At the door, he encountered a new arrival. It was Clyde Burke, reporter for the New York Classic.
“What’s the dope, Joe?” questioned Clyde.
“Nothing,” returned the detective. “The old gentleman fell out of bed with a heart attack. Tipped over the table and the place caught fire from a candle that fell over. His servant put out the blaze.”
“Well, that’s a story. Give me more details.”
“Look them over for yourself.”
Cardona extended his opened notebook. Clyde began to read the various items. Immediately, the reporter noted the completeness of Cardona’s notes. He saw that the star detective must have suspected more than accident at the beginning of the inquiry.
“Want to keep the book?” growled Cardona, as Clyde kept on transcribing information. “Say — what are you going to do? Make a story for the Sunday supplement?”
“No,” laughed Clyde. “Just hoping that I can convince the M.E. that this yarn is worth something. All right, Joe, I’ve got the details. So long.”
Joe Cardona went in one direction; Clyde Burke in the other. The detective, bound for headquarters, felt positive that his final decision was the correct one that Hildrew Parchell had died by accident.
The reporter held no conclusion whatever. To Clyde Burke, the death of Hildrew Parchell was an oddity.
That gave the case a definite importance; so much so that Clyde stopped at the nearest drug store to put in a prompt telephone call.
Speaking over the wire, Clyde gave the complete details from his copy of Cardona’s notes. That done, he stuffed the sheet of paper into his coat pocket. Clyde grinned as he went out to the street.
This story would mean but little to the Classic. Joe Cardona had been right in wondering why Clyde had put down so many details. Clyde Burke had not been acting in his capacity as a reporter when he had telephoned the facts concerning Hildrew Parchell’s death.
Clyde Burke was more than a newspaper reporter. He was also the agent of a hidden master sleuth who sought traces of crime beneath placid surfaces. It was to that chief that Clyde had forwarded the facts that he had learned.
The circumstances of Hildrew Parchell’s death; the names of those persons with whom the old man had maintained contact — all were on their way to The Shadow!
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW ENTERS
“BURBANK speaking.”
“Report—”
The order came in a sinister whisper. The single word was uttered by hidden lips. The Shadow was in his sanctum, a strange room wherein the bluish rays of a shaded lamp glimmered upon the surface of a polished table.
Earphones clamped to head, The Shadow was hearing from Burbank, his contact man who kept in touch with active agents. Burbank’s call was bringing the details of Clyde Burke’s report.
The Shadow’s right hand, beneath the glow of the blue light, was tracing details as his ear received them.
“Report received.”
The left hand thrust the earphones across the table. The Shadow’s eyes, hidden in darkness, began to study the names and notations that his hand had inscribed. A whispered laugh sounded in the blackness beyond the sphere of the blue light.
Like Joe Cardona, The Shadow was considering possibilities. But he was studying the case from a perspective; in forming his conclusions, he was exacting where the detective had been spontaneous.
Upon a sheet of blank paper, The Shadow inscribed a single word; one that shone in letters of vivid blue:
Death
Hildrew Parchell had been expecting death. A man of considerable consequence years ago, his illness had gained but passing mention in the newspapers. His critical condition could have been learned only by persons who were interested in his affairs.
Excluding Tristram, there were only two persons who had known of Parchell’s ailment for a long time.
One was Doctor Raymond Deseurre; the other was Weldon Wingate. Selwood Royce, presumably, had not heard of old Parchell’s condition before tonight.
Cardona had made a note to the effect that Deseurre, Wingate, and Royce were no more than acquaintances. He had added that their visits, as physician, lawyer, and friend, were to be expected, in view of the death that Parchell had anticipated.
Reasoning had caused Cardona to reject his hunch that there was some reason for the trio being summoned. Reasoning, in turn, was the very process whereby The Shadow picked up the conclusion that Cardona had dropped.
Hildrew Parchell had obviously made it a practice not to bring different associates together. The proof of that lay in the fact that his lawyer and his physician had only met by chance in the past.
Tonight, for the first time, Parchell had so arranged his appointments that Wingate and Deseurre could not have failed to meet in his presence.
Cardona had overlooked that point entirely. Viewed from The Shadow’s perspective, it was of great consequence. Then, to magnify the matter, came the question of Selwood Royce. Hildrew Parchell had made a deliberate effort to bring his friend’s son into the conference with Wingate and Deseurre.
Though ill almost to the point of helplessness, old Parchell had dispatched Tristram to call Royce. Unless the old man had wanted Royce present with the others, there would have been no reason for him to have taken the risk of Tristram’s absence. He could have ordered the servant to go out after Wingate had arrived, if Royce’s presence had not been urgent.
Tonight, as The Shadow viewed it, had been important in certain of Hildrew Parchell’s plans. Death had frustrated the old man’s wish for a meeting of the three men while he yet lived. Death had struck in the short time while old Parchell lay unprotected.
This was significant, in spite of the fact that Hildrew Parchell had not had long to live. Moreover, the strange circumstances of the old man’s death — his body on the floor; his bed in flames — were points that struck home with force.
The Shadow was capitalizing where Joe Cardona had failed. Logically, he was building the detective’s discarded hunch into a case that would have astounded Joe Cardona himself.
A click sounded in The Shadow’s sanctum. The bluish light went out. A swish came through the darkness; then the tones of a weird, sinister laugh. Ghoulish echoes responded; next came the hush of silence.
The Shadow had departed.
A CREATURE of darkness, The Shadow could travel invisible pathways in the night. Enshrouding gloom obscured his passage. From the moment that he had left his sanctum, he remained a being unseen, choosing routes that lay untraceable.
As token of The Shadow’s mysterious presence, a manifestation occurred some forty minutes after his departure from the sanctum. This took place on the street where Hildrew Parchell’s residence stood morose.
Blackness came from out of blackness. It glided momentarily beneath the glow of a street lamp; then merged with blackness again directly in front of the Parchell home. After that came slow motion at the doorway of the residence. The front door opened slowly inward.
The Shadow had picked the lock. Closing the door behind him, he advanced through the dully lighted lower hall, following the same course that Tristram had taken so hurriedly when coming to his master’s rescue.
The Shadow reached the second floor. A light was burning in a room beyond. Tristram, in accordance with instructions given him by Cardona, had done nothing to disturb the arrangements of Hildrew Parchell’s bedroom. The servant had even left the wall brackets burning.
Stepping in from the darkness of the hall, The Shadow formed a weird figure. Tall, cloaked in black, he surveyed the death room with burning eyes that peered from beneath the brim of a black slouch hat.
Hildrew Parchell’s body had been removed. Yet, to The Shadow, the spot where the corpse had lain was as plain as if it had been marked in outline. The overturned table was a pointer to the spot where the body had sprawled. Scattered objects from the table had escaped the fire.