None knew the identity of The Shadow. He was a master of disguise, a phantom who moved with the silence and stealth of night. His stalwart hand had spelled doom to hosts of supercrooks; yet none had managed to defeat the purposes of The Shadow.
IN his ceaseless hunt for crime, The Shadow depended upon information which he received from trusted subordinates who were always on the lookout for new developments. One of his most capable agents was Clyde Burke, the Classic reporter now assigned to the Barliss case.
It was Clyde Burke’s duty to send in facts concerning unusual crime as quickly as he encountered it. The brief data that involved the theft of a valuable manuscript was all that Clyde Burke needed. He had sent word to The Shadow.
Clyde had not spoken directly to his hidden chief. Instead, he had called Burbank, The Shadow’s contact agent. Whatever news came to Burbank went to The Shadow. Burbank served as a relay worker; he was only one who passed the word along.
Thus Clyde Burke, as he traveled uptown, knew that The Shadow was informed regarding the sudden death of Shattuck Barliss. Whether or not this demise of an old book collector was of sufficient interest for The Shadow did not concern Clyde Burke. The reporter had done his accustomed duty; the rest lay with The Shadow’s judgment.
Clyde found a police car outside the Barliss home. He rang the doorbell of the old house. The servant opened it; Clyde announced himself as a reporter from the Classic.
Ushered into a downstairs living room, Clyde faced several persons. Among them was a swarthy, stocky individual whom the reporter recognized as Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the New York force.
“Hello, Joe,” greeted the reporter.
“Hello, Burke,” came the reply. “This is Terry Barliss, nephew of the dead man. This is Rodney Glasgow, attorney. Sit down; it’s all right for you to hear the story.”
“It certainly is,” agreed Terry Barliss. “I’m glad you arrived, Mr. Burke. I am just reporting the theft of a rare manuscript. The discovery of the theft caused my uncle to fall dead of heart failure.”
It was plain to see that Terry Barliss had been stunned by the death of his uncle. Nevertheless, the young man plunged into his story, while Rodney Glasgow nodded corroboration. As he talked, Terry held forth the bound copy of the Villon manuscript — the spurious collection of parchment pages that had come from the safe behind the paneled wall.
As Joe Cardona took the volume to examine it, footsteps sounded on the stairs. The trained nurse appeared, accompanied by a middle-aged man who was evidently a physician.
“This is Doctor Davenport,” explained Terry. “He is an associate of Doctor Fullis, my uncle’s physician. We summoned him immediately.”
“Doctor Fullis is out of town,” added Doctor Davenport, addressing Cardona. “He prescribed special capsules for Shattuck Barliss. I find that they have been administered in the appointed doses. They produced the required stimulus that enabled Shattuck Barliss to live until tonight.”
“The cause of death?”
“Heart failure. It was to be expected.”
ALL eyes were upon the physician as he spoke. The doctor had entered the living room. The nurse had come with him. No one was observant of what was occurring in the hall beyond. Neither Clyde Burke nor Joe Cardona saw the slight flicker upon the hall wall — the indication that the front door was opening.
“You say,” remarked Cardona, “that you expected Shattuck Barliss to die?”
“Doctor Fullis warned me of that fact,” nodded Davenport. “He permitted his patient to indulge in some activity following each prescribed dose of medicine. He left strict orders, however, that all shocks should be avoided.
“I am somewhat surprised, however, that death should have come so close after the taking of the capsules. They formed a very powerful stimulant. It merely proves that the shock must have been a tremendous one.”
“It was,” asserted Terry. “My uncle valued his manuscript above all else in—”
“You say this is not the manuscript?” quizzed Cardona suddenly.
“Apparently not,” interposed Rodney Glasgow. “Yet the missing manuscript must have been very similar to this one. It was not until Shattuck Barliss had opened it to the final pages that he discovered it to be spurious.”
To illustrate, Glasgow advanced and took the volume from Joe Cardona’s hands. The lawyer turned the parchment pages. The others gathered close to hear his story. They did not notice the strange phenomenon which occurred in the hallway beyond the open arch that led from the living room.
The dimness of the hallway seemed to move. Out of blackness came a living shape. A tall, spectral figure appeared — a form that was clad entirely in black. Its shape showed the outline of a sable-hued cloak; above it, the spread formation of a broad-brimmed slouch hat.
No countenance showed within that mass of darkness. The only token of the presence that wore the spectral garb lay in the glow that appeared beneath the hat brim. Brilliant, burning eyes shone with penetrating power. They were centered upon the group within the living room. They were the eyes of The Shadow!
The black cloak swished, its sound scarcely audible. The figure of The Shadow disappeared from the arch. With silent tread, the spectral visitant stalked up the stairway. His tall form blended with darkness at the landing.
No one was on the second floor. The Shadow seemed a ghostly creature as he moved toward the half-opened door of the bedroom where the body of Shattuck Barliss lay. A moment later, the fantastic master of the darkness was viewing the pitiful body that lay beneath the coverlets.
THE SHADOW’S gaze was penetrating. His amazing eyes seemed to visualize all that had happened. The cloak swished; The Shadow crossed the room and entered the little library. He viewed the freshness of the panels, the newness of this room, when compared to the remainder of the house.
Back in the bedroom, The Shadow examined the opened safe. He studied the panel that Terry Barliss had removed at his uncle’s order. The Shadow went to the bed. He stared at the dead form of Shattuck Barliss.
The box of capsules caught The Shadow’s eye. Its label bore the name and address of a well-known pharmacist. The written statement added that the dosage should be two capsules four times a day. The number of pills was marked as fifty.
The Shadow’s arm extended. A hand, gloved in thin black, reached toward the box. A slender, nimble finger counted the capsules. There were eighteen in the box. The finger and thumb removed a single capsule.
Some one was coming up the stairs. The Shadow whirled as he heard the thudding footsteps. He reached the hallway and melted from view against a deep-set door. Joe Cardona was coming with Terry Barliss.
Neither arrival saw The Shadow. The two entered the room. They went toward the little library, then returned. The Shadow, from his post, could hear their discussion, which was evidently a continuation of a conversation held downstairs.
“There is no evidence of any robbery,” Cardona was declaring. “You say your uncle cried out that his manuscript had been stolen. Yet neither you nor Glasgow had seen the book before tonight.”
“We are working on a dead man’s word,” replied Terry Barliss solemnly. “I can see your viewpoint, Mr. Cardona. It’s a very flimsy case. Especially since my uncle admitted that an expert pronounced his manuscript a forgery.”
“It’s hard to convince collectors regarding fakes.”
“I know it. Yet I feel certain that my uncle was right in his belief that he possessed the genuine Villon manuscript.”
Cardona had reached the hallway. He was in sight of The Shadow. Watching eyes saw a shrug of the detective’s shoulders.