Brooks smiled. That plug made a ring impossible. But one quick, deft twist would remove it. That action would come later.
Brooks also glanced toward a telephone in the corner. There was a switch beneath it. Pressed home, that switch connected up with the telephone in the studio. It was not quite tight now. A slight press would do the trick. That, too, would come later. At present, Alfred Sartain was completely isolated from outside communication.
Brooks glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes was the time allotted. Then these details could be quietly arranged. Brooks had little work to do. He smiled. With Hunnefield here, his actions would be accounted for; and Broderick would arrive later. The sooner the better.
Brooks was to gain the pleasure of admitting the expected visitor very shortly. For at the precise moment that the butler lounged across the living room, a man entered the lobby on the street floor far blow.
This visitor to the apartment building was a tall man who wore a light-brown overcoat and a gray hat. He carried a large brief case in his hand. He stopped to speak to the doorman. In a quiet monotone, he put the query:
“Is Mr. Alfred Sartain at home?”
A chance lounger in the lobby caught the question. It was one of “Slips” Harbeck’s men — an underling of Larry Ricordo’s trusted lieutenant. That man was very anxious to hear the rest of the conversation between the doorman and the stranger.
“I believe that Mr. Sartain is here,” replied the doorman. “I can call the penthouse and tell him that you have arrived. What is the name, sir?”
“Broderick. Howard Broderick. I have an appointment.”
The lounger strolled from the lobby. Howard Broderick was the name of the one person who was to have uninterrupted entrance to Sartain’s domain.
The doorman put through a call. He received word to admit the visitor. He ushered the man with the brief case to the elevator. A few minutes later, the visitor stepped forth at the entrance to the penthouse. He rang the bell, and Brooks opened the door.
THE butler bowed and admitted the early arrival. He stared rather closely at the stranger. There was something about the man’s appearance that troubled the false butler. Broderick’s face had a cold, chiseled expression, and his eyes, as they glanced across the room, were firm and keenly observant.
“Mr. Sartain is expecting me.”
The visitor’s voice chilled Brooks. It also attracted the attention of Hunnefield, who was seated in a chair, reading. The secretary leaped to his feet and approached the stranger.
“Ah, you are Mr. Broderick?” he questioned. “Mr. Sartain did not expect you so early. You will have to wait, sir, until he rings for you to be admitted.”
“You can tell him that I am here?”
“No, I am afraid not. He is going over papers at present; and he will notify us as soon as he is free.”
Hat in hand, but with coat still on his shoulders, the tall visitor had moved easily across the room. He was facing the door that barred the way to Sartain’s studio.
As he turned, his keen eyes spotted the bell against the wall. They also saw the telephone. Then they were turned toward the secretary.
In one sweeping glance, this person had noted the facts that so greatly concerned Brooks; but the false butler had not fully realized its keenness.
“I must wait, then,” remarked the visitor, with a placid smile. “Very well, I shall do so. Admirable place that Mr. Sartain has here. Excellent view.”
He was strolling across the room as he spoke. He stopped by a pair of French doors that led out to a veranda. With an easy, natural gesture, he turned the knob and glanced out into the night, toward the twinkling lights of Manhattan.
“Quite all right?” he questioned.
“To step outside?” responded Hunnefield. “Certainly, Mr. Broderick. I shall call you when we hear from Mr. Sartain, unless you come in before that.”
“A delightful breeze,” observed the tall man quietly. “Thank you for your courtesy.”
He stepped to the veranda as he finished the sentence, leaving the door half opened behind him.
Hunnefield dropped back into his chair. Brooks smiled and went about trivial duties. The presence of the visitor had made the false butler feel ill at ease. He was just as glad that Broderick had stepped out upon the veranda.
The glance of the keen eyes toward the telephone and the bell — it still disturbed Brooks. But with Broderick temporarily out of sight, the butler was glad that the visitor had come. He remained just within the French window, occasionally speaking to Hunnefield. Broderick would prove useful, perhaps, later this evening. He, like the secretary, would be a good witness to the unfortunate accident that was destined to befall Alfred Sartain.
But Brooks did not actually step out to the veranda himself. He merely took it for granted that Howard Broderick was still there. Hence he did not see the strange metamorphosis that occurred beyond the French window.
THE man who had introduced himself as Howard Broderick had carried his brief case, absent-mindedly tucked beneath his arm. Alone, in the darkness, he became suddenly busy with the compact satchel.
Stooping, he opened it by the rail of the veranda. Out came objects, invisible in the gloom.
The gray hat dropped from the head that wore it. The light overcoat dropped from arms and shoulders.
Other garments took their place. A long black cloak, a dark, broad-brimmed slouch hat — these formed Howard Broderick’s new attire. The other garments went quickly into the brief case, which deft hands deposited against the wall of the penthouse.
A figure raised itself beside the rail. Barely discernible in the glow from the metropolis, it formed the sinister, ghostly shape of a tall being clad entirely in black. Even the hands of this weird phantom were now covered with black gloves. The only spots of light that showed were two blazing eyes that flashed from beneath the brim of the slouch hat.
Howard Broderick’s part was ended. This visitant’s statement of identity had been false. No longer guised as a man — instead, a fantastic creature of darkness — he had become The Shadow!
Sinister foe of crime, amazing master of the night, The Shadow had arrived at the spot where death was stalking. His tall, eerie shape was rising higher as it poised upon the broad rail of the veranda. Long arms, stretched upward, gripped the projecting slope of the roof.
The figure of The Shadow swung outward. It poised over nothingness; then swung upward. Unyielding hands drew the lithe body to the safety above.
The Shadow, unseen, his form now but a mass of moving blackness along the steep incline, was scaling the sloping roof of the penthouse, bound upon a precarious mission which involved the life of a man already doomed to die!
CHAPTER III. THE TRAP ACTS
THE watchers high in the Brinton Building were studying the penthouse scene with renewed interest.
Their evil eyes were upon the corner window, where light had now replaced the former blackness.
Beyond the framework of the studio window, plainly visible through the small panes of glass, sat Alfred Sartain. The millionaire was busy at his desk.
While Thomas Jocelyn and Larry Ricordo stared in silence, Professor Folcroft Urlich spoke in low, continued tones, still maintaining his lecture style.
“Our man is in the trap,” he explained. “As yet, he has not experienced its effects. That time is coming shortly. Here is the means whereby we may study him more closely.”
The professor drew a pair of opera glasses from his coat and focused them upon the scene across the street. He tendered the glasses to Jocelyn, who drew nervously away. Ricordo, however, seized them eagerly.