Brooks was to gain the pleasure of admitting the expected visitor very shortly. For at the precise moment
that the butler lounged across the living room, a man entered the lobby on the street floor far blow.
This visitor to the apartment building was a tall man who wore a light-brown overcoat and a gray hat. He
carried a large brief case in his hand. He stopped to speak to the doorman. In a quiet monotone, he put
the query:
"Is Mr. Alfred Sartain at home?"
A chance lounger in the lobby caught the question. It was one of "Slips" Harbeck's men — an underling of
Larry Ricordo's trusted lieutenant. That man was very anxious to hear the rest of the conversation
between the doorman and the stranger.
"I believe that Mr. Sartain is here," replied the doorman. "I can call the penthouse and tell him that you
have arrived. What is the name, sir?"
"Broderick. Howard Broderick. I have an appointment."
The lounger strolled from the lobby. Howard Broderick was the name of the one person who was to
have uninterrupted entrance to Sartain's domain.
The doorman put through a call. He received word to admit the visitor. He ushered the man with the brief
case to the elevator. A few minutes later, the visitor stepped forth at the entrance to the penthouse. He
rang the bell, and Brooks opened the door.
THE butler bowed and admitted the early arrival. He stared rather closely at the stranger. There was
something about the man's appearance that troubled the false butler. Broderick's face had a cold,
chiseled expression, and his eyes, as they glanced across the room, were firm and keenly observant.
"Mr. Sartain is expecting me."
The visitor's voice chilled Brooks. It also attracted the attention of Hunnefield, who was seated in a chair,
reading. The secretary leaped to his feet and approached the stranger.
"Ah, you are Mr. Broderick?" he questioned. "Mr. Sartain did not expect you so early. You will have to
wait, sir, until he rings for you to be admitted."
"You can tell him that I am here?"
"No, I am afraid not. He is going over papers at present; and he will notify us as soon as he is free."
Hat in hand, but with coat still on his shoulders, the tall visitor had moved easily across the room. He was
facing the door that barred the way to Sartain's studio.
As he turned, his keen eyes spotted the bell against the wall. They also saw the telephone. Then they
were turned toward the secretary.
In one sweeping glance, this person had noted the facts that so greatly concerned Brooks; but the false
butler had not fully realized its keenness.
"I must wait, then," remarked the visitor, with a placid smile. "Very well, I shall do so. Admirable place
that Mr. Sartain has here. Excellent view."
He was strolling across the room as he spoke. He stopped by a pair of French doors that led out to a
veranda. With an easy, natural gesture, he turned the knob and glanced out into the night, toward the
twinkling lights of Manhattan.
"Quite all right?" he questioned.
"To step outside?" responded Hunnefield. "Certainly, Mr. Broderick. I shall call you when we hear from
Mr. Sartain, unless you come in before that."
"A delightful breeze," observed the tall man quietly. "Thank you for your courtesy."
He stepped to the veranda as he finished the sentence, leaving the door half opened behind him.
Hunnefield dropped back into his chair. Brooks smiled and went about trivial duties. The presence of the
visitor had made the false butler feel ill at ease. He was just as glad that Broderick had stepped out upon
the veranda.
The glance of the keen eyes toward the telephone and the bell — it still disturbed Brooks. But with
Broderick temporarily out of sight, the butler was glad that the visitor had come. He remained just within
the French window, occasionally speaking to Hunnefield. Broderick would prove useful, perhaps, later
this evening. He, like the secretary, would be a good witness to the unfortunate accident that was
destined to befall Alfred Sartain.
But Brooks did not actually step out to the veranda himself. He merely took it for granted that Howard
Broderick was still there. Hence he did not see the strange metamorphosis that occurred beyond the
French window.
THE man who had introduced himself as Howard Broderick had carried his brief case, absent-mindedly
tucked beneath his arm. Alone, in the darkness, he became suddenly busy with the compact satchel.
Stooping, he opened it by the rail of the veranda. Out came objects, invisible in the gloom.
The gray hat dropped from the head that wore it. The light overcoat dropped from arms and shoulders.
Other garments took their place. A long black cloak, a dark, broad-brimmed slouch hat — these formed
Howard Broderick's new attire. The other garments went quickly into the brief case, which deft hands
deposited against the wall of the penthouse.
A figure raised itself beside the rail. Barely discernible in the glow from the metropolis, it formed the
sinister, ghostly shape of a tall being clad entirely in black. Even the hands of this weird phantom were
now covered with black gloves. The only spots of light that showed were two blazing eyes that flashed
from beneath the brim of the slouch hat.
Howard Broderick's part was ended. This visitant's statement of identity had been false. No longer
guised as a man — instead, a fantastic creature of darkness — he had become The Shadow!
Sinister foe of crime, amazing master of the night, The Shadow had arrived at the spot where death was
stalking. His tall, eerie shape was rising higher as it poised upon the broad rail of the veranda. Long arms,
stretched upward, gripped the projecting slope of the roof.
