“But after that?”
“A few heavy doses, given with my prescriptions, would have finished the work.”
“You are sure of this poisoning?”
“No, Senhor; but I suspect it.”
“Whom do you suspect?”
Doctor Antone pointed toward the door, to indicate the man beyond — Warren Sigler. Senhor Dario nodded his belief. Edwin Berlett, however, shook his head.
“Warren Sigler was with Torrence Dilgin for many years,” declared Berlett. “I cannot believe him guilty of such crime. Never — with mere suspicion as the only basis.”
“That is the reason we have brought you here,” whispered Dario, gripping Berlett’s arm. “There is only one way to gain the proof. An autopsy.”
“Which would mean?”
“That the body would have to be turned over to the local authorities. It would be a matter for the Brazilian courts. You, Senhor, would be detained for weeks.”
“Impossible! I must go back to New York.”
“Exactly,” whispered Dario. “That is what I told Doctor Antone. That is why we wished to speak to you. If you wish, Doctor Antone will not mention his suspicions to any one.”
“Good. Very good.”
“But when you reach New York, you can have an autopsy performed upon the body. Then you will learn the truth. However, Senhor, you must protect Doctor Antone.”
“In what way?”
“By stating that the suspicions were your own; that you wondered about Senhor Dilgin’s death after you were on the high seas. You, yourself, must cast suspicion upon Warren Sigler. It must never be known that Doctor Antone and I permitted the body to leave Rio de Janeiro suspecting that the dead man had been poisoned.”
“I understand.” Edwin Berlett nodded. “I promise you, gentlemen, that the autopsy — if there is one — will be privately conducted. But I doubt very much that I shall have one at all.”
“That is your own choice, Senhor,” declared Dario, in a relieved tone. “We are your friends. We could not let you leave Rio de Janeiro without this information. It was also necessary, however, that we protect our own positions. If we can all three forget this entire discussion, all will be well.”
“It is forgotten, gentlemen,” affirmed Edwin Berlett. “Forgotten entirely. And now, Doctor Antone” — Berlett’s voice was rising as he strolled to the door — “you have your papers. Since Senhor Dario and I” — he was opening the door — “have identified the body and signed the documents, the last formality has been completed. Good evening, gentlemen.”
Standing in the doorway where Sigler could observe, Berlett extended his hand to Dario. Antone made a presence of fumbling with papers in his inside pocket. Then he, too, shook hands with Berlett.
The American lawyer conducted them to the outer door of the suite. As soon as the Brazilians had left, he turned to Sigler.
“I’m going down to the lobby,” Berlett announced. “After that, to my room. Call me there if you have anything important.”
“Yes, sir,” responded the secretary.
“And in the meantime,” added Berlett, “clear up here. There will be no more visitors, until the body is removed. Have everything ready for the removal.”
“Yes, sir.”
WHEN Berlett had gone, Sigler locked the door. Smiling, he strolled to the inner room, where The Shadow was still watching from behind the window. Stooping beside the bed which held the body of Torrence Dilgin, the secretary shoved his hand beneath the mattress and brought out two small bottles.
Sigler grinned shrewdly as he pocketed these objects. He pulled the key to his own room from his pocket and left the death room. The outer door of the suite closed behind him.
Darkness edged in from the window.
The form of The Shadow became visible. Like a tall specter of death, the eerie visitor advanced and viewed the corpse of Torrence Dilgin. A soft, mirthless laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips.
The tall shape stalked across the room, passed through the outer portion of the suite and faded in the corridor. When Warren Sigler returned a few minutes later, he found no traces of The Shadow’s brief visit.
ONE hour later, The Shadow was standing by the window of his room. He was again in the character of Lamont Cranston. A single desk lamp cast sufficient illumination to reveal his chiseled countenance.
There was a hawklike expression to that visage. Burning eyes, staring out toward Rio’s splendor, were both thoughtful and predictive. Again, a laugh came from The Shadow. Motionless, the lips of Lamont Cranston delivered the whispered sound. This time, the laugh was tinged with mockery.
The Shadow had seen the justification of the suspicions held by Senhor Dario and Doctor Antone. He had watched Warren Sigler enter to remove the hidden arsenic bottles which he had not had opportunity to take away before tonight.
Sigler was a murderer; that was obvious. Dario and Antone were reputable Brazilians; their conversation had proven that fact. But Edwin Berlett, New York attorney who had come to talk with Torrence Dilgin, was a character of doubtful species.
Berlett’s belittlement of Dilgin’s dying statement; his crafty behavior in his conversation with Dario and Antone; his subsequent statements to Sigler — all were evidences of a cunning game.
Plans lay behind the lawyer’s poker face. The Shadow, as yet, could not divine them; but he knew that Berlett was scheming for the future. The Shadow, though he needed more facts, was trying to ferret out the part that Berlett was playing in a game that had involved death.
Another laugh from steady lips. It was one of keen understanding. The Shadow had found his answer. He had formed a theory which enabled him to place Berlett. More than that, The Shadow had formed a plan of his own.
Edwin Berlett could wait, along with Warren Sigler. When the time for action had arrived, The Shadow would be capable of handling the clever lawyer as well as the stupid murderer.
CHAPTER V
AT PERNAMBUCO
DAYS had passed since The Shadow’s arrival in Rio de Janeiro. The Steamship Southern Star had made its scheduled sailing from the Brazilian capital. Steaming more than a thousand miles northward, it had reached the final Brazilian port. The ship was at anchor in the harbor of Pernambuco.
Edwin Berlett was standing beside the rail of a stern deck. The lawyer was studying the widespread city, with its causeways connecting a central island with mainland and peninsula. Strolling across the deck to gaze out into the harbor, Berlett looked toward the open sea.
Somewhere in the direction of the ocean lay the hidden reef that served as protection to Pernambuco’s harbor. Within a few hours, the Southern Star would be steaming through one of the navigable passages that pierced the reef, guided by a pilot who would know the hidden channel.
Passengers, standing by, were discussing the harbor, which had been improved to accommodate vessels the size of the Southern Star. Among them was a distinguished looking personage whose acquaintance Berlett had made. He was Lamont Cranston, wealthy New Yorker, who had come aboard the ship at Rio.
“Mr. Berlett.”
The lawyer swung at the sound of his own name. Warren Sigler had approached. Berlett raised his eyebrows quizzically.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“I have completed all the work you gave me, sir,” responded the secretary. “Is there any other duty?”
“Not at present.”
“Then I shall go ashore, sir.”
“For how long? The boat sails in three hours.”
“I shall be back in one.”
“Very well. Come to my stateroom when you return. No — I shall not be there. I am going down for a while; but after that I shall be in the smoking salon. Come there.”