Of all the evil men who had sought to bring death to Doctor Johan Arberg, Sparkles Lorskin alone remained alive. Yet his condition, judged by his position upon the floor, indicated that little chance was his.
Mobsters had recognized that the fighter disguised as Doctor Arberg was The Shadow. Those gangmen were dead, with their leader, Mitts Cordy, silent as they. Only Sparkles had seen The Shadow in his weird guise of black. Sparkles had not identified him with Doctor Arberg. To Sparkles, the visitation of The Shadow had been an unreal incident.
The policemen, piecing their theory to what they saw, believed that raiders had come to steal this hoard of jewels. They knew that the gems must be stolen; otherwise, Sparkles Lorskin would not have battled against those who represented the law.
Not one of the officers suspected the hidden presence of The Shadow in this room where death had struck those who had planned to deliver it.
BLOCKS away, The Shadow was speeding southward. Seated behind the wheel of a trim coupe, the master was departing from the scene of crime. The car turned into the entrance of a garage. As an attendant came up to take the coupe in charge, a gentleman in evening clothes, with portfolio under his arm, stepped forth.
“I shall leave my coupe here tonight,” he remarked in a quiet tone. “Has my limousine arrived?”
“Right over there Mr. Cranston,” replied the attendant.
The gentleman turned in the direction indicated. A chauffeur was opening the door of the limousine. The gentleman entered the car.
“Over to New Jersey, Stanley,” was his order to the chauffeur.
The limousine rolled from the garage. It headed toward the Holland Tunnel. Stanley drove at an easy speed, while the passenger, reclining on the cushions, leisurely smoked a cigarette.
Tonight, The Shadow had impersonated Doctor Johan Arberg, to make an early visit to Sparkles Lorskin’s apartment. There, over the telephone, he had impersonated Sparkles Lorskin to tell Doctor Arberg that a visit would be unnecessary!
In the meantime, this amazing battler had wiped out a desperate mob. He had returned to the black-clad guise of The Shadow. He had left Sparkles Lorskin, desperately wounded, in the hands of the police, surrounded by a crime-reaped harvest of stolen gems.
Now, in the guise of Lamont Cranston, multimillionaire and gentleman of leisure, The Shadow was returning to a mansion in New Jersey, there to await a new occasion that would call for conflict with surging hordes of crime.
The Shadow had saved the life of Doctor Johan Arberg, Danish blood specialist, whose return to Copenhagen could not now be blocked by Sparkles and his minions of the underworld.
Such was the way of The Shadow. By marvelous achievements, this stranger of the night could accomplish the seemingly miraculous. With skill and precision, The Shadow had saved the life of Doctor Johan Arberg without the savant gaining a single inkling of the menace which he had avoided!
Through his watchfulness of affairs in the underworld; through the reports of Cliff Marsland, his agent in the bad lands, The Shadow had gained a complete triumph. From his knowledge of the entire situation, The Shadow saw no further need of extending protection to Doctor Johan Arberg.
Yet while The Shadow, as Lamont Cranston, was riding comfortably back to New Jersey, a new menace was threatening Doctor Arberg. Beyond the reach of The Shadow’s vigilance, an enemy more subtle and capable than Sparkles Lorskin and Mitts Cordy combined was planning drastic action.
Every step of evil that The Shadow had foiled was to be duplicated, with an objective that reached to heinous crime beyond — hidden crime that had not yet come within The Shadow’s ken.
The fruits of victory that The Shadow had gained tonight were destined to be spoiled. The Shadow, triumphant, was due to face new foemen who were worthy of his steel!
CHAPTER IV
A QUESTION OF ETHICS
DOCTOR JOHAN ARBERG was standing by the window of his room in the Hotel Imperator. Twenty-two stories above the sidewalks of New York, the Danish physician was studying the glimmering lights of Manhattan.
On this, his first stay in New York City, the prominent blood specialist was experiencing the fascination of the huge metropolis. Imagination, however, rather than actual visualization, was responsible for Doctor Arberg’s steady observation. Mentally, the specialist was likening the glittering lights of the city to sparkling gems.
One reason for Doctor Arberg’s visit to New York had been the lure of purchasing a collection of valuable jewels which he had learned were up for sale. He had planned to visit the owner tonight; he had just received a telephone call, saying that the jewels had been delivered to another party.
Doctor Arberg was a trifle piqued.
He could not understand why he had not been given the opportunity to see the gems. That, he decided, was due to the mania for quick business transactions which seemed to govern all Americans. In Denmark, Doctor Arberg reflected, anyone offering gems for sale would have given every possible purchaser a chance to examine them.
Doctor Arberg, as he turned away from the window, appeared exactly as The Shadow had impersonated him. The shape of his beard, the size of his mustache, the curl of his hair — all had been duplicated to perfection. Even the stoop of the elderly man’s shoulders had been copied to exactitude.
The real Doctor Arberg, however, showed no sign of latent power. He was a man well preserved for his age, that was all. He glanced about the room with a rather querulous air, and his eye noted a little clock which rested upon a writing table.
The clock was one of Doctor Arberg’s most cherished possessions. He always carried it with him when he traveled. In keeping with the physician’s hobby, the collection of jewels, the case of the clock was embellished with small but valuable diamonds that corresponded with each number on the dial.
The clock registered exactly nine. Doctor Arberg reached out to pick up the timepiece. He stopped as the telephone began to ring.
LIFTING the receiver, the physician pronounced his identity and began to nod his head as he heard the voice from the other end of the wire.
“Ah, yess!” he exclaimed. “Doctor Barton Keyes. I am pleased to hear from you, doctor. How iss the patient?”
A brief response came over the wire. Arberg continued his nodding, as though face to face with the speaker.
“I am glad to hear what you say,” declared the Danish physician. “It iss good that the injections haff produced the results I promised… What iss that? You are at Mr. Cyril Wycliff’s home at present?… Very good, doctor. I can come there tonight… Yess… Yess. The reason I made the appointment for tomorrow night wass because I had a very important visit to make tonight. That appointment iss no longer. I haff heard from the man I wass to see, and he hass said not to see him. You understand?”
Still wagging his head, Doctor Arberg took paper and pencil, and copied down instructions which came over the wire. He concluded the call, hung up the receiver, and turned away from the telephone. As he looked up toward the center of the room, Arberg stopped suddenly and stared half startled.
Directly in front of him stood a dark-haired man of medium height. The intruder was about forty-five years of age. His bearing marked him as a man of professional accomplishment; his attire, quiet in color, was similar to that which Arberg wore.
The visitor bowed as he caught Arberg’s eye, and the old physician felt more at ease as he noted the man’s friendly demeanor. Nevertheless, the Dane detected a shifty look in the sallow face which he was observing, and could not repress a lurking suspicion that this visit might bode ill.