Various persons had visited that office of death. Most of them had been police detectives and inspectors. One other had been Lamont Cranston, who had chanced to visit the theater that evening.
Cranston had said nothing. He had simply watched the work of the investigators.
There was no clew to the murderer. Not a sign. It was decided that Ballantyne must have left the door unlocked; that the man had entered, and had killed him during the showing of the feature picture. That was the finding of the police.
The usher believed that Ballantyne had left the door unlatched; for he had been forced to use his key in entering, and would probably keep it unlatched. But the two detectives had believed otherwise.
They looked for finger prints by the automatic latch. They found nothing but confused blurs. Various persons had operated that latch.
Now, when all was still and quiet, the door of the death office opened once more, operated by a hand that was invisible in the darkness. The door closed silently.
The light on the table clicked. It revealed a man in black; a silent, sinister figure, who moved with amazing stealth.
The Shadow had come to the scene of the crime!
In action and appearance, this figure in black bore no resemblance to Lamont Cranston.
The features of The Shadow were totally obscured. He moved with swiftness where Cranston had moved with deliberation. Yet Cranston had looked in many places; and it was to one of these that The Shadow went without long hesitation.
The figure in black opened the closet door. The rays of a flashlight entered into an inspection. Detectives had looked into that closet during the evening. They had observed nothing. But The Shadow found something for which he appeared prepared.
It was a tiny fragment of paper that lay on the floor of the closet — nothing but a small corner of a large sheet.
The Shadow scraped this fragment into an envelope. With it went a few flakes of tobacco that lay beside it. These were visible also — if keen eyes looked for them.
Standing in the closet, cramped for space, The Shadow simulated the motion of a man drawing a gun from his pocket. He laughed softly. The action took place directly above the spot where the little particles had lain!
THE office light went out. The door opened and closed. The Shadow was gone.
It was scarcely a minute later when his presence again manifested itself — this time in a near-by darkened room, immediately after a click turned on a light that hung above a table.
Two hands appeared. They were not garbed in black. They were long, thin hands, with finely shaped fingers. Upon one gleamed a strange, fiery gem, of deep, changing hues.
It was a girasol, or fire opal — the only jewel which The Shadow wore.
A hand wrote. The letters that it formed were made rapidly, but perfectly. They seemed the physical expressions of an invisible mind that was formulating exact thoughts with quick exactness.
The murderer entered the office while the door was unlocked. He secreted himself in the closet. When he drew his gun, a fragment of paper and particles of tobacco were forced from his pocket. They could have come from no other source. Coats were hung further back. Only in that front corner could a gun have been drawn.
The murderer was waiting. He had seen the motion picture. He timed his shot when he stepped from the closet. Blundering detectives walked on the carpet; otherwise, impressions would have remained. But these particles—
The hand stopped writing. It crumpled the paper and tossed it away. It produced an envelope and opened it.
Upon a sheet of paper, the hand of The Shadow dropped the fragment of torn paper and the particles of tobacco. Then another envelope came into view. It was sealed. The Shadow opened it and found a letter, written in a code. Its meaning was clear to those eyes in the darkness as they read:
Inclosed are articles required. Sample of paper used as stationery at Larchmont Court. Sample of paper found in Durgan’s apartment when I entered with the master key you sent me. Sample of tobacco found in cigarette box at Durgan’s.
The code used was the one which The Shadow had given to Cliff Marsland.
The hands found the articles mentioned within an inner envelope. They were placed on the table also.
Then the hands produced a strange machine that bore an odd resemblance to a stereopticon. It was a portable black-light apparatus — science’s latest weapon against crime. A wire ran from the machine. The hands disappeared.
There was a slight noise as the plug at the end of the wire was fitted into the wall of the room.
The Shadow was back at work. Beneath the circle of purplish rays that came from the strange machine, the hands set three tiny fragments of paper — two torn from the sheets sent by Cliff Marsland — the third the fragment that had been taken from the closet floor.
The slips of paper glowed with an eerie light. They seemed to be charged with luminous paint. One fragment had a darkish tinge. Two were a dull orange.
Above the rays of the detector, The Shadow held a microscope. The enlarged views of the orange-glowing fragments showed that they were identical.
The bit of paper found in the closet was the same as the sample that had come from Killer Durgan’s apartment!
Now the tobacco was subjected to the test. Here, again, there was a strange, oddly shimmering glow, that did not leave an iota of doubt. The same mixture of tobacco had been found in the closet and in Durgan’s cigarette box!
The violet rays disappeared. The table light came on. The hand wrote.
A Turkish blend, smoked by few. There is no room for doubt. A comparison of foot-impressions in the office and in Durgan’s apartment would be unnecessary. The identity of the murderer is established. Killer Durgan.
The paper was crumpled. The black-light machine was detached and packed away. The hand wrote again, beneath the glare of the lamp.
Killer Durgan is in the theater racket. He has moved to cover. He is at headquarters. That spot must be discovered.
There was another click in the darkness. A long ray of white light streamed across the room, forming a luminous spot on a white screen.
The Shadow was alone in the private preview room of the Paladrome Theater!
The mechanism of a motion-picture camera began to operate. It could not be heard elsewhere, for the room was virtually soundproof.
In fact, the room, with its expensive equipment, had been triple-locked; yet The Shadow had entered!
A reel was showing on the screen. The Shadow was watching it from the darkness. His hand was still beneath the table lamp, with pencil poised to make notations.
On came the scene that showed Times Square in the distance; the picture which had been taken by Bud Sherman from the window of Howard Griscom’s office.
The street was thronged with people. Suddenly a man came in from the left and stood with his back toward the street. He was looking in Brantwell’s window. He was very small, for the picture covered a long area.
The hand wrote again.
Steve Marschik. Burke interrupted him in the lobby. He received the phone message in the cigar store downstairs. He followed Marschik. The man knows nothing. He was probably paid and instructed from a secret source.
Another man detached himself from the throng. He stood beside Marschik. He drew his hand from his coat pocket and moved close to Marschik, evidently to deposit an article in the other man’s pocket. Again the hand of The Shadow wrote.
Identity unknown. Burbank was watching from a downstairs office. He received the call and followed. The man eluded him. Burbank believes he took a train at the Pennsylvania Station. Where he has gone is immaterial. Where he came from is important.