The figure of The Shadow swung outward. It poised over nothingness; then swung upward. Unyielding
hands drew the lithe body to the safety above.
The Shadow, unseen, his form now but a mass of moving blackness along the steep incline, was scaling
the sloping roof of the penthouse, bound upon a precarious mission which involved the life of a man
already doomed to die!
CHAPTER III. THE TRAP ACTS
THE watchers high in the Brinton Building were studying the penthouse scene with renewed interest.
Their evil eyes were upon the corner window, where light had now replaced the former blackness.
Beyond the framework of the studio window, plainly visible through the small panes of glass, sat Alfred
Sartain. The millionaire was busy at his desk.
While Thomas Jocelyn and Larry Ricordo stared in silence, Professor Folcroft Urlich spoke in low,
continued tones, still maintaining his lecture style.
"Our man is in the trap," he explained. "As yet, he has not experienced its effects. That time is coming
shortly. Here is the means whereby we may study him more closely."
The professor drew a pair of opera glasses from his coat and focused them upon the scene across the
street. He tendered the glasses to Jocelyn, who drew nervously away. Ricordo, however, seized them
eagerly.
The former gang lord laughed gruffly as he gained a close-up view of the doomed man within the studio.
He noticed a perplexed look that appeared upon Sartain's face. Then the millionaire stepped from the
field of vision as he suddenly arose from his desk. Ricordo passed the glasses back to Urlich.
"He has noticed the noise from the radiator," decided the profess
or, as the three men watched Sartain go
toward the corner. "The noise is due to the air-dry attachment which is now being used on many
radiators. These devices were installed throughout the penthouse, during the renovation."
While Sartain was stooping by the radiator, the professor continued his theme.
"The air-dry attachment," he explained, "is a commercial device which is designed to remove moisture
from the atmosphere. By experimenting with these articles, I learned that they could be adjusted so that
they consume oxygen very rapidly. Sartain does not know it, but that piece of mechanism is sucking the
life-giving element from the air in his studio."
"What if he detaches it?" inquired Jocelyn, in a weak voice.
"He cannot," responded the professor. "It is firmly fixed in place. He might manage to smash it, if he
understood its purpose. But he simply considers it as a noise-making nuisance. He will decide to forget
it."
Professor Urlich's statement was proven when Sartain went back to the desk. Nevertheless, the
millionaire continued to glance impatiently toward the corner. They saw his hand press a button upon the
desk.
"He is ringing for some one to attend to the radiator," observed Urlich. "The call will not be answered.
Brooks has plugged the bell. Neither he nor the secretary will hear it."
A FEW minutes passed; then the watchers saw Sartain raise his hand to his forehead. Ricordo, taking the
opera glasses, observed that the millionaire's face seemed a trifle pale. Professor Urlich chuckled as
Sartain again pressed the button on his desk.
"He wonders why no one comes," remarked the scientist. "It is not the noise of the radiator now. Sartain
is beginning to feel a faintness, due to the lack of oxygen in the atmosphere. He will go to the window
next."
The prediction proved true. Sartain went to the window and tried to open it. He tussled with the fastening
to no avail. The framework would not yield.
"It is firmly fastened," stated Urlich. "Jammed into place, by the painters. He will give it up. Watch him go
to the door."
Alfred Sartain staggered momentarily as he crossed the room. The effort at the window had weakened
him. He tried the knob of the door, and tugged furiously. The portal failed to open.
"That knob is ingeniously arranged," explained Urlich. "This is the first time that the door has been shut
since it was fixed. It will not turn the heavy latch at present. After some one opens the door from the
other side — as Brooks or the secretary will do later on — the action from the outside will make the inner
knob function perfectly. There will be no clew — after Sartain is dead."
The millionaire seemed groggy. Urlich chuckled. Ricordo looked on in admiration. He was gaining a great
respect for Urlich's ingenuity. Jocelyn, trembling, but fascinated, put an anxious question.
"Suppose that he breaks the windowpanes?" asked the financier. "If he realizes that he needs air?"
"That will be next," lectured Professor Urlich. "It will prove futile" — the scientist paused as they saw
Sartain stride unsteadily toward the window— "because the original panes were all removed during the
renovation. The new ones are all of bullet-proof glass."
Sartain had seized a large book. They watched him throw it at the window. The volume rebounded from
a pane. The millionaire hurled a small ash stand. It, too, dropped back.
Lifting a chair, the trapped man began to pound at the barrier. The iron framework and the panels of
special glass withstood his effort. Sartain staggered back to the desk, almost on the verge of collapse.
"He is nearing the end of his resources," observed the scientist, taking the opera glasses from Ricordo.
"Ah — he is using the telephone. That, too, will be futile."
Sartain, leaning on the desk, had the receiver to his ear. The line was dead. He was joggling the hook
with his other hand and anxiously listening while he tried to establish connection with the operator. A
queer chortle came from Urlich's lips.
