The detective did not waste an instant. He stepped up to The Shadow and reached for the broad-brimmed hat which had shifted forward so that it completely hid the face beneath the brim.
AT that instant The Shadow came to life. He swung his body toward one side with terrific force.
The policeman who held The Shadow’s right arm was flung against Cardona. The Shadow’s hand came free.
The plain-clothes men, coming in, were momentarily halted by the forms of Cardona and the officer. The other policeman still held The Shadow in a viselike grip, but he was no match for the man in black. With amazing strength, The Shadow lifted the man off the floor. Turning toward the doorway, he flung his foe against two new men who were entering.
Three quick strides and The Shadow’s black form was silhouetted against the window across the room.
It required several seconds for him to open the sash.
Shots rang out and glass was shattered. The Shadow’s form slumped, but it straightened quickly as the would-be captors came across the room in triumph.
With one sweeping motion The Shadow vaulted the low sill and dropped from the window, just as a hand plucked the folds of his black cloak. The Shadow slipped free of the garment, leaving it in the hands of his foe.
The plain-clothes man leaned from the window and aimed his automatic at the thin black figure on the ground below. Bullets ricocheted from the stone alley as The Shadow fled. The last shot whizzed above him and carried his hat from his head.
The Shadow swooped the hat from the ground as he turned the corner of the house. From the alley came the sound of a mocking, triumphant laugh.
Detective Cardona directed the pursuit. His men had not been badly injured in the fray. They hurried from the house by both doors in a mad effort to trace the man who had eluded them.
Cardona leaned against the wall beside the door of the back room. Then, picking up the black cloak which had been thrown on the floor, he walked slowly back to the room where the body of Doctor Lukens lay.
The detective found his automatic and laid it on the desk. He sat in a chair and stared at the physician’s body. He rubbed the side of his head and tried to ward off the dizziness that was overcoming him. He looked up.
Before him stood a tall, thin man clad in a close-fitting black suit. The man’s arms were folded. His head was bowed, and his face was shadowy beneath the brim of his hat.
STEADYING himself with one hand, Cardona reached for his automatic. The man in black laughed softly. He drew his cloak from Cardona’s knees. He wrapped the cloak about his shoulders and raised the collar high above his chin.
Cardona was examining his automatic. He saw the reason for The Shadow’s laugh. The gun was useless.
The Shadow’s shot had ruined it. The detective tried to rise from his chair, but sank back helplessly.
“Cardona,” said The Shadow in a low, weird whisper, “I am not your enemy. I did not kill Doctor Lukens. I came here to protect him. Do you understand?”
The detective nodded.
“Your men have captured my weapons,” continued The Shadow in that same strange voice. “You will find that the bullet that killed this man does not correspond to either of my automatics. The murderer left here before I arrived. He has taken the gun with him.”
Quietly The Shadow stooped over the body of the dead physician. He opened Lukens’s clenched right hand.
The pair of dice dropped upon the floor. They showed the number seven — a five spot and a two.
“There is a connection,” said The Shadow, rising. “Those dice were in Marchand’s desk. This murder — like Marchand’s death — has something to do with the number seven.
“Perhaps some fiend has planned seven murders. Perhaps” — his voice was thoughtful — “there are seven persons involved. Follow that clew. Seek the murderer.
“I shall tell you more. The gun was probably fitted with a silencer. That extended finger of Lukens’s left hand shows a purpose. The murderer desired a ring that he was wearing.
“Seek the murderer” — The Shadow’s voice was sibilant — “and I shall aid you. Premeditated murder, with Doctor Lukens taken unaware. I shall aid you. When I am certain of the murderer’s identity and have fathomed the plans of his associates, I shall reveal them to you.”
Cardona saw the flash of two burning eyes that peered from the depths below the broad-brimmed hat.
He clutched the arms of his chair to fight off dizziness. Then The Shadow was gone.
Outside, the two plain-clothes men were returning from their fruitless pursuit. They were startled by the sound of a long, taunting laugh that seemed to come from nowhere and that dwindled away to a mysterious nothingness.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER VIII. CARDONA CHECKS
“GEN’LEMAN callee you on phone, sir.”
Rodney Paget sat up in bed. It was morning. He was in Jerry Burnham’s apartment. Burnham’s Japanese valet had roused him.
“All right, Kama,” said Paget. “I’ll answer.”
He arose slowly and leisurely put on a pair of slippers. He yawned as he went into the living room, followed by the valet.
“He downstairs, sir,” informed Kama. “He say he wanee see you.”
“Hello,” drawled Paget, speaking in the house phone. A note of surprise entered his voice. “Oh, yes. I remember you. I met you at Marchand’s house the night the old man died. Come right up.”
Paget went back in the bedroom and put on a dressing gown. Another man, similarly attired, appeared in the hallway. The newcomer bore the tired look of a man who had awakened from a sleep disturbed by alcoholic memories.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“We’re up, Jerry,” replied Paget with a laugh. “And a detective’s coming up. He’ll be here in a minute.”
“A detective?”
“Yes. His name is Cardona. Something to do with the death of old Marchand.”
Kama answered the knock at the door. Cardona walked in. He nodded to Paget in a friendly manner.
“Sit down,” urged Paget. “This is Mister Burnham, Mister Cardona—”
“Glad to meet you,” said the detective. “I called at your apartment, Mister Paget. I was told that you could be reached over here.”
“I’ve been here all night,” said Paget, with a laugh. “That is, all night, since three o’clock in the morning.”
He glanced at a clock on the bookcase. “Look at that,” he added. “Nearly eleven, and I’m just getting up.
“What do you want to see me about, Cardona? Something to do with Marchand?”
“Not Marchand.”
“Who, then?”
“Haven’t you seen the morning papers?”
“Not yet. I just got up. We generally read the evening papers around here. What’s happened?”
In reply, Cardona drew a newspaper from beneath his arm and handed the journal to Paget. The clubman blinked as he observed a familiar face picture on the front page; then his eye caught the headlines.
“Jove!” he exclaimed. “Doctor Lukens murdered!”
PAGET stared with wide-open eyes as hastily perused the paragraphs below the headlines. He seemed to have forgotten his customary indifference.
He devoured the printed lines. Then he cast the newspaper to the floor. His face was sober as he stared at the detective.
“You were there,” Paget said solemnly. “You had the man. Why didn’t you hold him?”
“He knocked me out,” admitted the detective. “My men let him slip away. Nearly winged him when he jumped out of the window. Didn’t even see his face, though.”
“This is terrible news, Cardona,” Paget said slowly. “I hope you get the murderer!”