The hand stopped writing. It began to tap the pencil against the paper, counting the seconds that were marked by a watch that lay on the table.
The brain in the darkness was going through the murder of Jonathan Graham, counting from the very instant when Berger pushed the millionaire through the window until the moment when the secretary screamed his warning.
Thirty taps. Then the hand wrote:
Half a minute at the most. No one knows the exact minute at which Jonathan Graham’s body crashed to the street. The time element is perfectly in Berger’s favor.
Berger’s alibi is now perfect — to the unthinking minds of those who were in the office — and to the minds of the police.
But to the deductive brain, Berger’s action betrays his crime.
The right hand picked up the paper, and crumpled it into a ball. The hand disappeared and returned without the paper. Then on another sheet, it wrote:
Stanley Berger murdered Jonathan Graham.
The pencil remained still for two short seconds; then it moved again, and the hand inscribed these words:
The Shadow knows!
CHAPTER IV
THE RED ENVOY
LATE that evening, a man entered an apartment house in upper Manhattan. He was short and heavy set, with a grim face that bore signs of ugliness. He walked abruptly through the hallway and took the automatic elevator to the third floor.
There he opened the door of an apartment and entered a darkened room. He pressed a switch on the wall. Then he turned toward the far corner of the room. A quick gasp came from his lips.
Behind a small desk sat a man in a dark-blue overcoat, who wore a crimson mask that covered the upper half of his face.
“The Red Envoy!” exclaimed the man who had entered the room.
The figure behind the desk did not reply. The man in the crimson mask was motionless. His hands lay upon the desk; they were hidden within thin red gloves.
The man who had come into the apartment recovered his composure. He glanced about the room, noticing that the shades were drawn. He deposited his hat on a chair, and approached the desk.
“I did not expect you to-night,” he said respectfully.
“Why not?” asked the man who wore the crimson mask. His voice was low, and even-toned. “You have much to report, Comrade Prokop.”
“That is correct.” Prokop was speaking in English, his words slightly thickened by a trace of foreign accent. He drew up a chair and sat opposite the Red Envoy.
DESPITE his formidable appearance, the man called Prokop seemed nervous in the presence of the masked man who wore the red gloves.
Coming back to his apartment to find the Red Envoy awaiting him had been a startling experience. Prokop did not know how the mysterious man had entered the apartment; nor did he ask.
“What took place to-night?” questioned the Red Envoy.
“Reports,” replied Prokop tersely. “Two enemies have been eliminated. Graham and Berchik are dead.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Berchik visited Prince Zuvor. He told him about the jewels. Agent K overheard everything.”
“Who is Agent K? Zuvor’s servant?”
“Yes. Fritz Bloch. A German. Zuvor has two servants. Fritz Bloch and a Russian named Ivan Shiskin. Ivan is loyal to Zuvor. We count on Fritz for information.”
“Did Fritz learn the name of the man who received the wealth we seek?”
“Yes. His name is Bruce Duncan.”
“What have you done about it?”
“I have notified Agent R to be ready. I already have a report concerning him. He is a wealthy young man, who lives alone with one servant. He must be handled tactfully. Agent R is the one to do that.”
Prokop drew an envelope from his pocket. He handed it to the Red Envoy, who opened it with ease despite the red silk gloves, and read the report within.
“That will do,” said the masked man tersely. “Let Agent R proceed. Your plan is quite suitable for the present.”
“We need worry no longer about Berchik,” said Prokop, with a leering smile. “He died quickly.”
“How?”
“By the method we had arranged for Prince Zuvor. Agent K — Fritz — learned that Zuvor had a car in readiness in a garage up in Connecticut. I saw to it that a bomb was arranged in the automobile set to explode after the car had gone twenty miles.
“Zuvor instructed Berchik to use that car in his escape. The bomb exploded and the car toppled into a ravine.”
“Did any one suspect the cause of the accident?”
“We think not.”
The Red Envoy sat as silent as a statue. Prokop shifted uneasily. He felt that he was inferior to this strange person who came to visit him as the direct representative of a powerful organization…
Usually, Prokop received instructions to meet the Red Envoy in some unexpected place. This was the first time that his superior had ever come to the apartment.
“No one suspects who you are?” The Red Envoy’s question came suddenly to Prokop’s ears.
“No,” replied Prokop. “I call myself Henry Propert.”
“You take every precaution regarding our agents?” asked the Red Envoy.
“Every precaution. Even the agents do not know each other. Each one reports to me, individually, at the meeting place.
“I am always masked. I identify each agent before he goes into the meeting room. All are masked when they assemble.”
“Good!” The Red Envoy’s statement carried a tone of satisfaction. “You must keep your identity a secret from your subordinate just as I keep my identity a secret from you.”
Prokop nodded.
“You have done well,” commended the Red Envoy. “I shall mention you in my report to Moscow.
“But you have not yet told me about the case of Jonathan Graham. I came here to learn about it.”
PROKOP rubbed his chin nervously. He had expected this inquiry from the Red Envoy. After the commendation that he had received, he hesitated to supply the new information.
“Our agent did well,” he said. “As you know, he had obtained a situation as Jonathan Graham’s secretary — “
“He was in Graham’s employ before he joined our cause, was he not?” interrupted the Red Envoy.
“Yes,” answered Prokop. “We made him Agent J. He was just the man we required. Communistic in belief — yet he seldom expressed his opinions.
“One of our agents discovered him, and he became an excellent worker. He used his right name — Stanley Berger.”
Prokop paused and glanced at the Red Envoy. The man in the mask betrayed no impatience, but he spoke tersely.
“I know all that, Prokop,” he said. “Come to the point.”
“Well,” said Prokop quickly, “Berger did his best to discover Jonathan Graham’s private correspondence. But he had no opportunity to read it. I ordered him to get results quickly. So he stole it all, and mailed it to me.”
“When?”
“Yesterday morning. Then he must have feared that Graham would discover its loss. At five o’clock yesterday afternoon, Jonathan Graham fell from the window of his office — “
“Yes?” questioned the Red Envoy, as Prokop hesitated. “He fell, you say?”
“He fell from the window,” continued Prokop, “but it is obvious that Berger had much to do with it. He must have done the job cleverly. Graham’s death is regarded as an accident.”
“I have read the newspapers,” remarked the man with the red mask. “The death of Jonathan Graham may prove useful. He controlled various interests that will deteriorate under other management.
“But regarding the matter of his private correspondence — “