"What is the matter?" questioned Jocelyn.
"Nothing," answered the professor. "I am merely glad that we came here to-night. Sartain's present
actions have given me an excellent idea. This is but one death, Jocelyn. There will be others, and some
may be emergencies. What I have just seen has given me an inspiration — a sure way to deal death even
though I prefer the silence that we are viewing now — "
The speaker stopped suddenly as Sartain fell across the desk. Ricordo laughed hoarsely. Jocelyn
gasped. They saw Sartain roll sidewise and rest with his back slouched against the desk, his eyes staring
upward.
"The end is near," announced Professor Urlich. "The oxygen supply has not only decreased; the room
also contains a considerable quantity of carbon dioxide. That gas — which we emit when breathing — will
not sustain life.
"Should Sartain lose his hold upon the desk and fall to the floor, the end will come more rapidly.
However, it is well within my expected schedule. Our victim is doomed. There is no possible source from
which he can gain fresh air."
"Is he dying now?" quizzed Jocelyn, in an unsteady tone.
"Not quite," replied the professor. "One burst of fresh air would revive him quickly."
"He is staring upward."
"Yes. Toward the skylight. He realizes his predicament, and he would like to reach that spot. He does
not possess the strength, however. Furthermore, it would afford him no outlet. The skylight, like the
window, is firmly jammed. There is no object high enough— even a chair upon the desk — to let Sartain
reach it with more than his finger tips. The thick glass would be almost impossible to break."
"I can't see it," said Ricordo.
"The room is quite high," remarked Urlich. "The skylight is in the sloping roof."
"He might have managed that way," observed Jocelyn.
"Might," returned the professor dryly. "But that, Jocelyn, is where I counted exactly upon probabilities. I
not only regarded the skylight as almost inaccessible to a man trapped in the room; I also knew that no
one would choose it save as a last resort. Could you read Sartain's mind at present, you would learn that
he is regretting the fact that he did not think of the skylight as the first means of egress. He possessed
strength then; it is failing him now."
A PAUSE; then a wicked chuckle as the scientist again focused the opera glasses upon the doomed
victim. In a low voice, he explained the cause of his glee.
"Sartain's face is hopeless," declared Urlich. "His lips show that he is panting. The prolonged gasps of a
dying man. Ah! This is wonderful, my friends! It, too, gives me a thought of new and scientific death — of
sure death — of silent death."
He laughed; then added:
"But I must not digress with scientific ideas. I retain all that I gain by way of inspiration during my
experiments. Our chief concern now is the final moment of Alfred Sartain's existence. It will not be long
deferred.
"Those eyes, my friends, are staring heavenward, looking for hope, seeking help" — the professor
chuckled mirthfully—"and seeing nothing but the closed pane of a skylight!"
Larry Ricordo joined in the professor's laugh. Thomas Jocelyn, though unnerved by the sight of
approaching death, also managed to emit a halfhearted tone of mirth.
"Perfection," murmured
Folcroft Urlich. "Death by misadventure. A man who realized too late that his air
supply was gone. One whose strength had failed so greatly that he was unable to ring for help, or call by
phone, or open door or window. That will be the coroner's verdict.
"Guns in the hands of gangsters cannot match this subtle scheme. They are crude. They reveal murderous
design. We have stayed them for to-night. You, Jocelyn, see the safety of my ways. You, Ricordo, can
appreciate their artistry.
"Staring eyes that look for hope will soon stare upward no longer; Alfred Sartain is doomed!"
The professor paused to deliver a cackle of elation; then his lips formed a triumphant phrase:
"Doomed by silent death!"
CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW ARRIVES
ALL was a blur before Alfred Sartain's weakening eyes. The doomed millionaire was staring toward the
ceiling. As Professor Urlich had divined, Sartain's eyes were upon the closed skylight. Through Sartain's
hopeless brain were running those very thoughts that the fiendish scientist had declared as probable.
Through that barrier lay the last chance for safety. Sartain knew now that he might have tried the skylight
first. Yet he completely lacked the slightest vestige of strength that might have enabled him to undertake
the task.
Through the skylight! If the heavy glass would only break; if it would only open! It was impossible,
Sartain knew, yet as he felt the creeping power of death, the millionaire instinctively gazed toward that
one way of hope.
Black spots danced before his eyes. The glass of the skylight seemed faded and obscure. Steady gasps
came from the doomed man's lips. Then they broke into one amazed pant of wonderment.
To Sartain's blurred vision, the skylight appeared to be moving upward! The dull glow of the city-lighted
sky was visible above!
Simultaneously a whiff of chill air reached Sartain's nostrils. The reviving puff sustained him sufficiently to
end his decreasing weakness. All went black momentarily; then the darkness moved, and from its strange
mass shone two sparkling eyes.
The figure of a living being was projecting itself through the opened skylight. Some rescuer had opened
the barrier from the roof, and was descending into the studio!
The Silent Death s-27 Page 2
