When the ray again appeared, the blotter lay in two portions. Its upper surface had been peeled from the lower. Yet there was no writing between.
The ever-working left hand applied a liquid-soaked sponge to blank sheets of paper. No writing came to view after the chemical reaction. Tiger Bronson’s secret correspondence — if it existed — was still undiscovered.
The hand glided across the desk and rested upon a small pasteboard box which contained a number of ordinary pins. The hand removed a pin. It was held upright between the thumb and the second finger. The sensitive forefinger slipped over the top of the large-headed pin.
Rapid activity followed. The pin was dropped on the desk. One by one the other pins were subjected to the same inspection.
Some were chosen; others were placed aside. Evidently the finger had detected some roughness on the heads of certain pins.
The rejected pins were replaced in the box. The left hand disappeared and came back. It laid a paper, a pencil, and a microscope upon the desk. The flashlight was set upon a book. The right hand took the microscope; the left held a pin upright.
Under the powerful lens, the head of the pin appeared magnified to many times its ordinary size. Seen through the glass, it revealed words — a short message, engraved upon the pinhead!
The message read:
Plant plates with Birch.
The hand copied this on the paper.
Another pin came beneath the microscope. Its words were:
Goods shipped to Bronx to-day.
Tiny figures indicated the date of the message The first pin was picked up again; the eyes peering through the microscope detected the date there, also.
The third pin bore this message:
Go through with plan made by Spotter.
Another read:
Will leave Brookdale within 10 days.
Other messages were detected. They were dated and tabulated. The pins were replaced in the box.
On the paper was a complete list of the communications which had been received by Tiger Bronson.
The name of the sender was not given; but the correspondence extended over a considerable period of time. The pencil passed over the items which it had jotted down; and it paused upon one message which had been copied from a pinhead:
Glad you got The Shadow.
The light went out. The invisible prowler moved to the window. There he stopped. It was as though he was peering down into the blackness below. There was a dark form there — standing motionless in the darkness of the night.
The being in the room moved softly toward the door, and listened. Footsteps were coming up the stairs — stealthy footsteps that could scarcely be heard. In fact they would have entirely escaped an ordinary ear.
The almost imperceptible footsteps stopped at the door. Complete silence followed. Suddenly, the gleam of a powerful bull’s-eye lantern filled the room. That brilliance came from the door. A new intruder had uncovered the one who had so recently made search among Tiger Bronson’s effects.
Caught squarely in the focused rays was a figure clad in black. The Shadow had chosen to remain for this climax, knowing that one stealthy arrival might mean a host of outer guardians. His inaction ended, however, at the very moment when the light blazed.
A hurtling shape of blackness launched itself upon the intruder who had shone the light from the door. The bull’s-eye lantern went clattering, as its holder sprawled to the floor of the hall. Madly, the toppled arrival uttered a wild cry, in a thuggish voice.
“He’s here! Here! He’s got me!”
A gang of men dashed up the stairs. A light switch clicked below; the upper hallway was illuminated.
There stood The Shadow, his face obscured in the raised collar of his cloak; his broad-brimmed hat turned down below his eyes.
In front of him was the half-fallen figure of a writhing thug. The man’s hands were vainly trying to loosen the grip of The Shadow, which lay upon his neck.
One of the attackers fired, just as The Shadow stooped. The shot went wide. Up came the body of the captive gangster, raised by powerful arms. It was thrust, head foremost, down the steps, into the group of men who were nearing the top.
The attack collapsed. The oncoming mobsmen went down in a group. One of them — the leader — had dodged the falling body of their comrade.
Flat on the steps he raised his arm and fired at the disappearing form of The Shadow. His shot clipped the back of the broad-brimmed hat.
A mocking laugh came from a room above. The Shadow had crossed the hall.
Outside the building, men were on guard. Toughened characters of the underworld, they were ready to follow instructions to the letter.
Their eyes were on the windows above. Their revolvers were held by firm hands, with fingers on the triggers.
A form emerged from a side window. But it was invisible in the darkness. The man below did not see it, although his eyes were glued to the spot. Like a shadow, the form moved slowly upward toward the roof. It was part of the blackness — no human eye could detect it.
The watching crook saw the shape only when it arrived at the top of the building, above the third floor. The figure emerged from the darkness with surprising suddenness. It appeared as a batlike form — an ominous silhouette against the sky.
A shot came from below; but the aim failed, for the finger pressed the trigger a fraction of a second too late. The Shadow was gone. The foiled crook gave the alarm.
Three minutes later, desperate men were on the roof of the house. Though they searched the tops of all the buildings in the block, they failed to find a trace of the being who had disappeared. He had gone — gone like The Shadow that he was!
Police were arriving on the scene, and the ruffians sought safety. They had been sent to Tiger Bronson’s house by the orders of their boss — to capture any one who might be there. They had seen a light in the second-story window, and their attack had been a stealthy one on that account.
When Tiger Bronson arrived at his house, he found the police on duty. He expressed surprise when he learned that burglars had been seen there, and that shots had been fired.
He talked with police detectives. They agreed that it could not have been a robbery. The final opinion was accepted by all.
Some fleeing gangster must have entered Bronson’s home, seeking refuge from others who were on his trail. It was merely a coincidence that the affair had taken place at this location.
Alone in his upstairs room, Tiger Bronson smiled grimly. He cast a stealthy look at the box of pins, which lay exactly as he had left it.
The Shadow had come — but had found nothing. That was exactly what Bronson had expected.
But The Shadow had also gone, in safety. That was something that Tiger Bronson had not expected.
CHAPTER XXI
VINCENT ESCAPES
Harry Vincent was sitting on a chair in the corner of a dingy room. His left wrist was locked to a ring in the wall, by means of a pair of handcuffs.
He had been in this unpleasant situation for forty-eight hours. His captor had locked him up, and had placed him on a cot.
In the morning, a chair had been substituted for the cot. Harry had received meals; the cot had replaced the chair for the second night.
Now another day had ended. Soon the mysterious man who had captured him would be back again, and Harry would be transferred to the cot.
This was a monotonous life. Harry had said very little to his captor. The man, in turn, had spoken only a few words.
While Harry was musing thus, the door of the room opened, and the man entered.
He was short and heavy-set. He wore a thick black mustache. His eyes were sharp and suspicious. His dark complexion gave him a villainous appearance.