The wedge had almost completely eliminated the efficiency of the latch. It had caught very slightly; and The Shadow’s shifting of the knob was sufficient. The tremble of the latch freed it.
The Shadow edged through the door as he opened it. Gloved fingers plucked away the wedge. The Shadow closed the door noiselessly.
THE front hall was gloomy. Silently, The Shadow glided past the doorway of the parlor, confident that Kelk, concerned with conversation from the sitting room, would not note his passage.
He reached the end of the hall. There he picked a short extending alcove from which to listen. The door of the sitting room was ajar. The Shadow could hear Wickroft talking to Tilton.
The secretary had not yet gotten to his point. He was talking about Treblaw’s death, bemoaning the fact that he had lost a benevolent employer. Half a dozen minutes passed while this continued. Then Wickroft edged to the subject.
“I have thoroughly classified all of Mr. Treblaw’s manuscripts,” he declared. “The files are complete. And yet I remember that Mr. Treblaw once spoke of other items that were apart from his collection. I came here to find out if you knew anything about such manuscripts, Mr. Tilton.”
“Ah, yes,” rejoined Tilton. “Fortunately, Wickroft, you came to the right place. Unfortunately, you came too late.”
“You mean, sir—”
“That Treblaw once left some manuscripts with me. Only a few, you understand; they could have been scarcely more than folios. For they were contained in an envelope of only moderate size.”
“What were the manuscripts, Mr. Tilton?”
“I do not know. I placed the envelope in a box in my safe. Treblaw told me that they were not of great value. He left them here so that he could pick them up when he next came to New York. But that was quite a while ago.”
“And you have those manuscripts?”
“No. Treblaw came for them yesterday afternoon. Perkins, my servant, gave him the envelope.”
“And you are sure they were of little value?”
“So Treblaw said. But he might have minimized their importance, to prevent my worrying about their safety. However, Wickroft, now that you have come here, I think that we should take a look to make sure that Treblaw actually removed the envelope.”
“But if Perkins gave it to him—”
“Perkins merely opened the safe and showed the box to Treblaw. Perkins replaced the box in the safe.”
“And it was empty—”
“Empty, but locked. Perkins did not open it; he simply brought the key down here to my desk. Ah, here it is.”
Old Tilton had risen while speaking. Reaching in a high, old-fashioned desk, he produced a small brass key. Motioning to Wickroft, Tilton started from the room. Wickroft followed.
WHEN Tilton opened the door into the hall, it came in front of The Shadow’s alcove. Tilton left the door open. Peering past the edge of the barrier, The Shadow saw Tilton lead the way up the front stairs. The Shadow waited.
Listening, he heard footsteps that came directly overhead. This was proof that Tilton kept his safe in a room almost above the sitting room. The Shadow made no move. He was expecting signs of Kelk. They came.
Floor boards creaked. Kelk came cautiously from the front parlor, his sallow face appearing saturnine in the gloom of the hall. Stealthily, the mustached man moved up the stairs. Then his steps ceased. The Shadow knew why.
On the second floor, as on the first, Kelk had ducked into some hiding place. He intended to wait at close quarters while Tilton and Wickroft inspected the old man’s safe. The stage was set.
The door of the sitting room moved. The Shadow glided from the alcove. With amazing stealth, he reached the stairway and began an upward course.
Scenting the possibility of some dire emergency, The Shadow had taken up the trail of the three who had gone ahead of him.
CHAPTER X
NEW CRIME BREAKS
WHILE The Shadow had lingered in anticipation of Kelk’s advance, Tilton and Wickroft had reached their goal on the second floor. They were in a large room that reminded Wickroft of Stanton Treblaw’s study.
The walls were lined with huge box-like files — the repositories for manuscripts in Tilton’s large collection. The rest of the furniture consisted of old-fashioned chairs and tables, except for a large, ancient safe in the corner of the room.
Tilton’s gnarled fingers had turned the dial. The front of the safe was open.
Wickroft, trying to appear indifferent, was looking about. He noted a second door in this room; one that was in the rear wall. He and Tilton had come in through a side entrance from the hall.
“Here is the box,” quavered Tilton, drawing a small metal case from the safe. “I fear that it is empty.”
He shook the box as he spoke:
“Yet the envelope may still be within,” added the old man. “Perhaps Treblaw did not take it. Perchance it is wedged inside this box.”
Applying the key, Tilton unlocked the box. He placed the object on the table and raised the lid. The box was empty; only painted metal showed within. Tilton started to turn to Wickroft; then, suddenly, he gasped and pointed straight ahead.
The old man was facing the rear door of the room. That portal had opened. Framed within it was a big, rough-faced fellow whose evil visage wore a murderous expression. The man looked like a killer; in fact, he was one.
Duster had come to Silas Tilton’s. Behind him were his henchmen — Crawler and the same two gorillas who had aided in the murder of Stanton Treblaw.
“Stick ‘em up,” growled Duster.
Tilton and Wickroft obeyed. The old man backed away from the box; Wickroft, trembling, shrank toward a corner. Though he recognized who these invaders must be, he realized that he must play a part of victim, along with Tilton.
“Get the box, Crawler,” ordered Duster. “You mugs” — this to the gorillas — “move in and get busy with that safe.”
Men advanced, guns in hands, while Duster covered. Crawler, a leer on his dopey face, set one hand upon the box, then peered into the interior. Seeing it empty, he started to turn toward Duster. The swing brought his eyes in the direction of the door to the hall. Crawler stopped short; he uttered a fierce gasp:
“The Shadow!”
THE master of vengeance had arrived. Peering through the crevice of the door, The Shadow had spied the situation. He had swung the door inward without sound. He stood upon the threshold, ready with looming automatics.
“Get him!” snarled Duster.
Crawler leaped forward, aiming; gorillas spun about with ready guns. Pointing to kill, these fighters were out to get The Shadow, seeking no mercy for themselves if they failed in their maddened quest. They deserved no quarter; they received none.
Automatics blasted spurts of flame. Stabbing bullets came from The Shadow’s guns while mobster fingers still sought to tug revolver triggers.
Crawler, with a wild yelp, went leaping high into the air; then flattened face foremost to the floor.
One gorilla staggered; his revolver barked a wide shot as he fell. The other made a dive for the door where Duster stood, firing wildly as he fled. Alone of all the mob, Duster managed to dispatch shots at The Shadow.
The big leader was better as a slugger than a marksman. His revolver came down and up with each shot; always behind in its aim. For The Shadow, as he blasted bullets at men of crime, was swinging inward from the door, fading from Duster’s aim.
A bullet staggered the last gorilla. The Shadow’s left-hand gun swung straight for Duster. The automatic barked; but the bullet never reached its mark. The gorilla, coming high in agony, sprawled squarely upon Duster just as The Shadow fired. It was the underling who received The Shadow’s well-intended slug.