Even the candle and its stick had dropped free after the bedclothes had ignited. Ravaging flames had gone upward, licking at the bed itself. Tristram’s valiant efforts with the fire extinguisher had saved all objects about the spot where his master had lain.
Stooping, The Shadow stretched forth a black-gloved hand and picked up the fountain pen. Brief examination indicated that it had been recently used. The pad of paper lay on the floor.
The Shadow lifted it and noticed that the top sheet was absent. It had been torn away in ragged fashion.
Producing a tiny flashlight, The Shadow threw its glare upon the pad. He brought forth a tiny box that contained a blackish powder: graphite. Removing a glove, The Shadow spread the powder on the pad with his finger tips. It formed a smudge; that was all.
This was The Shadow’s method of tracing messages, by impressions on a lower sheet. It failed on this occasion; yet The Shadow, as he tore off the smudged paper, still held to his theory that something could have been written on that pad.
Looking toward the floor, he spied the book. A whispered laugh came from The Shadow’s lips. Though the message was lost to him, he was satisfied that it could have been written. The Shadow knew that Hildrew Parchell had used the book as a rest for the paper.
No impression could be gained from the book cover. It was too hard to take the pressure of the pen. But as The Shadow’s keen gaze steadied on the floor, they made another discovery. Near the bed, The Shadow saw crumpled ashes.
These traces of burned substance were in an isolated spot. They were different from the remains of the burned bedclothes. Picking up a fragment of ash, The Shadow immediately discerned its composition.
These ashes were the residue of burned paper.
Some one — Tristram, perhaps, or Cardona — had stepped upon the paper ashes. Though he used his flashlight steadily, The Shadow could not find more trace than that of a few brownish letters. There was no chance of deciphering the burned message.
This new discovery, however, was the wedge that The Shadow needed to form a reconstruction of the scene. His keen mind pictured the events that had preceded Hildrew Parchell’s death.
HILDREW PARCHELL had been well enough to summon certain persons to conference. He had prepared a document for their consideration. He had replaced articles upon the table beside his bed. He had kept the paper that he had written.
The segregated clump of ashes were proof that the paper had been burned independently. Parchell must have destroyed it himself; any one else would have carried it away intact, if possible.
Viewing the burned bed, The Shadow built a mental image of the fray that had taken place here. He could picture Parchell propped up in bed, facing a challenger who had entered the room. He could see the old man’s frantic efforts to destroy the paper; he visualized the effort of the intruder who had tried to prevent the deed.
An overturned table, flames from the candle, a killer in flight — all these made clear sequence to The Shadow.
With a soft laugh, the cloaked investigator struck a match and set fire to the sheet of smudged paper that he himself had removed from the pad.
Flames died. Ashes went fluttering to the floor beside those that The Shadow had first noted. Stooping, The Shadow compared one lot with the other. The ashes told their story. The old remnants were less, by half, than the new.
Hildrew Parchell’s message had been but partially burned. The killer had escaped with a portion of the old man’s document. He must have recognized that paper as containing information that he had come here to obtain.
Perhaps he had gained all that he wanted. Perhaps he had not. In either event, flight could have been the murderer’s only choice. That much was obvious. What The Shadow needed was some trace to the murderer’s purpose and identity.
Crossing the room, The Shadow stopped by the filing cabinet. He opened the drawers and found them empty. Papers and other belongings had evidently been removed since Cardona’s investigation here.
The Shadow stepped to the wall safe. He found it unlocked; its interior was empty. While The Shadow’s eyes took in this fact, his ears caught a sound from below. Someone had entered the front door. Faltering footsteps were coming up the stairs.
The Shadow moved to the darkness behind a half-opened closet door. He waited while a gray-haired man came into the room. He knew this must be Tristram; he could see the saddened expression upon the servant’s face.
There was a choking sob. With bowed head, Tristram turned and went from the room. The servant’s grief was genuine. Moreover, The Shadow immediately understood the reason for Tristram’s absence from the house. The servant must have received an order from Weldon Wingate, telling him to bring old Parchell’s papers to the lawyer.
Silently, The Shadow glided from the room of death. His tall form descended the stairs. Crossing the lower hall, The Shadow opened the front door and made an immediate departure. His figure blurred with the night.
LATER, a light clicked in The Shadow’s sanctum. Beneath a bluish glare, The Shadow again surveyed the list of persons concerned with the affairs of Hildrew Parchell. One by one, he considered their parts and their importance.
Tristram had been a loyal servant. So faithful that he would have named any one and every one whom he might have suspected as having a part in his master’s death. Nothing more could be gained from Tristram.
Weldon Wingate was an important man to see. He could be reached openly; from him, by proper persuasion or strategy, The Shadow could gain real facts concerning Hildrew Parchell’s affairs. The Shadow checked Wingate’s name.
Doctor Raymond Deseurre. This was a name upon which The Shadow pondered. The physician, apparently, had met old Parchell only in the role of medical practitioner. It was possible that Deseurre knew more about Hildrew Parchell. That possibility must be investigated. The Shadow made another check mark.
The name of Selwood Royce came next. The Shadow knew the millionaire by repute. No difficulty would be encountered in learning more about him. The Shadow checked again. He studied the next name on the list.
Roger Parchell. Nephew of Hildrew Parchell and the old man’s sole heir. At present in San Francisco, Roger Parchell would certainly come East when he had learned of his uncle’s death. The Shadow left the name unchecked, as indication that he would await the young man’s arrival.
The last name on the list was that of Homer Hothan. The Shadow noted the name of the ex-secretary’s home town — Chalwood, Ohio — which Cardona had written down and Clyde Burke had copied. The Shadow considered the case of Homer Hothan.
This man had been in Hildrew Parchell’s employ. He had lived in the house with the old man. He could have known certain facts regarding Hildrew Parchell’s private business. Moreover, there was another factor that concerned Hothan.
The Shadow was positive that some one had entered the Parchell house, there to deal death to the old man. Some lurker who had watched Tristram’s departure. A person who must have been familiar with the interior of the house; one who could enter, act, and leave with no lost time.
Homer Hothan, the only man whom Tristram had named as doubtful, was one who possessed the knowledge that the murderer must have had.
With a whispered laugh, The Shadow marked Hothan’s name. He reached for the earphones.
The Shadow spoke. Burbank’s voice answered across the wire. The Shadow gave brief instructions; then terminated the call. Earphones were replaced. The blue light clicked out. The Shadow was ready to leave his sanctum.