The Shadow opened the door and entered. His advance was shrouded, for this door was in darkness.
The Shadow locked the barrier behind him. A tiny flashlight glimmered as he looked about on the ground floor.
The house was musty. Its lower windows were barred. No chance for entry here; huge iron shutters would keep out intruders. The Shadow found a stairway and ascended to the second floor. He saw another flight that led to the third story. Instead of following it, he began a search of the second floor. He entered a room which had a lowered shade. Closing the door, The Shadow pressed a light switch.
His flashlight’s glimmer had given him a brief view; he knew that this was the room he wanted. As he viewed the apartment in full light, The Shadow laughed softly. He was standing in Professor Morth’s study — and it was a most curious room.
In the center was a desk, with book-racks that were laden with technical volumes that dealt with anthropology. At one corner of the room was a small curtained alcove, which appeared to be used for storing articles. In the far corner was a large cupboard with open front.
The contents of the cupboard intrigued The Shadow. Every shelf contained a row of grinning skulls.
From specimens of the cave-man type to heads of modern proportions, this was an exhibit of man’s cranial evolution.
Skulls large and small. Leering, eyeless objects that looked like formidable guardians left on duty by Professor Morth.
The Shadow approached the cupboard. He noted that the shelves were unbacked. A plain wall lay behind them.
Crooks were in search of a skull. There were skulls here in plenty; but there was no choice among those in the cupboard. But as The Shadow turned, he spied a skull that stood alone. Fierce and grim, it was resting, open-jawed, upon a low, squatty cabinet that stood in another corner of the room.
A clock on the wall tingled ten as The Shadow approached this cabinet-mounted skull. He noted that the solitary death’s-head was a manufactured article, not a genuine skull. It was attached to the cabinet, and as The Shadow gazed into the open jaws, he spied what appeared to be a nickel-plated knob directly beneath the center hollow of the skull.
A whispered laugh came from hidden lips. The Shadow, weirdly cloaked, looked like the symbol of death in this room of human relics. The skull on the cabinet looked up as though viewing a visible master.
The skulls in the cupboard were grinning as in greeting. The soft mirth ended suddenly. The Shadow’s keen ears had caught a sound from below. Footsteps in a lower hall. Voices. Men were coming up the stairs. They were moving closer to this room. Quickly, The Shadow pressed out the lights. He swished through darkness and gained the curtained alcove.
THE door of the room opened. Two men entered. One was past middle age; his Vandyke beard was gray. Slight of build, he was, however, brisk and domineering in manner. Peering from the curtain, The Shadow knew that this must be Professor Morth.
The other man, middle-aged and pasty-faced, looked like a servant.
“Very well, Logan,” stated Professor Morth. “You may begin to put the house in order. Leave the downstairs windows closed until tomorrow; but uncover the furniture.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the servant.
“I am glad you met me at the station,” resumed Morth. “I had forgotten my keys. Let me see” — he pulled open a desk drawer — “ah, yes, here they are.”
Professor Morth went to a door at the rear of the study. He unlocked it. The Shadow caught a glimpse of a bedroom, as the professor entered. Returning with a meerschaum pipe, Morth filled the bowl from a humidor on the desk, then waved a hand to Logan.
“Go downstairs,” he repeated. “Put things in order. Then you can continue your work up here.”
Logan departed, closing the door behind him. Professor Morth lighted his pipe. With a pleased sigh, he looked toward the skull-filled cupboard. He seemed to regard those grinning heads as friends.
Puffing at the meerschaum, the bearded anthropologist turned toward the squatty cabinet. He chuckled as he viewed the mounted skull; he approached and placed his hand upon the artificial death’s-head, stroking it as one would pat a faithful dog.
There was a telephone on Morth’s desk. A buzz attracted the professor’s attention. He approached and picked up the receiver. It was a call from Logan, downstairs.
“What’s that?” queried Morth, sharply. “A visitor? I did not hear the doorbell… Ah, yes, I recall now that one can not hear it here in the study when the door is closed. But I wish to see no one, Logan…
“Something important? What is the visitor’s name?… Homer Hothan… Never heard of him… What’s that? Did you say he came from Hildrew Parchell? Hildrew Parchell is dead… Ah, I begin to understand… This man Hothan was Hildrew’s secretary… Very well, Logan…
“Yes, I shall see him… Certainly, here in the study… Yes, bring up the mail also. Quite an accumulation of it, I suppose… Very well, Logan.”
Professor Morth hung up. He seated himself behind the desk and puffed at the meerschaum. His bearded face was reflective. Morth was thinking of his dead friend, Hildrew Parchell.
From behind the curtain, The Shadow watched the flickers of emotion on the savant’s face. Like Morth, The Shadow was awaiting the arrival of Homer Hothan.
CHAPTER XIII. THE SECOND SKULL
FIVE minutes had passed since Logan’s announcement of a visitor. Professor Morth was still behind his desk, busy opening his mail. Across from him was Homer Hothan.
The sallow man was looking curiously about. Logan had gone downstairs again. The door of the study was closed.
After shaking hands with Hothan, Morth had requested the visitor to sit down and wait a few minutes.
Morth wanted to go through his mail before he talked with Hildrew Parchell’s ex-secretary. At times, Hothan watched the professor; at other moments, he continued his roving inspection of the study.
The Shadow, in darkness behind the curtain, saw a keen flicker on Hothan’s face as the fellow viewed the skull-filled cupboard. Then he saw disappointment reflected in Hothan’s gaze. Keenness returned, however, when Hothan spied that squatty cabinet in the corner. The sallow man spotted the glimmer from within the mounted skull.
Professor Morth looked up suddenly as he heard a slight chuckle that Hothan gave unconsciously.
Hothan was quick to look in another direction. His face became dull as he sought to cover up his mistake. Morth laid letters aside and relighted his meerschaum.
“Very well, young man,” declared the professor. “I am ready to converse with you. What is the purpose of this visit? You say you were once Hildrew Parchell’s secretary?”
“Yes,” nodded Hothan, “and at present I am acting in behalf of his estate. I was sent here by Weldon Wingate, Mr. Parchell’s attorney.”
“Wingate sent you here?”
There was something doubtful in Morth’s tone. Hothan was smart enough to know the reason. He had not been idle while watching Morth read his mail.
“I believe,” purred Hothan, suavely, “that Mr. Wingate wrote you. He indicated that fact to me. He said that he had expected to hear from you. Because he had not, he suggested that I call here.”
“Ah, yes.” Morth nodded. “That would explain it. I have just been reading a brief letter from Wingate. He wants me to communicate with him, in reference to Hildrew Parchell. But he stated nothing else.”
“He believed that he would hear from you,” remarked Hothan. “He told me that when he called me on the telephone tonight. Our conversation was brief; he merely asked me to call here and discuss matters with you.”
“What matters?”
“Relating to Hildrew Parchell’s estate.”