Tim Mecke nodded. He knew that he would have the opportunity he wanted. In reply to his question, the guard assured him that this was the only door to the warden’s office. Tim planted himself at a convenient spot, and listened to the talk between two newspaper men who were standing close by.
“Less than twenty minutes now, Jake,” one was saying.
“Yeah,” replied the other. “Do you feel nervous, Bob?”
“No. Why?”
“Well — I guess you’re hard-boiled. It gives me the willies, though, to think of a fellow being snuffed out while we’re looking on.”
“There’s nothing to it, Jake. He gets the juice, does a wiggle — that’s all.”
“How long does it take to knock him, Bob?”
“That depends. He gets the hot shock. The physician makes an examination. If it looks like there’s a chance of the guy being alive, they give him another shot.”
“How often?”
“You can’t tell. Generally, they’re shooting the juice through a body that’s already dead. It’s just a humane idea, I guess — so there won’t be any chance of life remaining. The autopsy comes after the execution has been completed, anyway.”
Tim Mecke was listening mechanically. This conversation was of little interest to him. He was watching the warden’s door.
“The juice burns them, doesn’t it?” Jake was asking. “One jolt ought to do the trick.”
“Electric current is funny,” returned the other reporter. “There’s such a thing as getting too much of it in one shock. They use alternating current in most pens, on that account. It burns bad, they say. There’s talk of installing it here, instead of the direct current which is used in this place.”
THE conversation continued. Bob had a hazy idea of just how the death current acted, but he managed to convey to Jake that there was a difference in the effects of direct and alternating currents. While the two reporters were still discussing the matter, the door of the warden’s office opened, and a squatty, gray-haired man appeared, with two uniformed guards behind him.
“The warden!” Tim heard some one say.
“Get ready, boys,” announced the gray-haired man, amid the hush which had fallen. “We’re going downstairs in about three minutes. They are ready there. Doctor Guyon is present in the electrocution room.”
Tim Mecke stepped forward as Warden Barringer was talking to the guards beside him. In his hand, Tim held the envelope which Foulkrod Kendall had given him at the governor’s mansion.
“Just a minute, warden,” interrupted Tim, in a low voice. “I’ve got something important to tell you.”
Warden Barringer studied Mecke narrowly. He wondered what this man wanted. He saw the envelope in Tim’s hand, and noted that it was addressed to himself.
“Does this pertain to the execution?” questioned the warden.
Tim nodded.
“What is it?” continued Barringer.
“You’ll have to open it, warden,” whispered Tim. “In the office — I can’t talk to you out here. I’ve just come from the capital—”
The warden motioned toward the door. He spoke to the guards, and told them to allow no one to enter. He conducted Tim Mecke into the office, and took the envelope as he walked to his desk.
“What’s in here?” quizzed the warden, as he tore open the envelope.
“A pardon,” said Tim, “for Ronald Elverton. A pardon, signed by Governor Landow.”
The warden, seated at the desk, looked up in astonishment. This was unbelievable. He was unfolding the paper as he stared at Tim Mecke. He doubted the man’s veracity.
The paper was open in Barringer’s hands. The governor’s signature was barely showing, but the warden did not notice it while he was surveying the man who had brought the envelope. Then, on the paper that rested between Barringer’s fingers, a strange phenomenon occurred.
As cleanly as if an invisible hand had acted, the signature of Hiram Landow obliterated itself from the pardon! The rapid, disappearing ink performed its function with surprising suddenness. This was the magic in that bottle of ink which The Shadow had substituted in the governor’s room. The special fluid lost its color upon contact with the air.
Warden Barringer stared at the paper. As he glanced down the typewritten lines, he fancied that he caught the glimmer of blue ink below. When his eyes jumped to that point, the warden saw that he was mistaken.
THIS document bore the wording of a pardon — but its most important part was blank. The paper bore no signature! Warden Barringer raised his head in anger.
“What is this?” he demanded. “A hoax? Some trick to delay the execution?”
“It is a pardon from the governor!” retorted Tim. “Read it. Look at the signature—”
In answer, the warden arose and flashed the paper before Tim’s eyes. The camouflaged gangster stood in amazement. He, too, saw that the paper lacked the governor’s name.
Tim was too stupefied to speak.
“Ready, warden?” came a voice from the door.
“Yes!” blazed Barringer. “We’ll go downstairs at once.”
Angrily, the warden tore the unsigned pardon in half. He flung the pieces to the floor. With a contemptuous glare at Tim Mecke, the official started for the door.
“Listen, warden!” Tim was pleading as he clutched Barringer’s arm. “There’s been a mistake. This pardon was on the level. Honest — I got it from the governor himself—”
“I have no time for you,” interposed Barringer coldly. “By rights, I should order your arrest, but the hoax is so apparent that it is too unimportant at this moment.”
Shaking off Tim’s grasp, the warden strode from the office. Tim followed wildly; the men who joined the rapidly walking warden cut Tim off from the man he sought to reach. The crowd was passing through an iron doorway. As Tim tried to break through to overtake Barringer, a guard stopped him roughly.
“Show your permit,” the man demanded.
Tim fumbled and produced the card that had gained him admission to the penitentiary.
“That won’t do!” exclaimed the guard. “I want the special permit that lets you down to the death room, or I can’t let you pass.”
“I haven’t got one,” blurted Tim. “Let me through — I want to see the warden—”
The guard thrust Tim Mecke to one side. The last of the crowd was passing through the doorway. The iron door clanged. Tim Mecke stood wild-eyed and bewildered.
“A telephone!” he cried. “I’ve got to call the governor! Where’s a telephone?”
The guard thought that Tim Mecke had gone berserk. Then, as he saw the man become calm and tense, he supplied the information that Tim wanted.
“Go back in the room outside the warden’s office,” said the guard. “You’ll find the telephone there.”
Tim hurried back. He called the operator. He was balked. The girl on the wire refused to put through a long-distance call for this unknown speaker. Desperately, Tim gave the number of Foulkrod Kendall’s home, near New Avalon. He was connected; he heard the voice of a servant.
“Quick!” pleaded Tim. “Call the Barnes Hotel at the State capital. Tell Mr. Kendall to communicate with the governor at once! Tell him that things have gone wrong — that Mecke called you—”
Seated by the telephone, Tim watched the clock. The long minute hand had almost reached twelve, when Tim’s call to Kendall’s home was ended. Two minutes to go! Tim knew that the cause was hopeless.
DOWNSTAIRS in the death room, guards were adjusting the clamps to Silk Elverton’s legs. Emotionless, the smooth crook was seated in the electric chair, staring stolidly at the throng of men who watched him. He could see the stern face of Warden Barringer. He observed the calm visage of Doctor Conrad Guyon.