“As the evidence stands,” decided Cardona, “there is no indication whatever of crime. Shattuck Barliss died a natural death. He may have been completely mistaken about his manuscript. This is not a case for the police.”
“Then you advise—”
“I suggest that you make further inquiries of your own. Unless you can produce some proof that something could have been stolen from this house, there is nothing that any one can do.”
Terry Barliss had joined Joe Cardona in the hallway. The young man clearly saw the logic of the detective’s statement. Together, the two passed the doorway where The Shadow lurked. They descended the stairs.
WHEN footsteps had dwindled, The Shadow moved. He did not return to the room where Shattuck Barliss lay dead. Instead, he, too, descended the stairs. He reached the ground floor silently. No more than a moving phantom shape, he passed the arch to the living room.
People were talking there. Rodney Glasgow was agreeing with Joe Cardona. The Shadow did not linger. He passed to the front door. His gloved hand turned the knob.
Like a vanishing specter, The Shadow moved into the outer darkness. Only the closing of the door betokened his departure.
A few minutes later, Joe Cardona and Clyde Burke came from the house. They descended the brownstone steps and entered the area of light beneath the street lamp. They did not see the lingering form that watched them from a spot beside the obscure steps.
“Then there’s no story,” remarked Clyde sourly. “No homicide — no proven theft — nothing but a sudden but expected death of an old man who had not long to live.”
“You’ve guessed it,” returned Cardona.
“I came out for a front-page story,” added Clyde. “Instead, I found an item for the obit column.”
The two moved away. Silence followed their departure. Nothing stirred along this street where hidden watchers had seen Terry Barliss arrive at his uncle’s home. Then came motion. A portion of blackness seemed to detach itself from the wall beside the steps.
A vague creature of the night, The Shadow flitted from the scene. Patches of moving darkness on the sidewalk were the only tokens of his presence, until the eerie master of the night neared the end of the street.
Then, through blackness, came a strange, whispered cry. A sinister laugh shuddered forth a sardonic message. Its weird sound broke and was followed by gibing echoes. There was significance in that amazing mockery.
The Shadow had come as an unseen visitor. Where Joe Cardona and Clyde Burke had found no trace of either homicide or theft, The Shadow had detected possibilities of both.
The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER III
FROM THE SANCTUM
BRIGHT lights cast a strange glow throughout a remarkable room. Glistening reflections came from polished walls. The place was a laboratory, yet it differed from any other in existence.
Instead of white-tiled fittings, this room was furnished entirely in black. Walls, ceiling, and floor, like tables, benches and other equipment, were all of sable hue. It was a fitting atmosphere for the strange being who occupied it.
The Shadow was in his laboratory. Clad in his cloak and hat of somber black, he was practically invisible as he worked. His garb did not reflect the light as did the walls. Hence The Shadow formed a weird, incongruous shape as he moved about.
Black against black: absorbing surface against that which reflected. Such was The Shadow’s presence. Long arms and gloved hands were like shadows of The Shadow!
One spot of whiteness was present. It was no more than a tiny speck. The capsule that The Shadow had brought from a dead man’s bedroom showed between gloved thumb and forefinger.
With test tubes and bottles, The Shadow began his analysis. The capsule opened; its whitish powder poured upon a small black patch of paper. The test continued. Its completion brought a soft murmur of mockery from the hidden lips of The Shadow.
The laboratory lights went out. A cloak swished in darkness. A short while later, another light appeared in a second somber room. A switch clicked; a bluish glare was focused downward upon the polished surface of a table.
White hands appeared beneath the lights. On a finger of the left glittered a shimmering gem. This was The Shadow’s girasol — the rare fire opal that was The Shadow’s single gem. Its hue was black at times; yet always, from its depths, gleamed sparks of fire that shone with the intensity of a Promethean eye.
The Shadow was in his sanctum. Here, enshrouded in total darkness, he was invisible — all except his hands, which moved like living creatures detached from the body beyond them. The Shadow was about to summarize the findings of his visit to the home of Shattuck Barliss and the analysis that had succeeded that visit.
FINGERS clutched a pen. They inscribed brief notations upon a sheet of paper which the other hand produced:
Capsule — harmless powder — drug absent.
Number remaining — eighteen.
Lacking — thirty-two.
Four days.
The written words began to vanish. They faded from the sheet of paper like passing thoughts. Yet their purport remained. The Shadow had made an important discovery.
Some one had substituted harmless capsules for the prescribed pills. No jury could ever convict the culprit for homicidal intent. Nevertheless, the placing of such capsules had been a death warrant for Shattuck Barliss.
Thirty-two capsules had been used from the box. For at least four days, Shattuck Barliss had been living without the necessary medicinal stimulus that the physician had prescribed. The old man’s ability to stand a sudden shock had been steadily diminishing ever since the substitution had been made!
The purpose? The Shadow’s soft laugh indicated it. Some one had wanted Shattuck Barliss to die before his nephew arrived in New York. The capsules had evidently been changed about the time when Rodney Glasgow had summoned Terry Barliss East.
Had Shattuck Barliss succumbed to a sudden shock before the arrival of Terry, no one would have learned the story of the famous Villon manuscript. Had it been uncovered after the old man’s death, there could have been no speculation concerning it.
Artful murder — murder that relied upon natural reaction — such had been the cause of death to Shattuck Barliss. The motive of the subtle deed had been to cover previous theft!
New notations were coming from The Shadow’s pen. Nothing had escaped The Shadow’s notice; no words that he had heard passed unremembered:
Library — renovations.
Wall-safe — untouched.
Expert opinion — forged manuscript.
These written remarks faded. They had brought out important points. The only indication that any one could have recently been located in the old house was found in the new decorations of the library off the bedroom. The condition of the wall safe proved that no one had made forcible entry there. Terry’s remark to Cardona — the statement that some expert had pronounced the Villon manuscript spurious — was the final point of value:
Inquiries.
This single word was the last that The Shadow wrote. It remained after the others had faded: then it, too, passed to oblivion.
The Shadow knew that Terry Barliss, even though his cause might be futile, would at least make some effort to find out what had happened in his uncle’s home prior to his own arrival from California.
It was unnecessary for The Shadow to write the obvious: that the old brownstone house would be the starting point for any investigation that might lead to the missing manuscript. It was unnecessary also for The Shadow to speculate upon where the trail might lead until after it had begun.