"See this shelf?" asked the Philadelphia sleuth. "There's the bottle of medicine. White pills — no label on the bottle."
The shelf was on the right side of the window, directly above the washstand. On the other side of the window hung the medicine chest. The Philadelphia detective opened it and indicated a lower corner.
"Right here was the bottle of poison," he said. "Little pills, like the others. A single pill wouldn't have mattered — that's the way they were to be taken. Strychnine, you know — prescribed once by Garwood's physician.
"But Garwood swallowed four, by mistake. We figure he must have opened the medicine chest and seen the bottle. Forgotten about the old bottle here, you know. Took it along with him, and left the other bottle where it was—"
Cardona was listening mechanically. He was staring at the open window. His keen mind was finding another explanation — one that meant murder!
How easy it would have been for someone to reach through that window from the row of eaves. How easy to remove the bottle from the shelf, and to put the poison in its place! How easy to wait until Garwood had left to take his nightly dose, then to replace the ordinary medicine on the shelf where it belonged!
"Garwood was married?" Cardona asked thoughtfully.
"Yes," replied his companion. "His wife was out. She arrived home at ten o'clock, to find her husband dead. She was broken up, and went to a friend's house. Guess she'll come back here later. Garwood was worth a million, anyway. No children — just the widow left—"
The rest of Cardona's questioning was a hollow sham. He was sure that there had been murder here, but his entire theory was based upon speculation. The matter was outside his bailiwick. If the death had happened in New York, Cardona would have gone into a devious study of the ways whereby some unknown individual might have learned of Garwood's habits, and thus planned the crime. But Cardona realized that to act now would mean a long discussion of the matter with the Philadelphia authorities.
It would be better to wait; to rely upon new developments, rather than give away the fact that he had spotted a crime in Philadelphia that could be linked with the killing in New York. Any reference to Garwood's death as a murder would produce sweeping headlines in the Philadelphia newspapers. The murderers — for Cardona was convinced that there was collusion in this plotting — would be on their guard.
Cardona's faith in The Shadow was restored. He thanked the Philadelphia detective for his service, and returned with the man to headquarters. He left on an afternoon train for New York. As the express sped along the rails, Cardona wondered. He was sure that The Shadow — at the seance — had sensed some danger that threatened Geoffrey Garwood. That was why The Shadow had disappeared so suddenly.
The man of the dark must have visited Garwood's home, too late to save the victim's life. But he had seen the opportunity for crafty murder, and had — in his own mysterious way — notified Cardona, so that the sleuth might see the evidence also.
Where was The Shadow now?
Had the strange avenger found a further clue? As a master of deductive reasoning, The Shadow was unsurpassed. Cardona, despite his perplexity, felt a feeling of security. With The Shadow operating, hidden mysteries would come to light.
Cardona knew the course that he must follow.
He must work with The Shadow.
The Shadow knew!
Chapter VII — Anita Marie Advises
The death of Geoffrey Garwood was a closed case so far as the Philadelphia police were concerned. The funeral was over, and Maude Garwood was back in her home. But the unfortunate widow lacked neither companionship nor solace.
Her nephew, Richard Terry, had arrived from Texas in time for the funeral. He had promised to remain for an extended visit. He was Maude Garwood's only living relative, and his presence kept her free from loneliness.
As for solace, Maude Garwood received that from Anita Marie. She had often consulted the medium privately for advice, despite Anita Marie's pretext in the circle that Maude Garwood was scarcely more than a chance visitor.
Maude Garwood had poured out her sudden grief to Anita Marie, and had been cheered by words of comfort.
With only two persons upon whom she felt she could rely, it was only natural that the widow would tell one or the other. Hence, the second evening after Dick Terry's arrival, she told her nephew of the wonderful medium who had been such a help in time of trouble.
Aunt and nephew were at dinner when Maude Garwood first mentioned the name of Anita Marie.
"Dick," she said confidingly, "I don't know how I could have borne this misfortune but for Anita Marie's sympathy."
Dick, brown and husky as one of the steers in his native state, looked up in surprise when he heard the name.
"Who is Anita Marie?" he questioned.
"A wonderful woman, Dick," declared Maude Garwood. "She has psychic powers. She can see into the other world."
"A fortune teller?" demanded Dick, in a hostile tone.
"Don't speak that way, Dick," reproved the aunt. "Anita Marie is not a fortune teller. How I dislike that term! Anita Marie is a psychic — a medium who communes with the spirits."
"They're all alike to me," grunted Dick. "A bunch of fakers! Those buzzards don't last long down in Texas. I don't like to hear this, Aunt Maude."
"Why not, Dick?"
"Because you're a rich woman, Aunt Maude. Most of Uncle Geoffrey's estate belongs to you. You're the kind of person that swindlers would be after. But they're not going to get far while I'm around!"
"You talk like your Uncle Geoffrey," sighed Maude Garwood.
"Did Uncle Geoffrey know that you went to see this spirit woman?" questioned Dick.
"Yes," said the aunt, "and he always objected. I can't understand why, Dick. Anita Marie told me some wonderful things facts that she could not have learned from any one else. Only spirits could have told her, Dick."
The young man grunted disdainfully. Then he noted the far-away look in his aunt's eyes. He realized immediately that her belief in the supernatural was more deep set than a fleeting fancy. It would not be wise, Dick decided, to voice his contempt of spirit mediums. He could accomplish more by pretending to humor Maude Garwood's whim.
"Well," he said gruffly, "I'm open to conviction on anything, Aunt Maude. But at the same time, I'm no child. I've seen so much hokum in my life that I go around with my eyes open. I'm not going to stand by while you lose your money."
"I know that, Dick," said Maude Garwood gently. "I have great confidence in you. But I hope you will not be narrow in your view, as Geoffrey was.
"I told him advice that I had heard Anita Marie give to others as well as to myself. Ways that people could make a great deal of money. But poor Geoffrey would never risk a single penny, and he forbid me to do so."
"Hm-m-m," thought Dick. "They've been working already!" But he did not express the thought aloud.
"I am going to visit Anita Marie tonight," declared Maude Garwood. "She holds her seances only twice a week. On other nights, she may be consulted for a reasonable fee."
"All right if I come along?" questioned Dick pleasantly.
"Yes, indeed," replied Maude Garwood. "I should like to have you meet Anita Marie. If you could only understand, Dick! I think you will, after you have seen this wonderful woman."
After dinner, Maude Garwood summoned the limousine, and she and her nephew rode to Anita Marie's home.
Dick remained taciturn; he listened thoughtfully to his aunt's elated description of Anita Marie. He realized that Maude Garwood regarded the medium as a sort of superior being, and he did not like it. The large seance room was dark. Maude Garwood and her nephew were ushered into a small reception room. Dick Terry glanced suspiciously at the sharp-faced maid. When the visitors were alone, Maude Garwood became confidential.