A soft swish by the back door. A gloved hand opened the unlocked barrier. Motion within the darkened kitchen; then soft, almost inaudible footsteps upon the back stairway. Out of the darkened passage on the second floor came the ghostly, shrouded figure of The Shadow.
Into the room of death. There, like a spectral being, The Shadow stood above the bed where Elwood Phraytag lay. Keen eyes saw that the old philanthropist was dead. The Shadow’s gaze turned toward the little table.
The water pitcher had not fallen from Phraytag’s puny sweep. The Shadow noted that the lip of the pitcher was wet. Water had been poured from that pitcher. Into what?
The Shadow stooped. He found the broken portions of a drinking tumbler. The fragments of glass were entirely dry. There was but one answer. Some one had poured water into a different glass and had taken the other tumbler from the room.
A bell rang from below. The Shadow turned. He stopped at the doorway and listened. Worthington’s excited voice was being followed by the rumble of a visitor. Then came footsteps on the stairway. The Shadow moved toward the darkness of the passage.
Worthington arrived followed by a portly, middle-aged man — Doctor MacCallert. The servant conducted the physician into the room. MacCallert made a prompt examination. Then, with a shake of his head, he spoke to Worthington, who was standing with staring eyes.
“This,” declared MacCallert, in a sober tone, “was to be expected. Human aid could go no further, Worthington. Your master is dead.”
Worthington dropped beside the bed. He choked as he tried to speak. The physician could understand the servant’s sorrow. Reaching out, MacCallert lifted a coverlet and drew it over the features of Elwood Phraytag.
Eyes from the doorway saw the action. The Shadow had come from the passage. The raising of the coverlet revealed Phraytag’s left hand, which had been thrust out of sight. From the third finger, The Shadow caught the sparkle of a gold signet ring. Then MacCallert’s body intervened.
SILENTLY, The Shadow moved into the passage. He descended the rear stairway and reached the outer door. A tiny flashlight blinked, to show the dangling chainbolt; then the lock. There, The Shadow paused. A small lens appeared in his right hand; through it, he studied the lock.
Tiny scratches were seen — not noticeable to the naked eye, but plain when beneath the magnifying lens.
The Shadow knew that this door had not been left open. Some one — a craftsman at this work — had made an entry to the house.
The flashlight went out. The Shadow swished into darkness. His form stalked silently along the street.
Only the grim echo of a laugh announced his passage. Again, crime had preceded The Shadow.
For The Shadow knew — by testimony of drinking glass and lock— that subtle murder had been performed tonight. Doctor MacCallert, expecting Phraytag’s death, might well attribute the philanthropist’s demise to natural causes.
To The Shadow, that verdict was merely new proof of the murderer’s skill. A killer had changed tactics.
Burglary, the blast that rocked a neighborhood, a bullet fired into a victim’s heart — those had been the features of Philip Lyken’s death.
But with Elwood Phraytag’s finish had come silence. Cold, brutal craft had replaced strenuous attack.
The hidden hand of crime was versatile. Its work was a challenge to The Shadow.
Twice, crime had won the verdict, while The Shadow, fighting underlings, had been diverted from the master of evil. Yet, tonight, The Shadow had scored a stroke that his enemy would not suspect.
Some fiend was chortling over the death of Elwood Phraytag — a murder that the law would never suspect. While the monster chuckled, The Shadow laughed. For he — The Shadow — was still upon the trail of crime.
CHAPTER X. NEWS OF DEATH
THE East Side Eighties were not the only streets of Manhattan that harbored houses of an ancient past.
Over on the West Side, a few miles distant from Elwood Phraytag’s home, was a mansion as quaint and secluded as the residence in which the old philanthropist had died.
This was the house in which Tobias Dolger had lived. It stood four stories high, between a pair of smaller buildings. All three houses had been built in the nineteenth century. The flanking homesteads, however, were vacant; while Tobias Dolger’s house had become the temporary residence of his heirs.
Inside, the Dolger mansion was as gloomy as without. Long halls, high-ceilinged rooms predominated.
Walls were paneled in old-fashioned style; huge chandeliers hung in every apartment. Once fitted with gas jets, these massive objects had been converted into electric brackets.
The house boasted a spacious library. Within this book-walled room, Perry Dolger was seated by a table, reading a massive volume that dealt with campaigns of the Civil War. It was a book that he had chosen at random from one of the heavily stocked shelves.
A doorbell tinkled. Perry looked up from his book. The ring was repeated. Perry laid the book aside and arose from his chair. As he reached the hallway, he heard footsteps on the stairs. A tall, obsequious-looking servant was coming down from the second floor.
“All right, Rowland,” said Perry. “I’ll answer the door. It’s probably Zane, without his key.”
The servant paused while Perry crossed the hall and unbolted a door to step into the vestibule. Then the young man unlocked the outer door. Rowland saw Zane Dolger step into the light. The solemn-faced servant returned upstairs.
Perry and Zane walked into the library. The younger heir seemed anxious to say something; but he restrained himself until his cousin had closed the door from the hall. Then, unsuppressed, Zane burst forth.
“I’ve been talking to our lawyer,” he exclaimed. “Over at his apartment. I think we’re going to find out something about old Elwood Phraytag. Listen, Perry. Jackling, our lawyer, says—”
“One moment, Zane,” interrupted Perry. “Do not refer to James Jackling as our lawyer. He was attorney for our grandfather’s estate. He does not represent us. Before you go further, let me say that you made a mistake in going to see Jackling.”
“A mistake?” echoed Zane. “Why you went to see him yourself. Only last night, Perry. Of course you didn’t see him, because he was out of town. But you called at his apartment—”
“That was last night,” interposed Perry, quietly. “Before we knew that this had happened.”
Perry picked up a newspaper that was lying on the table. He pointed to a headline that told of the explosion at Philip Lyken’s. A picture of the dead jeweler was on the front page.
“Sit down, Zane,” ordered Perry. “I’ve been thinking things over very carefully. I see some hidden purpose behind the death of Philip Lyken.”
“You mean—”
“That clever crooks would not have tried to rob so small a shop as his. I think that burglary was planned for another purpose. The deliberate murder of Philip Lyken.”
“What!”
“Let’s analyze it,” decided Perry, in methodical manner. “Philip Lyken had a secret. He was paid to keep it quiet. The time that the secret became most important was after the news broke concerning our grandfather’s estate. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Yesterday afternoon, we went to see Lyken. We bought his secret from him. We did it in prompt fashion. If any one had been watching Lyken’s place, that person would have assumed that we accomplished nothing.”
“Unless the watcher came around later and talked to Lyken himself.”
“That’s a point. But it fits with my theory. Any one watching Lyken — any one who saw us call there — would have known that we either suspected Lyken had a secret or that we found out the actual secret itself.”