The Silent Death s-27

by Maxwell Grant

  bathed in a glow from a floor lamp in the corner.

  The Shadow began an inspection of the place. There was no mistaking his purpose. To-night, according

  to accurate information gained from Cliff Marsland, Wesley Barnsworth would be allowed to enter here

  unharmed. Later, mobsmen would break in to slay him.

  The living room afforded hiding places. One of these would serve The Shadow. From it, he could emerge

  to strike down the minions of crime.

  If they entered before Barnsworth, the stroke could come then. If they entered later, they could be met

  before they had a chance to kill.

  But murder was not the only purpose mentioned. The leader of the intended slayers — Slips

  Harbeck — had been instructed to pick up any documents that might be loose. Why had he been so

  ordered? That, The Shadow intended to learn.

  The black-cloaked figure stopped by a table near the floor lamp. One finger touched the polished

  surface. It made a slight smudge in a fine, thin layer of dust. That fact did not escape The Shadow's eye.

  The cloak swished slightly as The Shadow swung across the room. He opened a door. The light showed

  a small room, evidently intended as a bedroom, but equipped with desk, table, and chairs. There was a

  lamp suspended above the desk in the corner. The Shadow pressed the switch.

  THE illumination was thrown directly on the desk. There, beneath the lamp, rested an envelope, The

  hand of The Shadow reached forward. The black fingers carefully approached the envelope to lift it with

  exactitude.

  They stopped suddenly, and one finger touched the surface of the desk. This time there was no smudge

  of dust.

  Wheeling, The Shadow moved to the table in the corner of the room. His tiny flashlight threw its

  silver-dollar beam upon the wood. A finger touched the table and made a slight smudge.

  The flashlight disappeared. The black gloves peeled away. Long, white hands, with tapering fingers,

  came in view. Upon a finger of the left hand glistened a strange gem that glittered with amazing hues as

  the hands came beneath the light above the desk.

  The Shadow seated himself. He produced pen and paper from beneath his cloak. He rested the paper on

  the desk, away from the envelope beneath the lamp. The left hand was still. The jewel sparkled in mystic

  colors.

  Deep crimson; then flashing purple; finally a dull, changing blue— these were the shades of light from the

  strange stone. This gem was The Shadow's girasol, a variety of fire opal. It seemed to glow with the life

  of an undying ember, flashing forth sparks of light. Like the eyes that watched it, this talisman symbolized

  mystery.

  The eyes of The Shadow studied the desk. They roved to the table. They glanced into the outer room.

  Hidden lips laughed softly. That sound, despite its gentleness, was sinister. It seemed like the mirth of a

  being from another world — an uncanny, foreboding tone that human lips could not have uttered.

  Sighing, whispered echoes made the laugh still live as they responded from the walls. A horde of invisible

  demons had seemingly responded to their master. The right hand of The Shadow moved, inscribing

  words that were written thoughts.

  Scratches on the lock. Some one has entered.

  Dust on the tables. The owner has been absent.

  No dust on the desk. It does not correspond with other furniture. It has been inserted since the owner's

  departure.

  The writing was in bright-blue ink. It remained for several seconds; then, letter by letter, word by word, it

  disappeared. No traces remained upon the blank sheet of paper. Pen and paper disappeared. Once

  again, The Shadow laughed.

  THERE was a telephone beside the desk. It was resting on a book. The Shadow picked up the

  directory, and found the number of J. Wesley Barnsworth.

  The name was listed twice: a business address in Wall Street; the residence at Langley Court. The latter

  number corresponded with the one on the telephone itself.

  In the front of the book, The Shadow found a list of names and telephone numbers evidently persons

  with whom Barnsworth had close acquaintance or business associations. The Shadow picked two

  names— one from the top of the list; the other from the bottom. The one at the top was Joseph Harrison;

  the one at the bottom was that of Graham Gorson.

  Placing the phone at the extreme corner of the desk, The Shadow dialed the number of Joseph Harrison.

  A voice responded. The hidden lips of The Shadow spoke in an ordinary tone, rather briskly and away

  from the mouthpiece.

  "Hello… Is this Mr. Harrison?… Mr. Joseph Harrison?… I am Graham Gorson — friend of Wesley

  Barnsworth…"

  The receiver crackled as the man at the other end made his reply:

  "Hello, Mr. Gorson… Yes, I remember you. Wesley introduced us at the Raffle Club… Surely. What can

  I do for you?"

  "I am anxious to get in touch with Mr. Barnsworth," came The Shadow's assumed tones. "I have not

  been able to reach him…"

  "Don't you know that he went to Florida?" inquired Harrison, over the wire. "He's been gone ten days

  now."

  "I knew he intended to go," answered The Shadow, "but I was not sure when he planned to leave. I shall

  have to wait until he returns."

  "That will be nearly a month," informed Harrison. "Sorry I don't have his address, Mr. Gorson. If you call

  his office…"

  With call concluded, and book and telephone replaced upon the floor, The Shadow arose and stood

  beside the desk. His keen eyes had detected scarcely noticeable factors that had warned him of hidden

  danger. The telephone call had assured him that this apartment had no occupant at present.

