Doctor Harlow clenched his fists. For a moment, violent anger flickered in his nervous eyes. Tex Lowner had aroused all the fury in the physician’s nature. For a few short seconds, Harlow had the semblance of a murderer.
Then, quieting, the physician spoke his parting words.
“I killed Pug Hoffler,” he said quietly, “to save Folsom Satruff’s life. I admit that the strain of my own situation may have urged me. The man, however, was out to kill. I have no regrets because I slew him.”
Harlow gestured toward the door across the waiting room. Tex Lowner turned and strode in that direction. He departed. Wesley Harlow closed the door of his office. He began to arrange the place before he left.
TEX LOWNER, when he stepped into the glare of the Park Avenue lights, was grinning broadly. In absentminded fashion, he stared up and down the street. His grin increased as he spied the stocky figure of a man who was loitering near by.
With all the skill of a character actor, Tex changed his role. His jaw set, he clenched his fists and stared back toward Harlow’s office. He laughed aloud; then, with a quick, businesslike swing, he started along the avenue.
Tex did not glance behind him. He took it for granted that the watching man would follow.
Tex was correct in his assumption. As soon as the gang leader had moved a dozen yards, Joe Cardona came to life and followed.
Tex spied a passing cab. He hailed it quickly; leaped into the vehicle and gave the driver the address of the Club Madrid. As he rolled away, Tex peered through the rear window and grinned. Another cab was stopping. Tex recognized Joe Cardona as the man who was clambering into the taxi.
Tex Lowner was leading the ace detective along a blind trail. Joe Cardona would follow to the Club Madrid. He could watch, if he wished, while the big gang leader established a perfect series of alibis for to-night.
Back at Harlow’s office, the mustached physician made his appearance on the avenue. He looked about nervously then walked to the nearest corner and climbed into his coupe. He started the car eastward.
Harlow did not see the form that stalked him. He did not observe the phantom figure that stepped into another car parked near his own. He did not — when he glanced back — catch even a momentary view of the trim coupe that was following a block behind.
Trails had diverged. Joe Cardona was following the false one set by Tex Lowner, a trail that was to lead him nowhere. The Shadow, however, was following the trail of Doctor Wesley Harlow, which was leading to the spot where crime had struck before and would strike again to-night.
Once more, The Shadow was bound for the home of Folsom D. Satruff, there to observe the break of new events.
CHAPTER XIII. THE SECOND RAID
HARRY VINCENT, agent of The Shadow, was seated in Satruff’s upstairs living room. It had not taken Harry long to acclimate himself to this environment. An immediate friendship had grown between this young man whom Lamont Cranston had recommended and the gray-haired philanthropist who called himself Dorand.
So far, Harry had found matters uneventful. Folsom Satruff had detailed him to secretarial duties. These had consisted purely of correspondence which Satruff had neglected. Not once had Satruff revealed himself in the guise of Dorand.
Yet the millionaire had warned Harry that he had hired him to be on hand in case of trouble. He had told Harry of the attack on the strong-room in which Pug Hoffler had been slain. At Satruff’s advice, Harry went armed with a revolver.
There was something in Harry Vincent’s manner that seemed to inspire Folsom Satruff’s confidence.
Harry was a clean-cut young chap, always alert. That impressed Satruff, particularly because the millionaire had previously relied entirely upon his old and lethargic companion, Bartlett Okum.
It was nearly eleven o’clock. Harry had finished going over notes which Satruff had given him. As he looked up, Harry noticed his employer gazing at him across the room from the fireplace.
“Finished, Vincent?” questioned Satruff.
“Yes,” returned Harry.
“Excellent,” decided Satruff. “It’s good to find some one who can get things done in a hurry. Okum is all right, but he’s getting old and absentminded. He never remembers anything I tell him. He even loses notations when I write them down for him.”
Satruff’s brow furrowed as the millionaire paused. It indicated that the man was displeased with something. At last, he spoke his trouble.
“Okum,” he said, “is a creature of habit. He can hardly be blamed for that. Yet he is stupid. The night that gangsters entered here, he meekly opened the strong-room door when he heard the bell. He acted exactly the same as if some delivery truck had come to that entrance in the middle of the afternoon.
“I have told Okum to notify me if he hears any one at that door. He is liable to forget my instructions.
That is why I have been keeping an eye on him. While you were at your notes, I strolled downstairs and up, just to see what Okum was doing.”
Harry nodded. He recalled that Folsom Satruff had made two or three excursions from the room.
“By the way,” remarked Satruff, changing the subject, “did you send that letter to Tobias McEwen?”
“I did,” answered Harry.
“Good,” rejoined Satruff. “I want to see him. He’s a sulky sort, McEwen. Generally, he comes out here at intervals; but when he feels out of humor, he waits until I summon him. Right now, he’s a bit peeved.”
“Why?”
“On your account.”
“On my account?”
Satruff smiled and nodded as he heard Harry’s puzzled question.
“Yes,” chuckled the millionaire, “McEwen was annoyed because I asked Lamont Cranston if he knew of a young man who could enter my employ. McEwen seemed to think that Okum was the only secretary I needed.
“Sometimes I become disgusted with McEwen; but he has handled my affairs for so many years that I would be very foolish to intrust them to another attorney in his stead.”
Satruff turned toward the doorway as he heard footsteps on the stairs. It was Riggs. The servant entered to make an announcement.
“Doctor Harlow is here, sir,” he stated.
“This late?” Satruff’s face clouded impatiently. “I don’t want to see him.” Then, with a gesture, he added:
“I suppose I shall have to talk with him. Come on, Vincent, we’ll go downstairs.”
THE two walked from the living room. Satruff put a question to Riggs on the way.
“Where is Okum?” he asked.
“Somewhere about the house, sir,” responded Riggs.
“Take a look for him, Vincent,” ordered Satruff, “but not until after I have talked with Harlow and sent him on his way. I don’t feel like a long chat to-night.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs to find Wesley Harlow. Riggs departed in the direction of the kitchen. Satruff introduced Harry to Harlow.
“Glad to see you, Harlow,” said Satruff warmly. “Sorry, though, that I can’t ask you to stay. I have to go over a few business matters with Vincent; after that, I’m turning in for the night.”
“I’d like to talk with you” — Harlow’s tone was nervous — “even if it’s just for a few minutes—”
“Not to-night,” interposed Satruff firmly. “Come around, again, Harlow. To-morrow if you wish; but come earlier.”
Harlow threw a nervous glance in the direction of the stairway. It was evident that the physician wanted to confer with Satruff in the living room above. Satruff forestalled further suggestion. He clapped Harlow on the shoulder and showed the young doctor to the direction of the door.
“Good night,” said Satruff in a firm tone.