“You killed Jonathan Graham!”
The whispered words were a statement — not a question.
“Answer me! You killed Jonathan Graham!”
Stanley Berger nodded. His personality seemed to have left him. His brain was under the domination of this unknown being. He could not withstand the power of The Shadow.
“Tell me why!”
The man in the chair made a great effort to fight off the controlling force that held him.
“I don’t know!” he said. “I don’t know!”
“Tell me why!”
“Because” — the admission came slowly from Stanley Berger’s lips — “because I had stolen his private correspondence.”
“To what did the correspondence refer?”
“I do not know.”
The Shadow was silent. Berger’s last statement had come with a spontaneous relief. It was obvious that he had spoken the truth.
“With whom did Jonathan Graham correspond?”
Stanley Berger could not overcome The Shadow’s control. His lips seemed automatic as they framed the reply:
“With a man named Whitburn.”
“Tell me his first name!”
“I do not know it.”
The glowing eyes burned steadily before the entranced gaze of Stanley Berger. There was a sharp click, as though The Shadow had snapped his fingers. The man in the chair started, and rubbed his forehead.
“Look at the table,” came the whispered voice.
Berger obeyed. A hand came before his eyes, carrying the five cards from the table drawer.
Upon the third finger of the hand was a ring with a large gem that glowed with crimson depths. It caught Stanley Berger’s attention, fascinating him.
“Look at those cards,” said The Shadow. “I shall tell you what they mean. Answer each statement that I make. Black signifies: ‘There is a meeting to-night.’ That is correct?”
“Yes.”
“Gray signifies: ‘Meeting to-night. Do not come unless absolutely safe.’ Correct?”
“Yes.”
“White signifies: ‘Your work is ended. No more meetings!’ Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Where were the meetings held?”
The reply that was forming on Stanley Berger’s lips suddenly died away. He fought against the control that held him in its merciless grip.
“No! No!” His exclamation came in short, nervous gasps. “I cannot tell! I must not tell!”
He fell forward on the table, and buried his head in his arms.
THERE was complete silence for a few tense minutes. Then a distant clock chimed ten times.
A low, fraughtful hiss came from The Shadow. It was well past the half hour that he had allotted. His voice whispered gentle, soothing words:
“Look up.”
Berger raised his head.
The slender, white hand appeared before his eyes, and he found himself staring into the glowing depths of the crimson fire opal.
Then an envelope appeared beneath it. A pen was placed in Stanley Berger’s hand.
“Write this address.”
The sibilant voice carried a gentle persuasion, which came as balm to Stanley Berger’s troubled mind. He was conscious of the envelope. But the burning fire opal held him beneath its spell. He placed the pen upon the paper to inscribe:
“Harry Vincent. Metrolite Hotel. New York City.”
With automatic precision, Stanley Berger wrote the address. The envelope was drawn to one side. A sheet of paper took its place.
“Write your full story. Tell everything.”
The voice, despite its uncanny whisper, seemed friendly and helpful.
“Sign your name beneath, when you have finished. Mail the letter. Then you can forget.”
The man at the table placed the pen upon the paper. He seemed to be engaged in deep thought, his mind groping in the past.
The hand moved away. The fire opal was no longer before Stanley Berger’s eyes. Yet its glow still persisted. He imagined that he saw the mysterious crimson gem upon the white paper in front of him.
As he slowly began to write, the fiery blotch followed the point of his pen.
Stanley Berger was a man in a trance, still governed by the dynamic presence of The Shadow, which he could feel beside him. He could do nothing other than obey the commands he had received.
Yet The Shadow was no longer there. Silently, noiselessly, like a phantom of the night, the man of mystery had left the apartment.
CHAPTER VII
AT THE PINK RAT
THE main room of the Pink Rat was a dingy, sordid place. It was dimly lighted, and was furnished with old tables, and cheap, unpainted benches.
Yet, despite its uninviting appearance, the Pink Rat was well patronized. Clustered about its tables were as many as twenty men, and a few women.
The bottles that stood on the tables were mute evidence of the Pink Rat’s attraction. The den was a booze joint, run in open defiance of the law.
Harry Vincent saw all this at a single glance. He took his place in an obscure corner, and surveyed the crowd.
A sharp-eyed waiter spotted him, and came over to his table. Harry was in a quandary. He must make some pretense of being familiar with the den. Rather than betray himself by a mis-statement, he simply handed the waiter a five-dollar bill.
The man looked at him quizzically. Harry showed no concern.
The waiter went away and came back with a flask, a glass, and four dollars and twenty-five cents in change. Harry tipped him the quarter.
Mechanically, Harry poured out a glassful of the liquor. With his hand upon the glass, he looked about him.
The dimness of the room, which was thickly clouded with tobacco smoke, made it difficult to observe the persons present. But at last Harry spotted his man, talking with another at a corner table.
A full hour of waiting went by. Unobserved, Harry managed to empty the liquor into a cuspidor by the wall. This enabled him to order a second bottle when the waiter came his way again.
The Pink Rat was filled with men whose minds were swimming from the effects of bad liquor, and Harry, by maintaining his alertness, held a position of advantage.
His thoughts reverted to Stanley Berger, and he glanced at his watch. Not yet ten o’clock. It would be another hour before Berger would leave the theater — so Harry supposed.
He did not know that at that very moment, Berger was in his apartment.
WHO was this man who had followed Stanley Berger? Would he return to the theater to take up the trail again?
Harry could see the man’s swarthy face — an ugly, frowning face. But he could not make out the features of the man’s companion. The other individual had his back toward Harry.
Looking about him, Harry studied the other persons in the room.
The women who were with companions were talking loudly. They were evidently the associates of gangsters and racketeers.
There was one woman who sat alone. She was on the opposite side of the room, at a small table.
A bottle and a glass stood in front of her, but like Harry, she was not drinking. Her quietness of manner impressed Harry Vincent. Her head was slightly turned, so he could not well see her face, yet her general appearance was most attractive.
She seemed young, and Harry wondered what had brought her to this notorious den.
In studying the girl, Harry forgot all about the man whom he was following. Unconsciously he kept staring across the room, his eyes fixed upon the woman.
She was well dressed; and blond, bobbed hair showed beneath the small black hat that she wore.
As though suddenly conscious of Harry’s gaze, the girl turned her face toward him. Harry could not repress a gasp of astonishment.
The girl was indeed young, and her features possessed beauty and charm. Her complexion was light and even in the dimness, Harry could tell that her eyes were blue.