Finding an odd ash tray, The Shadow dropped the pieces of graphite into it; using a small paper weight, he ground the black chunks into powder. He poured the black grains upon the prescription pad.
Polishing paper weight and ash tray with his fingers, The Shadow removed traces of his action. He took off his left glove; a brilliant fire opal glimmered from a ring upon his third finger. Using his finger tips, The Shadow massaged the powdered graphite into the surface of the pad.
Spark Ganza had removed the top sheet with its telltale scrawl. The second sheet, however, told its story. It had taken the pressure of Durlew’s pencil. The Shadow’s process brought unnoticed words to view. The graphite found the impressions. From the grayish blur that streaked the paper, words stood out like a carbon copy of Durlew’s last scrawl.
The Shadow read the name and address: George Furbish, Royal Arms.
The Shadow ripped the sheet from the pad, just as Spark Ganza had taken the original. He dropped a pencil beside Durlew’s outspread hand.
Donning his glove, he strode from the little office. He found the passage that Spark had taken. The Shadow reached the blackness of the alleyway.
HALF an hour later, The Shadow alighted from a taxicab in front of the Royal Arms. The place was a pretentious one, twelve stories in height; but it was located in a rundown neighborhood. Like many of Manhattan ’s best apartment houses, the Royal Arms had been built in a neighborhood where many new structures were planned. The building boom had halted, leaving much of the district still unimproved.
There was a uniformed doorman on duty under the waterproof canopy that formed a marquee to the Royal Arms. He was the only man in sight.
The Shadow was no longer attired in black. He looked like an ordinary arrival at the apartment. He was wearing light overcoat and gray fedora hat. His features were plainly in view. Though they bore a slightly hawklike aspect they were full and rather rounded. The Shadow’s nod was genial; his smile a friendly one. The doorman saluted, taking this visitor for the sort who would have friends at the Royal Arms.
“Good evening,” greeted The Shadow, in an easy tone. “Can you tell me which apartment belongs to Mr. Furbish?”
“Mr. Furbish has not occupied his apartment, sir,” returned the doorman, politely. “His furniture has been installed; but he has not informed us when to expect him.”
“I see,” remarked The Shadow, with a smile. “Of course, you know Mr. Furbish when you see him?”
“No, sir,” confessed the doorman. “Mr. Furbish has never been here. For the moment, sir, I thought that you might be Mr. Furbish; but when you asked about his apartment -”
“I was asking about my own apartment.”
The doorman gaped; then queried, “You are Mr. Furbish?”
“Certainly,” replied The Shadow. “But since I have never been to my new apartment, I had to inquire.”
“Then you have no key, sir?”
“Of course not. I left that here, so that the furniture could be placed in the apartment.”
The Shadow’s precise tone; his important manner, impressed the incredulous doorman. The fellow’s doubts faded; The Shadow took quick advantage.
“Come,” he ordered. “Help me remove my luggage from the taxi. Who has the apartment key? The janitor?”
“I have a key, Mr. Furbish.”
“Good. You can unlock the apartment for me.”
TWO men had sauntered into view during the brief conversation. They were presentably dressed; but their faces showed them to be rowdies. They had come from a doorway adjacent to the Royal Arms. They had arrived in time to hear the doorman call The Shadow by the name of Furbish.
Though faced toward the taxicab, The Shadow was aware of the two men who approached. He saw one take a cigarette from his lips and wigwag it, as if in signal to some one across the street. The Shadow kept his head turned away. There was a chance that some observer might know George Furbish by sight.
The pair passed. The Shadow turned to follow the luggage-laden doorman. They entered the Royal Arms, boarded an elevator and rode up to the tenth floor. The doorman unlocked the door of a corner apartment. The Shadow tipped him; the man departed.
Alone, possessed of Furbish’s key, The Shadow took stock of the apartment. It was well furnished; the windows of living room and bedroom opened to a balcony that clung above an old eight-story building. Evidently the adjoining structure was slated for removal. The Shadow studied the lower building by the glow of the city lights. That done, he began to unpack.
The Shadow had come here to protect George Furbish; for the man’s address had indicated that he might logically be a victim to follow Blessingdale and Hessup. The Shadow’s plan had been to gain Furbish’s friendship; to warn him of danger and remain here with him. Finding that he had arrived ahead of Furbish, The Shadow had quickly evolved a new procedure.
Roaming the apartment, he looked for signs that might mean a threat of death. The Shadow examined drinking glasses in the bathroom. He found no trace of any poison. He looked for other threats; his search seemed futile until he made a final inspection of the bedroom. There, he discovered something tangible.
There were two windows, each of the casement type, with frames that swung outward. The catch was missing from one window. The frame was held shut purely by pressure of the woodwork. The Shadow knew that some one had deliberately removed the catch.
Danger would arrive tonight. When it came, it would be through the casement window. A smile showed itself upon The Shadow’s disguised lips as he prepared to retire for the night. Clad in pajamas, The Shadow extinguished the lights; then deliberately swung the catchless window outward.
Climbing into bed, The Shadow closed his eyes and waited. He knew that watchers, somewhere, had kept close view on the lights in the tenth-story apartment. They believed that George Furbish was at his new residence; that he had turned in early.
The Shadow had hoaxed men of crime. Their thrust would come soon. The earlier it arrived, the better it would suit The Shadow.
CHAPTER IV – THE YELLOW FACE
HOURS drifted in the silent room where The Shadow had begun his interval. Nothing disturbed the lull; not even the arrival of the real George Furbish. Apparently the owner of the apartment had not planned to return to New York tonight.
The long interval caused The Shadow to speculate. Had crooks detected his imposture? Had they learned, from some source, that Furbish did not intend to come to his apartment? Had they decided to ignore the present occupant?
These were riddles that The Shadow himself could not answer, with the few facts at his disposal. He was following a blind lead, in this trip to the Royal Arms. There was a chance that he had missed a full interpretation of those scrawled words that he had gained at Durlew’s.
It was certain that men of crime had changed their tactics. Blessingdale had been murdered in thuggish fashion. Hessup had been framed for death as soon as he had reached the Merrimac Club. Crooks had moved in both those cases, as soon as they had found opportunity. This secluded apartment offered every inducement for a mob attack; yet none showed signs of development.
Beneath his pillow, The Shadow had a ready automatic. Another gun was handy in a suitcase by the bed. Not once, amid a stretch of hours, did The Shadow find cause to reach for the nearer gun.
The only sound that reached the darkened room was the muffled roar of city traffic, that swelled and faded like the beat of distant traffic.