A light glimmered from the wall beyond the sphere of bluish light. The Shadow’s girasol sparkled as his hand reached forward and plucked a set of ear phones into view. These instruments disappeared into the darkness on the nearer side of the table. The Shadow’s voice spoke softly amid the gloom. Another voice responded.
“Burbank speaking,” came the quiet tones. “Stationed in old unoccupied house across the street from the home of Howard Wycliff. New telephonic connections completed with private line. All agents informed of new number.”
“Report received.”
THE SHADOW’S response carried the faint trace of a sibilant laugh. Burbank was a unique and satisfactory agent. His part was a passive one in the service of The Shadow, yet Burbank could be relied upon to perform his active duties with exact precision and meticulous care.
The Shadow had given Burbank definite instructions regarding the house across the street from Wycliff’s. Burbank, an expert electric technician, had entered there to establish two connecting lines of telephonic communication. He was serving a double purpose. One was the receiving of the usual messages from agents, with the relay to The Shadow; the other was that of watching the Wycliff mansion, to which Burbank — always exact — had referred as Howard Wycliff’s home.
“Report from Burke,” came Burbank’s voice. “At detective headquarters. Cardona is questioning stool pigeons regarding Mitts Cordy and other gang leaders.”
A pause. This information was exactly what The Shadow had expected. Then came Burbank’s own statement.
“Personal report,” said the contact agent. “Three men have entered Howard Wycliff’s home. Evidently expected visitors. Two arrived in a sedan; one in a coupe.”
“Report received.”
With his final whisper still passing amid the blackened walls of the sanctum, The Shadow pushed the ear phones across the table. The blue light clicked off. A cloak swished in darkness. A final echo of sibilant mockery marked the departure of the phantom who had occupied this weird abode.
A COUPE appeared upon one of Manhattan’s avenues. Speeding uptown, threading its way rapidly through traffic, it was guided by a black-gloved hand that lay invisible upon the wheel. As it neared the vicinity of Howard Wycliff’s residence, the coupe swung into a blackened side street, and came to a stop.
No audible evidence occurred when the driver of the coupe alighted on the sidewalk. From then on, The Shadow’s course was one of swiftness and stealth. Street lamps showed a gliding silhouette upon the sidewalk. A mass of darkness seemed to detach itself from solid night as it passed across the street.
A ghostly shape was swallowed in the gloom that surrounded the old mansion where Cyril Wycliff had died. Against the blackened wall on one side of the building, a silent, mysterious figure stood within the shroud of darkness.
Strong fingers gripped the roughened stone surface. With surprising agility, a tall form moved upward toward a closed window on the second floor.
Clinging like a bat, The Shadow reached his objective. Noiselessly, his hands applied a steel jimmy to the window sash. The barrier yielded. The Shadow entered.
A tiny disk of light appeared. No larger than a silver dollar, it flickered about the room. It revealed a bed. It showed a medicine table. A soft laugh came in whispered tones. The Shadow was in the room where Cyril Wycliff had died.
The rays of The Shadow’s small but powerful torch showed a corked bottle which rested upon the table. A gloved hand stretched forth and raised the glass container. The same hand replaced the bottle, then reappeared with a vial which The Shadow produced from beneath his cloak.
With one hand, The Shadow uncorked the bottle. With bottle and vial both in the same hand, he performed a deft motion of pouring a small quantity of liquid from one to the other. The bottle went back to the table, the vial to The Shadow’s cloak.
The Shadow had obtained a sample of the solution prepared by the false Doctor Arberg. This was a specimen of Cyril Wycliff’s final injection. The label on the bottle denoted that fact.
The Shadow’s light glimmered as it sought for clews. Suddenly it went out.
Footsteps were coming up the stairs. Swiftly, The Shadow gained a spot within the doorway. A few moments later, a man entered and approached the bed, where he turned on the lamp. It was Miles Vorber, Cyril Wycliff’s old servant.
Probably from force of habit, Vorber glanced suspiciously about the room. He did not, however, turn in the direction of the doorway. He went to the window through which The Shadow had entered. He found it locked. The Shadow had fastened it after entering.
Vorber approached the medicine table. He picked up the bottle which The Shadow had examined and carefully poured its contents into an old-fashioned wash stand in the corner of the room. He did the same with other bottles of solutions. He carefully rearranged the bottles of ingredients that stood at the back of the table.
While Vorber was thus engaged, The Shadow, a creature of blackness, still stood in the corner near the door. As Vorber performed the final operations, however, The Shadow advanced noiselessly toward the door; then glided out into the hall.
As though he sensed some hidden presence close at hand, Vorber swung suddenly toward the door. He saw nothing but the blackness of the hallway. Nevertheless, Vorber, his gaze undeviating, watched for a full minute, with the impression that he had detected someone in the room.
THE SHADOW had reached the stairway. Even the swish of his robe was inaudible as he descended. The sound of voices reached his keen ears. The door of the library was ajar. The Shadow reached that point and listened.
Through the crack he could discern four men engaged in conference.
These were Howard Wycliff; his lawyers, Garrett Slader and Paul Marchelle; also Doctor Barton Keyes. Inch by inch, The Shadow widened the opening, so imperceptibly that not one of the four observed the motion of the barrier. Standing at the portal, The Shadow could hear what was said, and view the faces of the men as well.
Suddenly, The Shadow’s tall form drew away from the door. It moved swiftly backward to a hanging curtain that marked an archway in the hall. Within a second, The Shadow’s form was enveloped within the heavy, hiding velvet.
The cause of The Shadow’s action became apparent a few moments later. Only the keenest ear could have detected the sound which The Shadow had heard. Miles Vorber was sneaking down the stairs. He arrived too late to see The Shadow.
The hidden watcher observed the servant stride cautiously toward the library. He saw Vorber listen at the portal. Then, suddenly ending his snooping methods, Vorber pushed open the door and entered. Evidently he had overheard only a snatch of unimportant conversation.
The tones of Vorber’s raspy, monotonous voice came to The Shadow’s ears. The servant was speaking to a portly gentleman who was sitting opposite the door.
“I have arranged your bottles, Doctor Keyes,” announced Vorber. “Are there any further instructions you wish to give me, sir?”
“You emptied the old solutions?” questioned Keyes.
“Yes, sir,” responded Vorber. “I emptied all the solutions, as you ordered.”
“Not the new one?” echoed Keyes. “Well, that’s all right. I have its formula as well as the others. It is important that I keep all the information that I received from poor Doctor Arberg. That is all, Vorber.”
The servant retired. He left the door ajar, however. His footsteps were heavy as they sounded on the stairs. The Shadow did not move from his position by the curtain.