Sanyata motioned along the hall. Harry, as he passed an opening, saw steps leading to the third floor. This was an unused way to the story on which Galban lived. Sanyata was close behind Harry.
There was something in the manner of the Japanese that made Harry cautious. Sanyata, despite his placid manner, possessed a crafty mode of motion that marked him as a dangerous man in a pinch.
Sanyata unlocked the door of a room. There were several such doors along this corridor that led from the stairway. Harry entered the apartment; he found it to be a comfortable bedroom, well provided with books. Cigarettes and ash tray were on a table in the corner.
Sanyata bowed; stepped back into the corridor and closed the door. Harry heard the key turn in the lock. Looking at the door, Harry saw that it was a heavy barrier — one that could not be easily broken.
The windows were not only barred, closed iron shutters lay beyond. These were fastened with heavy padlocks. There was no object in the room that might serve as a hammer with which to break them.
Harry lighted a cigarette and seated himself at the table. He began to look over the books; seeing none that interested him, he observed a table drawer and opened it. The only articles were papers that seemed of no importance. Harry lifted them; then prepared to replace them.
Something dropped and tinkled in the drawer. It was a key; it had evidently been mislaid among these papers. A sudden idea occurred to Harry. Could this be a duplicate key to the door that Sanyata had locked behind him?
Harry stole to the door and tried the key. It fitted. Softly, Harry turned the lock. He moved into the corridor, closing and locking the door behind him. Harry made for stairs. He crept down them until he reached a landing.
From behind a huge newel post, he had a view of the inner hall below. In a place of obscurity, Harry had a perfect watching spot.
THE waxwork figures made a ghostly tableau. A living form was moving stolidly among them. It was Fawkes; the huge-headed man looked like a monstrous murderer amid a cluster of petrified corpses.
Caution gripped Harry Vincent for the time. He crept back up the stairway and went into his room, locking the door behind him. He decided to wait at least an hour before making another trip to the lookout that he had chosen.
Something was impending, Harry Vincent knew. Though Eli Galban had mentioned no name, Harry suspected that Wendel Hargate was the old man’s enemy. Galban was prepared to meet a stern attack; somehow, Harry felt that the old man knew how it would probably be made.
Danger threatened. Soon it would strike. When the conflict began, Harry Vincent, though unarmed, intended to be there. The Shadow was concerned with the events that were to come; as an agent of The Shadow, it would be Harry Vincent’s task to join any battle in the cause of justice.
Minutes ticked while Harry maintained a calmness. A rap sounded at the door. The voice of Sanyata was inquiring if Harry desired anything.
Harry went to the door and called back that he was going to bed.
The doorknob turned as Sanyata made sure that the lock was set. Dimly, the footsteps of the Japanese faded along the corridor without. More minutes passed; Harry Vincent softly inserted his key and unlocked the door. He was ready now to go back to the lower landing and be on watch for whatever might occur.
Amid the patter of increasing raindrops, Eli Galban’s home was a weird place with its closed doors. Yet this second floor held no menace like the floor below, where Fawkes, the huge-chinned guardian stalked among the statues made of wax!
CHAPTER XX
THE SHADOW LEAVES
DOCTOR RUPERT SAYRE opened the door of a bedroom in his apartment. He stepped in and looked at the tall figure that lay stretched beneath the covers. A wan face turned in his direction. A slight smile appeared upon the features of Lamont Cranston.
“Feeling better?” questioned Sayre.
“Yes,” came Cranston’s reply. “Better, but weak.”
“You lost a lot of blood, old man,” declared Sayre. “That — and the fall you must have taken — were worse than the bullet.”
“You have not inquired how it all happened.”
There was a challenge in Cranston’s tone. Keen eyes were fixed upon Sayre’s face. The physician noted the look. He became serious as he seated himself beside the bed.
“Let me mention something,” he remarked. “When I was summoned here, I found you unconscious, Mr. Cranston. My first action, of course, was to care for your wounds. I recognized you, Mr. Cranston, because we have met in the past.
“When you recovered from your coma, you began to talk. I questioned you, but received no satisfactory reply. Your temperature had reached a fever point. It was unwise to move you. I brought a nurse here to look out for you while I was absent.”
“You informed no one else that I was here?”
“No one.”
“Why not?”
“A natural question. It was my duty to inform the police that a man suffering from a bullet wound had come to my office. There was a reason, however, why I shirked my required duty. At certain times, a physician must use his own discretion.
“I have mentioned that you talked to me. Incoherently, indeed; yet there were certain statements that brought vivid recollections to my mind. Once, Mr. Cranston, I went through a most terrible experience. I was a prisoner in the hands of a fiend, who intended to slay me as well as others.
“A miraculous intervention saved my life. Some one — an unknown being clad in black — stepped in and brought doom to those who deserved it, as well as rescue to myself and those whom the fiend intended as his victims. That weird rescuer, I learned, was a mysterious personage who is called The Shadow.”
Burning eyes were fixed upon Doctor Rupert Sayre. The physician did not see them. He was staring at the wall beyond the bed as he continued his reminiscence.
“From then on,” declared Sayre, “I knew that I owed an everlasting debt to some one whom I could never find. I retained my gratitude toward The Shadow. When you talked with me, three nights ago, you mentioned facts concerning my past episodes. I knew then that you—”
Sayre paused. His clear eyes met the keen optics that stared from either side of Cranston’s hawklike nose. The physician spoke slowly and soberly.
“I knew,” he declared, “that you might have been — well, let us say sent here — through the agency of The Shadow. From then on, circumstances did not concern me. It was my duty to see that you gained complete recovery.”
“I feel better now,” came Cranston’s quiet tone. “I suppose that the time has come for me to leave here.”
“Not for three days at least!” exclaimed Sayre, warningly, returning to his professional sense. “You must remain in bed. You have just recuperated from a most serious condition. This is the first time that I have found you in a lucid mental state.”
Cranston’s head dropped wearily upon the pillows.
“Your strength would fail you,” explained Sayre. “If there is anything that I can do for you, in addition to my professional services, I shall be glad to—”
“A telephone,” interposed Cranston.
Sayre went to the hall. He brought in a telephone on a long extension wire. He retired from the room and closed the door behind him. A pale smile appeared upon Cranston’s thin lips.
CALLING a number, Cranston waited. His eyes were gleaming; a strange light showed upon his face. He was The Shadow, his mental power fully returned, though his physical form had weakened.
“Burbank speaking,” came a voice over the wire.
In a low, whispered voice, The Shadow began to question his contact agent. Burbank’s replies came in short, negative monotones. The Shadow was seeking information. It was totally lacking. There had been no report from Harry Vincent.