  Some mystery lay here; and The Shadow knew that it centered about the envelope upon the desk which

  did not belong to this room.

  Moving into the living room, The Shadow plucked a thin book from a trough beneath a side table. He

  carried it into the small room, and set it upon the envelope.

  Holding the book with one hand, The Shadow raised it imperceptibly; with his other hand, he whisked

  the envelope out from beneath the book, which he left upon the desk.

  The deft fingers carefully peeled open the flap, so neatly that the envelope remained intact. From within,

  they drew a heavy folded paper. Spread out, the paper revealed nothing. It was blank.

  The Shadow replaced the paper and put it in the envelope. He did not seal the wrapper. He merely

  inserted the envelope beneath the book, and worked it neatly back into place. Carrying the book to the

  place where it belonged The Shadow returned to the desk.

  THE black gloves slipped over the white hands. A tiny reel came from beneath The Shadow's cloak. The

  gloved hands stretched out a length of thread from within the reel. The fingers dabbed the end of the

  thread upon the envelope. It remained there, thanks to a tiny button coated with a sticky wax.

  The Shadow moved across the room, paying out thread as he drew away. He reached the living room

  and closed the door behind him. The reel was close to the floor; the thread passed beneath the door. A

  draw upon that thread would pull the envelope from the desk.

  Holding the reel and standing close beside the wall, The Shadow pressed a knob in the center. The

  thread responded, drawing rapidly inward as a spring was released within the reel. This action caused a

  startling effect in the
closed room beyond the door.

  Simultaneously with the withdrawal of the envelope, a mighty, sighing puff sounded on the other side of

  the barrier. It was a gigantic, muffled gasp that made the door quiver and shift outward; then inward. The

  sound of tinkling glass followed.

  That was all.

  The Shadow opened the door. The little room was no longer illuminated, but its interior was vaguely plain

  in the light from the living room.

  The place was a mass of wreckage. The desk was completely collapsed. The table and the chairs were

  broken. The light above the table, shade as well as incandescent, was shattered. Only the telephone

  rested on the floor; the envelope that had come from the desk lay near the door.

  The withdrawal of that envelope had caused a weird, silent explosion. A filmy haze of smoke was settling

  to the floor of the room. As it cleared away, The Shadow entered, and his flashlight ran about the room.

  It rested upon a broken metal object that lay on the floor.

  The Shadow laughed. That article was a photo-electric cell. Beside it was a fragment of flat glass. It did

  not come from the window, although the panes had broken there, adding to the tinkling which The

  Shadow had heard. This bit of glass had come from the desk itself.

  The Shadow knew the answer. That desk had been a death device. Loaded with a chemical bomb, it

  had awaited the unwary action which would spring the detonator.

  That had depended upon the photoelectric cell, set in the top of the desk. Covered with a layer of glass,

  the envelope resting above it, a shaft of light had alone been needed to make the cell respond.

  The hanging light — the tempting envelope. To remove the envelope meant that the light would strike the

  cell planted in the desk. The Shadow had sensed the danger. He had gone to a place of safety before

  letting the death trap operate.

  The book upon the envelope had enabled him to withdraw the latter with impunity; to learn what he had

  so cunningly suspected — that the envelope was there to bring death to whoever might take it away.

  THIS was no plot of an ordinary gang leader. The intended death of Alfred Sartain had shown the

  working of a scientific brain; this discharged trap brought more intensive proof of the same fact.

  The photo-electric cell was in itself ingenious. The use of a new and remarkable explosive showed still

  greater craft. Silent death — by a sighing, puffing combustible had awaited The Shadow here to-night.

  The instructions which Cliff Marsland had heard Slips Harbeck repeat had been carefully arranged. Their

  subtle point was the mention of documents. That envelope had rested as a sure temptation that would

  lead any ordinary investigator to his doom.

  The Shadow had divined the danger. He had opened the envelope to find it messageless. He had

  avoided the menace; he had let the almost noiseless explosive wreak its damage upon furnishings alone.

  Professor Urlich's snare had failed. The Shadow, the master who had spoiled the scientist's scheme of

  death for Alfred Sartain, had himself avoided the subtle doom set here tonight.

  It had been defensive action. Nothing concerning the enemy's identity had been revealed. But it placed

  The Shadow one step nearer his goal — a meeting with the perpetrator of crime whose hand The Shadow

  had previously discovered.

  A few minutes later, the apartment in Langley Court was empty. The secret visitor had departed. The

  Shadow had met the challenge of silent death!

  CHAPTER IX. THE NEXT MOVE

  THE next day found Professor Folcroft Urlich seated at a little desk in the small office above his

  laboratory. The cunning-faced scientist was reading a newspaper.

  Larry Ricordo, sullen in demeanor, was standing by the window, looking out toward the old deserted

  mansion that obscured all view of the round-shaped building in which the two men were located.

