Did not lift shade; pushed it back with arm. Tiny cloth mark on edge of shade. Used handkerchief on sill when hands were left there.
Murderer feared all clues were not destroyed. Returned to vicinity. Observed Detective Griffith. Followed him to morgue. Stabbed him. Took articles that had belonged to Jarnow.
The hand stopped its writing. Then came these words:
The murderer is five feet nine inches tall. Weighs approximately one hundred and sixty pounds. Wore black shoes, and a blue suit of rough cloth. Is right-handed. A crook of experience who can use a gun or a knife with equal facility.
Then these notations were added:
In appearance, the man is striking. Jarnow must have recognized him immediately. Yet he does not appear to be a crook; he is smooth, and convincing. Griffith did not suspect him.
Sounds came down the stairs. The outside door of the morgue clanged shut. Yet the figure at the desk still wrote.
Immediate danger threatened Henry Windsor. Something transpired in Massachusetts. Vincent to visit Blair Windsor. Radio communication must be established. Identity of murderer may be learned in New York.
Heavy footsteps were clanging from the stone stairs. The Shadow crumpled the paper as he rose. He moved toward a corner of the room, and his form became still. It merged with the darkness in the corner.
Any one suspecting it might have distinguished its presence; to the casual observer it could mean nothing more than natural blackness.
Two policemen entered the chamber, carrying a body on a stretcher. They were followed by the morgue attendant, who indicated one of the trucks. The body was deposited there.
“There’s another one for you, Bill,” observed one of the policemen, removing his cap, and wiping his forehead. “You and Mike get a regular collection here, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” replied the attendant.
“Does the place ever give you the creeps?” asked the officer.
“No,” answered the attendant. “Why should it? They’re all dead ones here. There ain’t no chill ever comes over me.”
The men were facing the far end of the room. The shadow in the nearer corner came suddenly to life. It moved, like a black spectre, across the room to the steps. There, hidden in the darkness of the stairs, it paused.
Then to the ears of the three men who stood beside the body came a most terrifying sound.
A deep-whispered laugh swept through that stone-walled room — a chilling laugh that echoed from the low ceiling. The men gasped, and their eyes stared at the body on the truck; it seemed that the hollow mockery had come from the lips of the dead man!
The boastful morgue keeper shook as his quavering hands sought support from his companions. Here, in this familiar place, he had felt the stroke of terror.
He had heard the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER VII
LAMONT CRANSTON TALKS TO HIMSELF
Four o’clock in the morning.
That was the time indicated by the luminous dial of the wrist watch, as Lamont Cranston studied it in the darkness.
He had awakened suddenly, and he could not account for it. Usually a sound sleeper, he had been strangely aroused from a fantastic dream. The room was pitch-dark.
Slumber seemed gone from the millionaire’s mind. He listened intently. He fancied that he had heard a soft, whispering voice calling his name. Yet it must have been a dream.
Then his muscles tightened.
“Lamont Cranston!”
The summons came in an almost inaudible tone from the foot of the bed. It was a whisper — a strange, incredible whisper.
This was no dream. It was reality.
The millionaire slipped his right hand under his pillow, and grasped his automatic. Quietly, he pointed it toward the foot of the bed. Then he pushed his body upward; and with his free hand, he pulled the cord of the reading lamp.
A figure was standing at the foot of the bed. A black figure, that seemed like a huge shadow.
Cranston’s eyes made out a form clad in black, its face hidden by a hat with a turned-down brim. The millionaire covered the figure with his revolver. Then he spoke, hoarsely.
“Who are you? Raise your hands — or I shall fire.”
A soft, low laugh came from the foot of the bed.
“Press the trigger,” came the whispered voice.
The millionaire obeyed. A click answered. The gun had been loaded when he had placed it beneath his pillow. Now it was empty.
“Do not be alarmed,” came the whispered voice. Its tone was sinister, despite its assurance. “You need not fear. I shall not harm you. I unloaded your automatic. I thought you might become excited.”
“Who are you?” demanded Lamont Cranston.
The figure ignored his question.
“I have come to advise you,” came the whisper. “You must leave here for a while. For a month at least. I recommend a trip to Europe. Sea air is very healthy at this season. You will go tomorrow.”
“Who are you?”
Again the question was ignored.
“Will you obey my orders?” asked the voice from the foot of the bed.
“No!” exclaimed the millionaire.
The figure laughed mirthlessly, and Lamont Cranston shuddered. His eyes gazed in fascination as the man in black moved from his position, and came to the side of the bed, until he stood but a few feet away.
The millionaire changed his position, in readiness for an attack.
“You ask me who I am,” said the strange being. “Tell me first who you are.”
“You know my name,” replied the millionaire. “You called it — Lamont Cranston.”
A mocking laugh was the response.
“I called your name?” was the figure’s question. “I must disagree with you. I called my own name.”
The black form moved slightly. The cloak and hat dropped backward, and disappeared. A man was revealed in the light, and a startled cry escaped Lamont Cranston’s lips.
The person who stood before him was the very double of himself.
“I am Lamont Cranston,” announced the stranger.
The millionaire shuddered as he heard his own voice uttered by those lips!
The situation was uncanny. The man in the bed could not believe his senses. He knew that he was wide awake; yet this was the most incredible experience that the human mind could imagine.
“Let me explain,” said the standing man, in those same tones that seemed the actual voice of the millionaire. “Some people call me The Shadow.
“That is but one identity. I have other personalities that I assume, as easily as I don my black cloak and hat.
“One of my personalities is that of Lamont Cranston. In the past, I have used it while you were away. At present, I choose to use it now. It would be embarrassing for both of us to be here. So you must go.”
Sudden enlightenment came to the amazed millionaire.
“So that is why Richards acted so strangely!” he exclaimed. “You have deceived him while I was away! You were here, masquerading as myself. You were injured.”
“That is correct,” replied the personage who so perfectly resembled Lamont Cranston. “I told Richards never to mention the incident. I am surprised that he slipped. He is usually so very careful.”
The real Lamont Cranston became suddenly indignant. His fear had dwindled since his visitor had ceased that weird whisper. Now he was becoming angry.
“You are an impostor,” he exclaimed.
“You think so?”
“I know it.”
“That does not alter the circumstances,” said The Shadow. “There are reasons why I choose to be here — as Lamont Cranston.