There was a radio set in the corner. Harry approached and tuned in on a musical program, keeping the sound toned down to a minimum. As Satruff’s clock began to chime eleven, the music ended and the announcement of the next program came softly on the air.
“Station WNX,” came the operator’s announcement, in a peculiarly toned voice. “After our first number, we shall introduce a guest singer whose ability leaves no room for doubt. We will turn back the pages of time to songs out of the past. The arias of light operas will mingle with forgotten melodies.”
“Turn that off,” growled Joe Cardona in a low tone. “You want to be listening with both ears in case Satruff is coming up here with Harlow.”
Harry complied as the first musical selection began. With his back toward the detective, The Shadow’s agent smiled. He had turned on the radio for a purpose which Joe Cardona had not even begun to suspect.
That announcement, with its peculiarly accentuated words, had been something for which Harry had been waiting. In fact, Harry had tuned in on WNX at certain times ever since he had come to Satruff’s.
Certain words, each emphasized by the announcer, had spelled a secret message. Harry had caught them easily. They still were clear as he repeated them:
“After guest leaves room, turn out light.”
This was a message designed by The Shadow. Through some method unknown to Harry Vincent, The Shadow had gained access to certain radio stations and had managed to arrange announcements to suit his own design.
To Harry, the guest meant Doctor Wesley Harlow. The room was this room, itself — its lights plainly visible to any one who might be watching from outside Satruff’s home. Something was due to happen after Harlow left this room, not before. The Shadow would be ready to time his action accordingly.
SUCH was the subtle way of The Shadow. He could reach his active agents at all times, without the most careful observer realizing their connection with him. As Harry, no longer smiling, turned to face Joe Cardona, he could tell that the WNX announcement had made absolutely no impression upon the detective.
“Watch the door,” suggested Cardona.
Harry obeyed. He went to the door and listened. He heard voices on the stairs. He caught the words that Folsom Satruff was saying to some one below.
“I’m going up to the living room, Harlow,” was the statement that Harry caught. “Come up there as soon as Riggs has taken your hat and coat.”
Harry swung back into the living room. He motioned to Joe Cardona. The detective headed for the door beyond. Harry followed. The two moved out of sight and closed the door sufficiently so they could not be seen.
A few moments after Harry and Joe were under cover, Folsom Satruff entered the living room. The philanthropist smiled as he looked about him and realized that his two companions had received their cue.
Satruff began to warm his lean hands at the open fire. While the millionaire was standing there, Wesley Harlow arrived.
Satruff invited the physician to sit down and offered him a cigar. Harlow took the perfecto; Satruff lighted one of his own and began a casual conversation. This continued for some length of time. Harry Vincent and Joe Cardona felt impatient. Yet both could sense by Harlow’s occasional tone that some important matter was on the physician’s mind.
THE expected announcement came after a brief pause. Harlow’s voice took on a serious note as the young physician leaned forward in his chair and put a leading question to Folsom Satruff.
“What of your philanthropies?” questioned Harlow. “Have your troubles convinced you of the fallacy of the Dorand incognito?”
“Not entirely,” returned Satruff. “I must admit, Harlow, that I have met with disappointments.”
“As you were sure to do.”
“I don’t think so.”
“The proof” — Harlow was emphatic — “lies in the fact that your measures failed. Perhaps you will recall, Satruff, that I once suggested other methods.”
“I do recall your statements,” admitted Satruff. “I believe you told me that it would be preferable if I gave money in bulk, to those who asked it under no other claim than that of friendship.”
“That was what I said.”
“And I stated that such a plan would turn friendship into business.”
“Why?”
“Because a friend always comes with a hard-luck story. He talks of some attractive enterprise. He makes promises which he thinks that he can keep, but never does. The glamour of giving is lost.”
“Suppose” — Harlow was puffing speculatively on his cigar — “that some friend asked you for money with no other statement than the fact that he would put it to a good use of his own. Suppose he would promise you that some day you would learn that you had performed a useful deed which could not be revealed until afterward.”
“That would be interesting, Harlow.”
Cardona nudged Harry Vincent. It was obvious that Folsom Satruff was responding to the detective’s suggestion to lead Wesley Harlow onward.
“Very well,” came Harlow’s voice, bearing a tone of sudden confidence, “I shall talk to you. Not to my friend Folsom Satruff, but to Dorand, the philanthropist.”
“Proceed,” suggested Satruff.
“I want one hundred thousand dollars,” announced Harlow firmly. “I want it on no other security than my own word that it will be put to good use. I want it in cash — to-night.”
FOLSOM SATRUFF did not reply. Joe Cardona, peering past the edge of the door, could see an incredulous look upon the millionaire’s face.
“One hundred thousand dollars,” repeated Harlow. “For a purpose which in my judgment will be philanthropic.”
“A remarkable request, Harlow,” laughed Satruff suddenly. “One hundred thousand dollars is a great deal of money.”
“I have occasion to believe,” declared Harlow, in a smooth tone, “that you have more than that in your vault.”
“I have,” admitted Satruff. “I have more than double that sum in actual cash, Harlow. More than triple, if I recall correctly. I have securities also. The negotiable contents of my vault are considerably in excess of half a million dollars.”
“All intended for philanthropic purposes.”
“Chiefly. To be issued, however, by Dorand—”
“Who is temporarily on the shelf as a—”
“Yes. I admit that.”
“And who cannot well proceed along his previous lines of endeavor.”
Satruff laughed.
“Harlow,” he said, “you are a convincing fellow when you open up. Has this idea been on your mind for a long while?”
“Yes,” returned the physician, “but you never gave me an opportunity to express it.”
“So I realize, now that I consider some of the talks which you began. I thought you wanted to borrow money in some ordinary, pleading fashion. I would not have loaned you a dime on that basis.”
“I am asking for one hundred thousand dollars on a different plan.”
“You are. It intrigues me. Suppose, Harlow, that I should take you to my strong-room and open the vault, to count you out one hundred thousand dollars. What would you guarantee me in return?”
“The satisfaction that you had done a worthwhile deed. The knowledge that you would feel the same pleasure that you gain from giving fat pay envelopes to discharged employees. You, as Dorand, will learn that you have performed an amazing benefit.”
“To you, Harlow?”
“Yes. But no more to me than to yourself. I expect, like you, to gain my satisfaction by giving.”
“You are talking like a real philanthropist, Harlow,” asserted Satruff warmly. “Come. We are going to the strong-room. There I shall give you the sum that you request.”
Footsteps sounded as the two men walked from the living room. Joe Cardona peered from the hiding place. Satruff had closed the door behind him. Cardona beckoned to Harry Vincent.