  "Well," remarked Urlich, "it appears that something caused our trap to fail. This report speaks of the

  damage wreaked by a mystery explosion in Barnsworth's apartment. It tells of no casualties, however."

  "The Shadow is too smart, professor," growled Ricordo. "It's a sure bet he went into that place. Maybe

  the works blew before he got there."

  "Impossible," responded Urlich. "If you followed instructions as I gave them, Ricordo, there could have

  been no premature results. You are right when you attribute cleverness to The Shadow. Something must

  have made him suspect that envelope."

  "I fixed the place the way you told me," asserted Ricordo. "The Shadow is a fox — that's all. I don't see

  how we can get him unless we gang him. That isn't such a hot idea, either. Others have flopped when

  they tried it."

  Professor Urlich chortled. He turned again to the newspaper report, and finally laid the sheet aside.

  "At least my explosion showed the power that I anticipated," he said. "It was the noise of the glass from

  the breaking window that attracted people to the spot shortly after the event occurred. The police, as

  usual, are baffled. They probably did not see any significance in the fragments which were left from the

  photo-electric cell."

  "That was a great idea, professor," admitted Ricordo. "I was sold on it when you gave me the

  demonstration in the laboratory. I figured that if anything could get The Shadow, that would be it. But the

  thing flivved, just the same. Where do we stand now?"

  "Exactly where we were before," responded Urlich, "but with more to our credit. We have proved my

  theory of how The Shadow learned of the plot on Alfred Sartain's life. We have learned conclusively that

  Slips Harbeck is being watched."

  "Yes," blurted Ricordo suddenly, "and I figure I know the guy that was watching him. I called Slips this

  morning, professor."

  "Ah!', exclaimed Urlich. "What did he have to say?"

  "He told me that a gazebo named Cliff Marsland was sticking near the room where he was listening on

  the phone."

  "Who is Cliff Marsland?"

  "A tough baby who works pretty much on his own. Did a stretch up in the Big House — Sing Sing, you

  know — and since then he's been playing a pretty smooth game. I've met the guy; always wondered why

  he was flush with plenty of dough. I've got the answer now."

  "You think he may be The Shadow?"

  "No. He couldn't be. The Shadow was operating while Marsland was still in stir. But I figure he's

  working for The Shadow. If we have to give The Shadow the works in a big fight, we'll look out for Cliff

  Marsland, too. It might be a good plan to bump off Marsland now."

  "Again you are wrong," interjected Urlich. "This discovery merely puts us on a better footing. The

  Shadow is watching Slips Harbeck, our agent. Very well; we, too, can watch Cliff Marsland. The

  Shadow hopes that through Slips he may reach us. We can plan to reach The Shadow through

  Marsland."

  "That sounds good, professor. But you've got me buffaloed. What's the next move?"

  "To again snare The Shadow. Consider this, Ricordo. The Shadow may believe that we were ignorant of

  the fact that Wesley Barnsworth was not in New York. He may think that he discovered the trap that

  was set for Barnsworth. Obviously, The Shadow departed after the explosion. He knew that Slips

  Harbeck and his men would not approach while the police were there. Therefore, I intend to repeat my

  experiment."

  "You mean with the same kind of a trap?"


  "No. A different one. I would not use the same plan twice. There will be work for you again, Ricordo;

  but it will be more simple. Since I observed Alfred Sartain in his studio, I have been perfecting a new

  device. I shall show it to you and explain its purpose later."

  "But if you miss out again — "

  "I do not expect to miss. Nevertheless, I am prepared. You understand the subtlety of my methods,

  Ricordo. You are gradually learning their diversity. My ways are legion. We are getting closer to The

  Shadow with each move. His death will be the ultimate result. Come."

  THE scientist led the way down the spiral stairway. The two men entered the laboratory. The round

  room was illuminated by daylight that came through the ample skylights around the outer circle. Two men

  were at work by high benches.

  "My experiments always continue," remarked the professor. "These men obey every instruction that I

  give them."

  "You can trust them?" inquired Ricordo.

  "Why not?" asked the scientist. "They are foreigners. They do not speak English. Each of them — Sanoja

  and Rasch are their names — is a criminal. I brought them to America after a trip abroad. They are

  wanted by police in Europe. They are forced to rely entirely upon me."

  Urlich approached the man whom he had called Sanoja. The professor spoke in a foreign tongue, and

  the workman answered him. Urlich turned to Ricordo.

  "Sanoja is not quite ready with the device that I invented," said the scientist. "We shall have to wait a

  short while. In the meantime, let us go below. I have not shown you what I have downstairs."

  Larry Ricordo repressed the curiosity that immediately seized his mind. He knew that there must be a

  large chamber beneath this one — a round room within the circular passage that they had followed upon

  their arrival at Professor Urlich's domain. He wondered if it could be another laboratory.

  This upstairs room, with its collection of huge crucibles, cauldrons, and giant test tubes, was amazing

  enough to Larry Ricordo. The gang lord had not been able to imagine what lay below. Now he was to

  observe.

  They went down the spiral staircase at the end of the room. They did not stop when they reached the