The man in the darkness listened, awaiting some statement from the other end of the line. The word came. Then a whispered voice spoke amid the silence of the dark apartment — a low, weird voice — the voice of The Shadow:
“Hello! Burbank?”
The Shadow received acknowledgment. Burbank was one of his trusted agents.
“Report!” came The Shadow’s whisper.
The silence of the apartment was disturbed only by the clicking voice that came from the receiver. The sound ceased.
“Good!” said The Shadow. “I understand. You heard him order the theater ticket this morning. Downtown. Vincent trailed him to the theater. Where has Vincent gone?”
A short explanation clicked from the receiver.
“You did not recognize the man he followed?” The question came in The Shadow’s whisper. “What address did he give the cab driver?”
Burbank’s information came over the wire.
“Good work,” commended The Shadow. “That is all for to-night, Burbank.”
The receiver was replaced upon the hook. The flashlight beamed upon the desk. A hand appeared in the spot of glare, and the hand held a watch.
“Half an hour to work,” came the almost inaudible whisper. “Then to the Pink Rat. There will be trouble there.”
THE flashlight glowed constantly, now. It moved rapidly about the room. It stopped upon a table drawer.
A hand tested the drawer and found it locked. A small key glistened beneath the rays of the light. A moment later, the drawer was open.
From the drawer, the hand removed five blank cards. Three of the cards were black; one was gray; the other was white. The hand placed the cards upon the table.
The flashlight remained steadily upon the cards. The entire room had been searched quickly, but with amazing thoroughness.
These were the only objects that had been discovered. Yet the cards were blank. Apparently they meant nothing.
Still, the light was held upon them, as though a mind in the darkness above was studying them with concentrated thought.
The flashlight went out. The room remained black for a few short minutes. Then a lamp was turned on. It cast its illumination upon the table, and revealed the cloaked figure of The Shadow.
With the five cards before him, the mysterious personage produced a sheet of paper, and began to express his thoughts in writing. A column of short, terse statements appeared:
Stanley Berger killed Jonathan Graham.
Stanley Berger is being watched.
Why?
The pencil paused. Then it wrote words that answered the question:
Because certain persons must know that Berger murdered Graham.
Those persons do not want the crime to be discovered.
Those persons must be connected with the crime.
Another pause — a longer pause. Then:
Berger was directed by some one.
He possesses no written evidence.
He received instructions verbally.
Where?
The pencil hesitated a few seconds only. Then it inscribed these statements:
Instructions were given at some unknown meeting place.
Berger was summoned to that place.
Probably more than once.
The blank cards have special meanings.
The long, slender hand thrust the pencil out of sight in the folds of a dark coat. It reappeared, carrying a fountain pen. It wrote upon a black card, in red ink:
Come for instructions to-night.
The hand stacked the three black cards. The writing explained their meaning.
Stanley Berger had received them at different times. Each card was a summons to attend a meeting.
The pen poised above the gray card. Then it wrote:
Meeting to-night. Do not come unless absolutely safe.
The hand hesitated over the white card; then, as though controlled by a mind that could divine everything, it wrote, in words that had the vivid red of blood:
Your work is ended. No more meetings.
The revealing words told the meanings of the cards. They remained in view for more than a minute. Then the writing disappeared from the black card, as though some invisible hand had swept it away.
A few seconds later, the writing on the gray card began to fade. When it had obliterated itself, only the white card bore its writing. Then those blood-red words slowly vanished.
THE Shadow glanced at his watch. Half an hour had elapsed since the telephone call from Burbank. The man in black arose, and replaced the cards in the table drawer.
He extinguished the lamp. The flashlight gleamed toward the door; then it was suddenly turned off. To the keen ears of The Shadow had come the faint sound of a key being inserted in the lock of the door.
A man entered the room, and switched on the light. It was Stanley Berger!
His face was haggard and worried. He walked across the room to a small cupboard, and brought out a bottle and a glass. He filled the glass, holding it with a hand that shook unsteadily, and drank.
Then he began to look about the room. He saw no one there.
But the drawn window shades suddenly attracted Berger’s attention. He began to mumble, as though talking in a delirium.
“Those shades were up when I went out,” he said. “I ought to keep them up. Shades down — looks bad. Who put them down?”
He rubbed his hand across his forehead. Evidently Stanley Berger’s mind was troubled. He appeared restless as he paced across the room.
“Too many people in the theater,” he muttered. “Couldn’t stay there. Bad place.”
He walked over to raise the window shades; then he apparently changed his mind, for he stopped short, and stood by the table. He looked at the opposite wall of the room.
A bookcase was there, near the corner. The black shadow of the bookcase seemed to fascinate Berger. He became motionless, staring at the spot.
Then he detected a slight movement. Before his astonished eyes, the darkness of the corner seemed to alter.
There appeared a tall figure, clad in black, its shoulders shrouded in a cloak of sable hue.
Stanley Berger tried to speak; but no sound came from his lips. This amazing form that had come from nothingness seemed to transfix his gaze.
Berger’s body began to tremble as The Shadow moved slowly forward and stood before him — tall, black, and ominous — a cloaked form, its face obscured by turned-down broad-brimmed hat.
“Who are you?” gasped Stanley Berger. “Who — “
The words died on his lips. A terrible fear came over the man. Perhaps this black being was a phantom from another world!
Ghostlike it had appeared before him. Now it stood, like a medieval inquisitor, waiting for him to speak words that would betray him.
THE figure became motionless. Stanley Berger still trembled.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “Who are you?”
“I am The Shadow!”
The low, sibilant whisper was more terrifying than the spectral form itself. Berger swayed; then gripped the edge of the table, and steadied himself.
“Sit down.”
A long black arm extended toward the chair. Stanley Berger could not ignore the command. Automatically, he took the chair; but his eyes were still upon the weird being before him.
“Turn on the lamp.”
Stanley Berger obeyed.
The Shadow seemed to glide across the floor. It reached the door, and the ceiling lamp went out.
Berger stared; he could no longer see the man in black. Then he choked and gasped as The Shadow appeared directly above him — looming like a monstrous creature of vengeance.
The man in the chair looked up. Below the broad-brimmed hat he could see two eyes that gleamed like living coals. Dark, burning eyes, that seemed to pry into the secrets of his mind.