“Good,” said Marchelle. “I’ll leave the list at the office tomorrow, and have it typed. The stenographer can file it among your papers for future reference.”
There was calmness in Paul Marchelle’s tone; in his mind, the young lawyer was holding thoughts which he did not express. He realized why Howard Wycliff had believed he had checked everything. He had taken the double listing merely as repetition; by marking one flat-topped table, he had apparently completed the check-up.
But Paul Marchelle, who had prepared the list, remembered two such tables. Had the second gone out after the first, Howard Wycliff would have marked it, realizing then that there were two. The answer was plain. Only one of those rejected tables had passed from the house.
What had happened to the other?
PAUL MARCHELLE recalled that Vorber had carried a table and a chair from the library. Shortly afterward, the servant had taken Cyril Wycliff’s portrait upstairs. Marchelle remembered the pause that he had heard Vorber make in the hall. There was the answer.
Vorber had carried the table upstairs also! It must be in his room — the place where Marchelle had surprised him. Vorber had locked the door of his room. That was an unusual action. It added to Marchelle’s suspicions.
What use could the table be to Vorber? It could not contain the missing deed. Its flat top was thin and unquestionably solid.
Paul Marchelle visualized the table. A look of understanding suddenly flickered upon his features. His lips became tense.
Marchelle knew where the deed could be. With the clew in his possession, he understood the subtle measure which Cyril Wycliff had taken to hide the document. Vorber had gained what he had sought; the problem now was to wrest it from him.
Yet Marchelle wisely maintained his silence, that the servant might not suspect what he had learned. So long as Vorber remained in the house, the deed would be safe, provided, of course, that no one entered to receive the paper that the servant had gained.
Paul Marchelle said nothing as he continued with his dinner. He did not attempt to communicate with Howard Wycliff. He was avoiding everything that would arouse Vorber’s suspicion. The situation had narrowed to a battle of wits between the young lawyer and the old servant.
Vorber eyed Marchelle cautiously, each time he entered the dining room.
Marchelle, in turn, sensed the significance of Vorber’s watchfulness. Each knew that the other suspected. Each was planning the next step.
Upon Paul Marchelle rested the outcome of this strange dilemma: whether the deed would reach the hands of Howard Wycliff, its rightful owner, or whether it would pass into the hands of murderers. Marchelle knew well that when he acted, Miles Vorber would offer all the resistance which lay within his power.
Nevertheless, Marchelle was not fazed. Quietly confident, he completed his meal, leaving events to mold themselves afterward. Howard Wycliff, completely ignorant of Marchelle’s keen discovery, finished his dinner.
Circumstances were shaping as The Shadow had foreordained. The crisis was approaching. The fate of the missing deed lay in the balance. Before this evening ended, men of murder would arrive to gain the stolen document.
The Shadow’s triangle was nearing its completion. As The Shadow had foreseen, Miles Vorber was the key to the approaching climax!
CHAPTER XXI
MURDERERS MOVE
BLACKNESS of night had enshrouded the old mansion when Howard Wycliff and Paul Marchelle arose from the dinner table to go upstairs. As the two young men passed through the curtained archway, Miles Vorber stood alert and attentive until he heard their footsteps reach the stairs.
Then, with soft tread, Vorber followed. In the gloomy hall, he kept away from the steps and listened intently to the muffled conversation that was audible from the sitting room on the floor above.
There was a spectral atmosphere about the interior of the old house. The servant, his scrawny hands clasped just below his stooped shoulders, was as ghoulish as the ghostly shape which he had seen last night inside the library. Vorber’s face showed ferocious determination. As The Shadow had reckoned, Miles Vorber was keen enough to know when his plans were meeting with an unexpected obstacle.
On the second floor, Howard Wycliff was talking soberly with Paul Marchelle. Howard’s trend of conversation turned toward the missing deed. Marchelle, with a shake of his head and an upraised finger, warned his companion to maintain silence. Marchelle sensed that Vorber might be listening below.
Indeed, the need for caution seemed all-impelling so far as Paul Marchelle was concerned. The danger of rousing Vorber’s suspicions was evident; the young lawyer made no attempt to tell Howard Wycliff what actions he thought Vorber had taken.
In his pocket, Marchelle clutched the crumpled paper of the list. His thoughts were of the missing table, which he believed was up in Vorber’s room; yet Marchelle was careful not to bring up the subject for the present.
Howard Wycliff was watching the stairs. Although not entirely convinced that Vorber had become a traitor, the heir to Cyril Wycliff’s estate was leaving nothing to chance. He could see the entrance to the locked library. Had Vorber appeared and made a motion to open that door, Howard Wycliff would have sprung forth to apprehend him.
Paul Marchelle, however, was more concerned with the possibility of Vorber coming up. Once the servant went to the seclusion of his room, action would be necessary. Sooner or later, Vorber would ascend those stairs. Until he did, Marchelle decided it was best to use restraint.
There had been no time for Vorber to examine the table which he had purloined. Marchelle knew that fact, and it was one reason why he played his waiting game. It became evident to him that Vorber, below, was also biding his time.
A RISING wind whistled outside. It shook the rafters of the old Manhattan mansion. It swirled along the stone surface of the building and whisked the wall beneath the window of the room in which Cyril Wycliff had died.
As though conjured from nothingness, a figure appeared beside that wall. A shape of blackness, indiscernible to ordinary vision, this sinister shape might well have been a portion of the night, torn from its natural element by the fury of the wind.
As the wailing gale dispelled, the blackened figure remained. A thing of life, it began to ascend the wall.
The Shadow, knowing that the climax to his operations might soon be due, was paying a secret visit to the Wycliff mansion. Steadily, he reached his goal; the room through which he had made a chosen path.
Watching from within the portal of Cyril Wycliff’s old apartment, The Shadow could see the light of the little sitting room. He could hear the buzzing voices of Howard Wycliff and Paul Marchelle.
The tenseness within the old house betokened the occurrence of something unexpected. It came. A ringing sound resounded. Someone had arrived at the front door. Howard Wycliff leaped to his feet and sprang into the hall, with Paul Marchelle at his heels. The Shadow watched from darkness.
Downstairs, Vorber came suddenly into Howard Wycliff’s view. The promptness with which Vorber appeared made Howard grip Marchelle’s arm and whisper a suspicion. Vorber answered the door; they heard him talking with someone outside. The door closed, and Vorber headed toward the stairs. He was carrying a yellow envelope in his hand.
The servant spied his master at the top of the stairway. Without betraying any surprise, Vorber ascended and held out the envelope. He explained what it was.
“A telegram, sir,” announced Vorber.
Howard Wycliff took the envelope. He went into the sitting room. Paul Marchelle stood at the door. Miles Vorber, as if seeking a pretext, waited on the landing at the top of the stairs. Howard Wycliff read the telegram.