Warlock began to protest. The commissioner interrupted him. He wanted no further controversy.
Blinking in owlish fashion, Barth delivered his decision in the matter.
“All will be settled tomorrow night,” he declared. “We shall rely upon Mr. Warlock to persuade Professor Lessep to undertake the new experiment, using Cardona in the test. If Warlock fails, I shall threaten Lessep with arrest unless he proceeds.
“We shall all be present to witness the result. Then we can fairly judge the circumstances. We can decide whether Mr. Warlock’s faith in the professor is justified; or whether Mr. Darring’s skepticism is correctly founded.
“Personally, I incline toward Warlock’s belief. You, Cranston” — Barth turned to his silent friend — “appear to be somewhat in accord with Darring. That balances the committee. With Cardona as the chosen subject for the new experiment, we have every advantage. Let us adjourn until tomorrow.”
ONE hour after the meeting had ended in the commissioner’s office, a sharp click sounded in a blackened room. A bluish light threw shaded rays upon a table in the corner. Long, white hands appeared upon a polished surface. The Shadow was in his sanctum.
A soft laugh from hidden lips. Producing pen and paper, the hands began to work. While the left steadied the sheet beneath the light, the right began to draw a floor plan of Professor Lessep’s laboratory.
Blue-inked lines faded. Such was the way with The Shadow’s writing. Then came carefully written words; and all the while, traces of the soft, mocking laugh. The Shadow was reviewing the bizarre events that had taken place in the professor’s lab.
The Shadow could see the real reason behind the episode at the professor’s, so far as Lessep himself was concerned. The old inventor’s reputation had been none too high. He had needed an astounding success to restore faith in his genius. He had scored the result that he required.
A living being banished out into the unknown! What a triumph for Lessep! Hoax or reality — either had achieved the same result. Lessep had paved the way to tremendous publicity. That, as The Shadow saw it, was the professor’s game.
“Miles Crofton.”
The Shadow’s hand inscribed the name of Lessep’s assistant. Here was another factor. At the outset of the experiment, Crofton had figured purely as the subject whom Lessep had chosen. The Shadow, present in the guise of Lamont Cranston, had seen no reason to interfere with the professor’s game.
Joe Cardona’s arrival had been the startling factor. The detective’s accusation of Miles Crofton had changed bewilderment into consideration. Yet this fact fitted into the scheme of things. Miles Crofton — wanted for murder— there was a tie-up that would bring Professor Lessep’s experiment into front-page headlines.
It transformed Miles Crofton from a prank-player into a menace. Instead of being a missing assistant, the man had become an unseen killer. The bigger the news, the better from the professor’s standpoint.
Viewed from that aspect, Cardona’s tip from the unnamed stool pigeon looked like more than a coincidence. But The Shadow had passed from his consideration of Professor Lessep’s peculiar interests.
He was studying the part played by Miles Crofton.
It was quite conceivable that the assistant would have agreed to work with the professor. Crofton’s startling disappearance had added a touch of real drama to the events in the lab. But would Crofton have agreed to go forth branded as a murderer?
The Shadow’s laugh was a negative answer. No matter what Crofton’s present situation might be, the charges against him were dangerous. The cry of “murderer” had made him a hunted man. Cardona’s timely-gained tip might prove a boomerang to the missing assistant.
Coincidence? A double cross by the professor? The action of some new player in the game? These were questions that concerned The Shadow. They brought a new laugh from his lips; a burst of sardonic mirth that was creepy in its tone. They told of a definite purpose.
HANDS stretched across the table. Earphones clattered from the wall. A tiny bulb glittered from the blackness, telling of telephonic connection. Then came a quiet voice:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Instructions to all agents” whispered The Shadow.
The weird voice continued through the sanctum, hissing its sibilant tones, while Burbank, The Shadow’s contact man, listened at the other end of the wire. The Shadow’s tones ended. From the receivers came Burbank’s final response:
“Instructions received.”
Earphones slid back. The bulb went out. A click; the bluish light was extinguished. Amid the darkness of the sanctum came an eerie laugh that died with lingering echoes. The Shadow had departed. But while the law was lingering, he had taken up a quest.
Miles Crofton was the man The Shadow wanted. Agents of The Shadow would locate him. Visible or invisible, Lessep’s assistant would be found; for The Shadow had seen possibilities that had escaped the law.
Whatever Miles Crofton’s present state of being, the man would need a hideout. A visible man, hunted by the police, would have to stay out of sight. An unseen crook would have to maintain a secret headquarters.
“You can’t track a man you can’t see—”
Such had been Cardona’s verdict. All had accepted it, with the exception of The Shadow. He knew that Cardona had made a misstatement. Laughing softly in the seclusion of his sanctum, The Shadow had pictured the difficulties of an unseen killer. Troubles quite as great as those that would surround a visible criminal.
Food, shelter, security — Miles Crofton needed them. Whatever his game, he had probably prearranged those necessities. There must be other men who would aid him. Through them, Crofton could be traced.
Agents of The Shadow would filter forth through the reaches of the underworld, seeking trace of a hideout.
Keen had been The Shadow’s finding. Yet his parting laugh, satirical in its mirth, had revealed a trace of levity. Although he had instituted a search for Miles Crofton, The Shadow had seen no need for haste.
As yet, he considered menace lacking.
Seldom did The Shadow err in judgment. Even now, his calculation was wrong only so far as time was concerned. In starting the man hunt, The Shadow had sensed possibilities of crime at some future time.
Crofton, goaded by the fact that he was wanted as a murderer; might eventually prove dangerous.
Yet the menace was immediate. Already crime was planned. It would strike with a suddenness that would prove startling even to The Shadow. For the threat of an unseen killer was backed by the machinations of an evil brain.
CHAPTER VI. THE PROFESSOR BALKS
AT eight o’clock the next evening, Commissioner Barth’s car pulled up in front of the residence of Professor Melrose Lessep. Three men alighted from the machine: Wainwright Barth, Joe Cardona and Marryat Darring.
They ascended the cracked stone steps. The commissioner rang the bell. After a short interval, the door opened.
Professor Lessep, shock-haired and wild-eyed, stood viewing his visitors. A broad smile appeared upon the inventor’s lips.
“Ah! Good evening!” exclaimed Lessep. “Come in, my friends. At once. Mr. Warlock has been here this half hour, expecting your arrival. Come. Into the laboratory.”
The visitors divested themselves of hats and coats, which they hung on a rack in the hall. Lessep led them through the parlor to the laboratory door. There he paused to rap. There was no response until Lessep knocked louder than before. Then came muffled footsteps. A bolt was drawn; Findlay Warlock admitted them.
“I was looking about,” said Warlock, in a wheezy, apologetic tone. “I wasn’t sure that I heard you knock.”
“Quite all right,” assured the professor. “You see, gentlemen” — his tone was uneasy — “I was not certain who might be at the door. I did not like to leave the laboratory. So Mr. Warlock said that he would bolt the door while I was making sure that the proper visitors had arrived.”