“I opened the door, commissioner,” said Joe. “In case there would be fumes from the office.”
“You paved the way for Crofton’s escape!” exclaimed Barth. “Had you kept the door bolted—”
“All our lives might have been jeopardized,” put in Warlock. “He could have slain us as he killed the professor.”
Back in the office, the tall form of Lamont Cranston stood above the body of Professor Lessep. There was no smile upon the firm, straight lips. Keen eyes stared — the eyes of The Shadow.
The shattered front of the filing cabinet had resulted in chunks of wood upon the floor. Beside these were slivers of glass from the wrecked lamp. The Shadow looked upward.
Turning, he moved quickly to the desk in the other corner. The lamp was illuminated there, still swaying slightly from the concussion that had caused the professor’s death. Rapidly, The Shadow opened a drawer. He saw the box of light bulbs; four in all.
One appeared to be burnt out. The Shadow removed it and closed the drawer. Resuming the slow motion of Lamont Cranston, he strolled into the laboratory to join the commissioner and the others.
“Close the door to the office,” ordered Barth, turning to Cardona. “No one is to enter there from now on. I shall take charge of the investigation. With Cardona’s aid. The rest of you are witnesses.”
HOURS later, The Shadow entered his sanctum. A click; the blue light glimmered. A hand arose and turned the bulb in its socket. The light went out. Motion followed in the darkness. Then, suddenly, light reappeared.
It was not from the bluish incandescent. The Shadow had screwed in the frosted bulb that he had brought from Professor Lessep’s office. That bulb was not burned out. Though it had been in long use, it was still serviceable.
The Shadow’s hand remained motionless beneath the bulb. Then fingers unscrewed the frosted object.
Again the blue incandescent came back in place. The white bulb lay in view upon the table.
Keen eyes studied this souvenir that The Shadow had brought from the scene of crime. The left hand raised the bulb and held it. Then the right hand rose upward toward the lamp. Slowly, the fingers turned the bluish incandescent; then paused.
A final twist. The blue light went out. It came on again, as the fingers reversed their twist.
Off — on — off — on. The light glowed for a dozen seconds. Then a pressure of the switch extinguished it.
A soft laugh in the darkness. Then a swish. Weird, solemn echoes to hover in the gloom. For there was strange understanding in The Shadow’s tone. The Shadow had gained a clue to crime.
Yet facts remained unexplained. The Shadow could see reasons for the death of Professor Lessep. He needed new links to complete the chain that would lead to a discovery of the motive. Reports from agents — received to-night from Burbank — had brought no word concerning the whereabouts of Miles Crofton.
The Shadow had gained theories; yet they conflicted. Those suppositions concerned the purposes of an unseen killer. Death had struck, almost in The Shadow’s presence; nevertheless, it had left much to be explained.
Faced by one of the strangest situations that he had ever encountered, The Shadow was forced to wait.
But in waiting, he would be preparing — ready to balk the next stroke of doom.
CHAPTER VIII. AT WARLOCK’S
LATE the next afternoon, a large limousine swung westward on a street well north of Times Square. It came to a stop in front of a brownstone house that was old yet imposing in appearance. A chauffeur alighted and opened the door. Lamont Cranston emerged; then Police Commissioner Barth.
“Wait here, Stanley,” said Cranston, to the chauffeur. “We shall not be long.”
The chauffeur saluted. Cranston and Barth ascended the steps and rang the bell. While they waited, the commissioner made comment.
“Glad you happened in, Cranston,” he said. “I didn’t care to make this visit appear too much in the nature of my official capacity. Since you came with me, I can express my arrival in the light of a friendly call.
“I think it best to be diplomatic with Findlay Warlock. He is actually apart from these strange events that ended in Melrose Lessep’s death. Yet it so happens that he is the one man who actually knew the professor—”
Barth cut his sentence short as the door opened. A tall, withered-faced flunky gazed inquiringly at the visitors. Barth glanced at Cranston. The latter spoke.
“We have come to see Mr. Warlock,” he said quietly. “Mr. Cranston and Commissioner Barth.”
The flunky nodded. He ushered the visitors into a gloomy living room, where fading embers were glowing in a stone fireplace.
Barth looked about at dull oak-paneled walls. He shrugged his shoulders after the servant had left.
“Moldy old place, isn’t it?” questioned the commissioner. “I wonder how Warlock happened to choose this house as a residence. I should think he would prefer to live at a hotel.”
A nod from Cranston; but no reply. Footsteps were already coming from the stairs. Findlay Warlock appeared. He bowed in welcome to his guests; then invited them toward the hall.
“It’s more cheerful in my study,” he observed. “On the second floor. Shall we go up? Good. An odd old house” — Warlock talked steadily as he led the way — “and I suppose you asked yourselves the usual question: Why I chose it. The answer is simple.” Warlock chuckled. “It was thrust upon me.”
He paused in the upper hallway to open the door of the study. They stepped into a well-furnished apartment that was directly above the living room. Here was contrast. Paneled walls, but lighter in color.
A cheery fire in the hearth. Everything spoke of comfort.
“Better than the living room, isn’t it?” questioned Warlock, with a benign smile. “This study explains why I live here. A most comfortable sort of a room. This house, I understand, had been vacant for several years. A new purchaser took it over a few months ago and had it refinished; then decided to get rid of it.
“A real estate agent offered it to me at a surprisingly low price. So low that it would have been folly not to take it. I moved in here with Cluett, the servant who admitted you. I have found the house very satisfactory. It has a third floor, also. All refinished—”
“Quite interesting, Mr. Warlock,” observed Barth, finding opportunity for an interruption. “But now that you have told us about the house, let us turn to the matter of Professor Melrose Lessep. My investigation of his death has brought no tangible results. I am particularly disappointed because his files show no record whatever of his devisualization apparatus.
“I have come here in hope to learn more regarding his invention. You were financially interested in the device. Surely you must have some papers pertaining to it. I do not suppose that you would have ventured money in the enterprise without first learning something about it.”
“I have some of the professor’s data,” replied Warlock. “But— unfortunately — I do not think that it will shed much light on the matter. The most I can show you is the prospectus which Lessep originally gave me. It is here, in the wall safe, along with the file that concerns his turbines.”
WARLOCK turned and went to the wall at the rear of the room. There, he opened a small safe that was set in the paneling. He drew out a portfolio, laid it aside; then rummaged about among loose papers.
“Very convenient, this wall safe,” remarked Warlock. “It was installed by the previous owner. It makes an excellent strong box. I changed the combination to suit myself and it saved me the trouble of having one of the small safes shipped up from the office.”
“Could I see the papers?” inquired Barth.
“Certainly,” replied Warlock. He brought over the portfolio and opened it. “Most of these deal with the turbines. Here are a few papers, though, that relate to the devisualization apparatus.”