Harry’s routine was simple. He made notes of persons who entered the elevators. Then he watched the dials to see which cars stopped at the twenty-fifth floor. This was not a haphazard plan. On the contrary, Harry found it quite effective.
Harry was watching merely for possible visitors to Treblaw’s room. That enabled him to eliminate most of the persons who entered the elevators. Traffic was not heavy at this hour; only a few cars carried men who looked like they might be going to see the old collector. Those particular cars did not happen to stop at the twenty-fifth floor.
It was not until ten minutes after his arrival that Harry scored a hit. He saw a tall, shrewd-faced man stride through the lobby, glance about and enter an elevator. He caught a glimpse of bushy brows and a short, close-clipped mustache. The man was looking around as though suspicious of watching eyes.
Harry studied the dial; it swung steadily along and finally stopped at No. 25. The tall man had been the only passenger. It was possible that he had gone to see Stanton Treblaw in Room 2536. Harry sat back and waited.
THE tall, mustached visitor had actually picked the destination that Harry Vincent suspected. Up on the twenty-fifth floor he had left the elevator and was making his way along the hall to Treblaw’s room.
Arriving there, the tall man looked about to make sure that no one was approaching. Methodically, he tapped lightly on the door. No response. The man tried the knob. He stepped into the gloomy room.
As he closed the door behind him, the visitor spied Treblaw’s body. Calmly he stepped forward and surveyed the corpse. He noted the pool of blood about Treblaw’s head and stooped closer to be certain that the old man was dead.
Satisfied on that point, the man stepped past the body and began to rummage through the grip. He found no papers. Moving across the room, he inspected drawers in table and bureau. Returning, he felt about the dressing gown that Treblaw was wearing; then searched the old man’s clothes.
No result. The tall man’s teeth gritted audibly in the stillness of the room. He made a last futile search of the grip, even to the point of tapping the lining. Then, with a disappointed grunt, he swung about and went from the room, leaving the door unlocked behind him.
IN the lobby, Harry Vincent was still watching the elevators. The spot that Harry had chosen was close by a pillar; in fact, it formed one of the most secluded portions of the lobby. Hence Harry was startled when he heard a voice close beside his chair; a whispered tone that gave one commanding word:
“Report!”
It was The Shadow. Harry knew that his chief had arrived.
Without turning, Harry spoke in a low voice, giving a brief description of the man who had gone up to the twenty-fifth floor. Harry caught a whispered instruction. He nodded his understanding. Then, as he still watched the elevators, he saw a figure swing into view.
The Shadow had stepped from beside the pillar. His back was toward Harry, so the agent had no chance to glimpse The Shadow’s face. Attired in street clothes, The Shadow appeared as a tall man who walked with easy stride. He was carrying a thick briefcase.
Harry watched him enter an elevator. The door closed; The Shadow had not turned around.
Just as the elevator started upward, Harry noted another dial hand stop at the twenty-fourth floor. A pause; then the second elevator came down. When the doors clanged open, Harry saw the mustached man step forth. The fellow appeared both nervous and hasty in action.
Rising from his chair, Harry started toward the main door of the hotel. The pillar sheltered him momentarily; quickening his pace, Harry gained the door before the other man. Stepping to the sidewalk, The Shadow’s agent raised one hand to his coat lapel.
A taxicab shot forward from the other side of the street. It jammed into the space in front of the hotel, beating a cab that was coming up from a hack stand. The tall man had arrived from the hotel; he wanted a cab and he picked the first one.
Harry gave another slight signal. The driver yanked the door open. The tall man stepped aboard.
The driver of the second cab was leaping to the street, ready to start an argument. The doorman sided with him; together they began to argue with the fellow who had stolen the fare. Their protests had no effect. The chiseling driver sped away with his passenger, leaving the others bellowing after him.
Harry Vincent smiled as he strolled away. The driver who had muscled in to snatch the tall passenger was Moe Shrevnitz, one of The Shadow’s agents. He had defied the ethics of taxi-driving to cut in ahead of a cab that was waiting in the stand. But his motive had been an important one.
It would be Moe’s job to note just where his fare went. Later, Moe would report to Burbank, who would pass the word along. For Harry, following The Shadow’s order, had tipped Moe to grab that mustached suspect.
Harry, himself, would have a report to make. For he had noted distinctly that the dial of the downcoming elevator had stopped at the twenty-fourth floor; not at the twenty-fifth. The man with the mustache must have descended one flight by a stairway, before entering the elevator.
MEANWHILE, The Shadow had reached the twenty-fifth floor. In the lighted corridor, his face showed as a hawk-like countenance. Keen eyes peered from either side of an aquiline nose as The Shadow followed the turn of the passage toward Room 2536.
Some strange aftermath of crime must have gripped that still corridor in psychic sway. For The Shadow became surprisingly alert as he neared Treblaw’s door. Stopping at 2536, he dipped his hand into his pocket and drew forth a black glove which he slipped on his right hand. His left set the briefcase against the wall; then dropped beneath the coat that The Shadow was wearing.
Carefully, The Shadow opened the door. He paused upon the threshold. His keen eyes had spied Treblaw’s body on the gloomy floor. The Shadow’s gaze turned toward the opened door of the closet; then to the open window where curtains were swaying gently.
Picking up his briefcase, The Shadow entered and closed the door behind him.
His first object of inspection was Treblaw’s body. While he stooped above the dead form, The Shadow donned a second black glove. His finger tips touched Treblaw’s battered head. The Shadow could see that the man had been slugged, as well as blackjacked.
Carefully, The Shadow raised Treblaw’s shoulders. He spied an object beneath them. He drew it forth; Treblaw’s automatic. The Shadow inspected the .22, found it unfired and replaced it where he had discovered it.
Standing in the center of the room, The Shadow visualized how death had come. His picturization, though lacking in slight details, was correct in important points. The open door of the closet indicated where someone had been hiding. The pitcher; glass filled with water; the mirror — all were proofs of Treblaw’s ruse to trap a lurking foe.
The Shadow, upon entering, had noted the rustle of the curtains. He realized how Treblaw had been trapped; he could see the old man forcing a prisoner toward the window, only to become alarmed by the motion of curtains when the door of the room was opened.
The room bore token of an extensive search. The Shadow began one of his own. Partly opened drawers in the bureau; disturbed objects in the table drawer — these showed that the assassins had been after something that Treblaw might have hidden.
The Shadow knew that murder had involved a band; that death had been accomplished before another visitor had come here. That excluded Harry’s suspect from an actual part in the killing; nevertheless, it was possible that the man might have been here afterward.
That thought caused The Shadow to eye the door. Ever alert, he had been watching the barrier at intervals; now he peered intently, as though expecting it to open momentarily. At last The Shadow laughed — softly, but grimly.