Martin Hamprell, the smoking revolver in his hand, saw the gun drop from the Dane’s fingers. He watched Arberg’s body, with arms outstretched upon the table, as it slid slowly forward, the bearded face staring straight upward.
Then came the collapse. Arberg’s form went down in crazy fashion. His long arms, sliding along the table, carried objects with them. An inkwell bounced upon the floor. The jeweled clock thudded close beside it. Arberg’s body, its shirt front covered with a widening splotch of crimson blood, sprawled piteously upon the carpet.
Slowly, mechanically, Martin Hamprell replaced the revolver in his pocket. His eyes were staring. His lips wore their petrified smile of evil.
The intruder had gained his say. Doctor Johan Arberg would not visit Doctor Barton Keyes and Cyril Wycliff tonight. Hamprell’s will had prevailed. All that differed was the cause which would keep Johan Arberg from his call.
Murder, not ethics, was the reason why Doctor Arberg would fail in his appointment. The man whose life The Shadow had tonight saved, had died at the hand of a fiend more potent than the evil men whom The Shadow had defeated!
CHAPTER V
THE MAN WITH THE BEARD
MARTIN HAMPRELL stood at the door of Doctor Arberg’s room. The murderer peered out into the silent corridor of the twenty-second floor. He softly closed the door, and a pleased gleam showed upon his face.
The sound of the shots had not been heard. Murder unobserved could remain unknown. With catlike tread, Hamprell stalked back to the spot where Johan Arberg’s body lay. The murderer surveyed the man whom he had slain.
Upon the table, Hamprell noted a sheet of paper. It bore the address of Cyril Wycliff. Carefully, Hamprell picked up the slip and pocketed it. Then, with utmost care, the murderer reached in his victim’s pocket and drew forth articles of value — a wallet and a roll of bills.
Hamprell noted the clock and its array of diamonds. He saw a ring on Arberg’s third finger. He slipped the adornment from the dead hand. The ring contained a large and valuable ruby.
Ignoring the clock, Hamprell began a swift and systematic search which uncovered various items of valuable jewelry. Evidently Doctor Arberg carried only a few choice items when he traveled. From Hamprell’s actions, it appeared that robbery was the motive which had brought him here.
In all his swift work, however, Hamprell showed a desire to leave as soon as possible. This belied the robbery motive. With the shots unheard, there was no pressing cause for haste. Hamprell did not spend more than five minutes in his search.
Coming back to the clock, Hamprell picked up the timepiece. He held it to his ear and smiled. The clock had stopped. Hamprell glanced at the dial. It showed exactly twelve minutes after nine.
Drawing a silk handkerchief from his pocket, the murderer wiped the clock to remove all marks of finger prints. He turned the stem and smiled thoughtfully; then, with satisfaction, he dropped the clock exactly where he had found it.
Glancing at his own watch, Hamprell noted that it was twenty minutes after nine. Approximately eight minutes had elapsed since he had killed Doctor Arberg. With a last swift glance through the room, Hamprell hastened to the door.
After a cautious glance into the hall, Hamprell went out and softly closed the door behind him. He wiped off the knob with his handkerchief. He drew a key from his pocket; then decided not to lock the door. He went to a doorway farther along the corridor, and opened it with an oddly shaped key which he took from his pocket.
This was evidently a master key which Hamprell had obtained. It explained how he had entered Doctor Arberg’s room while the old Dane had been telephoning.
THE room in which Hamprell now stood was unoccupied. The murderer reached beneath the mattress of the bed and brought out a small package.
Standing in front of a bureau, Hamprell opened the package and drew forth a flat box. With it came a mass of white hair. With painstaking care, the murderer donned the wig, then arranged a set of whiskers upon his face. He performed these actions with the skill of a make-up artist, using spirit gum to keep the beard and mustache in place.
When he had finished this work, Hamprell went to the closet and produced a hat and overcoat. He donned these garments, packed up his make-up box, and put it in a pocket of the coat. He crumpled the wrapping paper and pocketed it also.
Stepping from the room, Hamprell assumed a stoop-shouldered pose. He went back along the corridor, opened the door of Arberg’s room, and went over to where the dead physician lay.
It was not to gloat over his handiwork that Hamprell had returned to the scene of crime. The murderer’s purpose was a more practical one. He was here to study Doctor Arberg’s facial appearance. After a brief survey, Hamprell turned to a mirror, adjusted his own false beard and mustache, and uttered a satisfied chuckle. His make-up filled the bill.
In Arberg’s closet, Hamprell saw the Dane’s hat and coat. They closely resembled the garments which Hamprell wore. Satisfied, the murderer again left the room and went along the corridor until he reached the elevators.
In the lobby of the Hotel Imperator, Martin Hamprell approached the desk and spoke to a clerk. He used the thick tones of Doctor Johan Arberg.
“I am going out,” he declared. “I shall be back within the hour. You understand, yess?”
“Yes, Doctor Arberg,” replied the clerk.
With shoulders stooped, Martin Hamprell moved across the lobby. He went out through the revolving door, and called a taxicab. He did not give his destination until the vehicle had started. Then he drew the paper from his pocket, and named the location of Cyril Wycliff’s home, on a street in the northern portion of Manhattan.
Traffic was swift along the avenue which the taxicab followed. Within twenty minutes after his departure from the Hotel Imperator, Martin Hamprell alighted from the cab in front of an old, secluded house, that one would scarcely have believed was in New York City.
Hamprell dismissed the cab and went up the front steps. In response to his ring, the door was opened by a tall, scrawny servant whose face bore a harsh, suspicious look.
“Iss Doctor Barton Keyes here?” questioned Hamprell. “I am here to see him, yess.”
THE servant stepped aside; as Hamprell entered, a stout, serious-faced man came from a side room and advanced with extended hand.
“Doctor Arberg!” exclaimed the stout man. “It is a privilege to have you here. I am Doctor Keyes.”
“It iss grand to meet you, my friend,” returned Hamprell warmly. “It iss not for long that I can stay. The hour iss late for me. I am an old man, yess.”
“Advanced in learning, as well as in years,” complimented Keyes. “Come this way, Doctor Arberg. We shall see the patient shortly. Vorber” — this to the servant — “take Doctor Arberg’s hat and coat.”
Martin Hamprell hid a smile beneath his copious beard and mustache as Vorber took his hat and coat. His impersonation had stood the test. He had come as Doctor Johan Arberg. If good luck continued, he would never be in the least suspected of having been anyone else.
For the second time tonight, Doctor Johan Arberg had been represented by another person in disguise. The Shadow had impersonated the Danish specialist to save the old man’s life, to accomplish a deed that would bring an end to crime.
This time, Martin Hamprell was impersonating, Doctor Johan Arberg. The murderer had taken the place of the man whom he had murdered. Moreover, Martin Hamprell’s taking of disguise had been in keeping with his character.