shaft was open, but no car was there. The Shadow peered down the shaft. He saw the top of the elevator at the floor below.
Warwick and the other man had ridden up on top. Armed with axes, they had smashed their way into Palermo’s Gibraltar. The Shadow inclined his head and whispered:
“Burbank.”
The weird tone echoed from the walls of the shaft. It was recognized by the man in the elevator.
“Yes,” came the response.
“You are alone?”
“Yes.”
“The car can come no higher?”
“No.”
The Shadow was about to step to the top of the elevator. He paused to listen. There was no sign that the men in the penthouse were returning.
The man in black pressed the button beside the elevator door. It did not respond.
“Burbank,” he whispered, “do you get a signal light from this floor?”
“No, sir.”
The Shadow laughed softly. He unscrewed the button. When it was loose, he pressed it.
“Now it lights,” came Burbank’s voice.
“All right. Come up!”
The elevator rose to the fortieth floor. The Shadow entered with the suitcase.
“Leave the door open,” he ordered. “Start down.”
“There’s another elevator running now,” explained Burbank, in a matter-of-fact voice. He was not looking at his companion. “They use two at night — local to twentieth, express to fortieth.
“When I brought the dicks up, they told me to wait there and they put a second express car in operation.
It couldn’t get past the thirty-ninth, either.”
“All right,” came the response. “Drop me somewhere.”
Burbank stopped the elevator suddenly. They were at the thirty-third floor. He brought the car up a flight.
“Party on this floor, sir,” he said. “It’s a good place to board the elevator.”
“Right. Go back to the thirty-ninth. Wait there. Let the other man find the clear course to the fortieth.”
The Shadow slipped from the elevator, taking the suitcase with him. The door closed.
There were several apartments on this floor. The Shadow stood in a hallway. The sound of singing and melody came from the end of the building.
The man in black suddenly merged into a shadowy alcove. He remained there for a few minutes.
THE operator of the emergency elevator stopped at the thirty-fourth floor to take down a passenger. A young man entered hilariously, carrying a suitcase. The roisterer wore a soft gray hat. He had a jolly face and a pleasing grin.
The operator laughed as the passenger joked on the way down. He was going home early, he said. Not enough life at that party. He told the operator to guess what was in the suitcase.
They last saw the merrymaker as he staggered out through the lobby and stumbled into a waiting cab.
The taxi had difficulty going along the street. A police patrol was there. An ambulance was at the corner.
Some fellow had fallen from a window, the taxi driver said. But the young man in the cab did not appear to be interested. He left the cab on Broadway, and shortly after, he might have been seen zigzagging down a side street.
That was the last any one could have seen of him. There were few people on the street. The only one who might have encountered the young man was a tall gentleman in black, whose face could not be discerned because of his broad-brimmed hat. He appeared on the side street shortly after the young man had faded from view.
THE newspapers carried accounts of the tragic death of Doctor Palermo. It was assumed that his Arab servant, Hassan, had thrown him from the roof outside the penthouse. The servant had evidently regretted his action and feared arrest; for he had been a suicide a short while later.
The real mystery in the case was the finding of a body of a Chinese dwarf. Stanley Warwick, the investigating detective, held the theory that the Arab had gone berserk; had killed the Chinese servant; and had then murdered his master.
Many of Doctor Palermo’s eccentricities were brought to light. The curious arrangement of the Chinese room was studied by the police, and some facts regarding it appeared in the journals.
There was no mention of The Shadow. Warwick had tactfully avoided it. His former experience had nearly made him the butt of ridicule. He saw no reason why he and his fellow detective should mention the vague form that they had seen just before it vanished in a puff of smoke.
The detective had much at stake. He had done his duty toward Palermo; the secrets of their negotiations and conferences had perished with Palermo. Warwick was glad the episode had ended.
The detective displayed good judgment in this respect. For the name of Doctor Albert Palermo came into disrepute a few weeks after his sudden demise.
Documents were brought to prove that he had murdered Horace Chatham; and that he had also killed Seth Wilkinson. His name was linked with the supposed suicide of Lloyd Harriman.
Among other articles discovered in Palermo’s apartment was the famous purple sapphire that was supposed to have brought destruction to all who owned it. The hoodoo had held true in the case of Lloyd Harriman. It had also functioned with Doctor Palermo.
How he had obtained the jewel from Harriman, no one knew. The possibility that Horace Chatham might have owned it in between was completely overlooked.
Certain securities belonging to Roger Crowthers, deceased millionaire, were returned to the estate. The name of Doctor Palermo was not linked to them.
But it was definitely proven, through evidence submitted anonymously to the police, that Doctor Palermo had been outlawed as a practicing physician in a Western State. The man had possessed considerable medical knowledge; that was admitted. But, professionally, he was branded as a charlatan.
In all this mass of news, no mention was made of The Shadow; nor were the names of Harry Vincent and Clyde Burke seen in print.
No newspaper — not even the wild tabloids — discovered that an autogiro had made a night landing on the roof outside of Palermo’s penthouse.
The absence of these facts was amusing. Harry Vincent laughed about it as he perused the newspapers in his room at the Metrolite Hotel. Clyde Burke smiled as he cut out clippings in his new downtown office.