The Silent Death s-27

by Maxwell Grant

  he had so treacherously served. With head half turned, the gangster listened.

  Thomas Jocelyn gave an incoherent gargle as he expelled a long, sighing breath. Grewson could not

  make out the word; that was impossible. The poison had done its work too well. The fetid odor of the

  sigh filled Grewson's nostrils.

  Again, Jocelyn breathed inward; once more came the throat rattle, accompanied by reeking breath.

  Grewson was leaning closer to the dying man. The gangster's head was swaying slightly.

  Thomas Jocelyn made another effort. The intake of air was followed by a long exhalation, a sign that

  Jocelyn had tried, with all his remaining strength, to speak. Grewson's head moved from side to side. The

  gangster's fingers clawed feebly at the bedspread.

  The dying man was seeking to deliver another effort. Before he succeeded, Grewson's fingers lost their

  hold. The gangster's body tumbled to the floor and rolled over on its back. Grewson's eyes gazed

  upward in a glassy stare.

  The Shadow stood like a statue. His keen eyes studied the weird result that had occurred. Thomas

  Jocelyn was breathing on, with long, wheezy sighs. Life still was lingering within his frame. But Grewson,

  the treacherous servant, had succumbed to a more sudden fate.

  Grewson was dead!

  THE SHADOW'S laugh echoed eerily through the room. There was no mockery in its sound. It was a

  laugh of understanding. The secret of Thomas Jocelyn's peculiar breathing was apparent to The Shadow

  now.

  Death lurked in every exhalation that came from the dying financier's lips!

  The chemical compound that Jocelyn had taken, was, itself, a death trap for whomever might approach

  the victim!

  An effervescent fluid, caused by a strange, secret mixture, had poisoned Thomas Jocelyn and had

  paralyzed his limbs. It had destined him to a lingering death, a long, continued spasm during which he

  could only breathe with great and constant effort.

  With each gasp, Jocelyn breathed out the fumes of a poisonous vapor. He, a dying man, had been

  transformed into a potential killer!

  Only by amazing intuition, only through his capture of Grewson and his orders to the gangster, had The

  Shadow evaded the most fiendish of Professor Folcroft Urlich's snares.

  Silent death! It had awaited The Shadow surely to-night; yet silent death had failed again. Grewson, the

  man who had administered the fatal potion to Thomas Jocelyn, had gone to a deserved doom slain by the

  breath of the man whose death he had assured!

  Grewson lay dead upon the floor. Thomas Jocelyn still breathed his sighing, dying gasps. The death that

  lurked had gained an unintended victim.

  Grimly, The Shadow laughed.

  CHAPTER XVII. THE LAST WORDS

  HORROR had no effect upon The Shadow. The tragedy which had befallen Grewson did not deter the

  black-garbed observer from his single purpose. Grewson's death was merely the test that proved the

  presence of insidious death designed by a fiend.

  More than that, it told The Shadow a fact that he already suspected; that a mind much greater than Larry

  Ricordo's lay in back of this subtle crime. The hand of Professor Folcroft Urlich had left its mark before;

  but never so graphically as upon this occasion.

  Through Thomas Jocelyn, perhaps, could be found a clew to the potent murderer. Still breathing forth his

  fetid breath of doom, the financier lived on. The prolonged state of his agony was further proof of a

  scheming master mind.

  The death potion had been devised to produce a long-lingering condition. Many minutes had passed

  since the dose was administered; more than time enough for an investigator to have come and died from

  Jocelyn's exhalations.

  The Shadow, however, was not deterred by thoughts of the fate which he had so narrowly escaped. His

  keen brain was devising a means whereby he could learn what Jocelyn had tried to say. One word was

  all that The Shadow sought: the name of the supercriminal who dealt in silent death.

  Jocelyn could not utter it; that seemed plain now. It was impossible to avoid death if one leaned close to

  the dying financier.

  The Shadow's gloved hand, extended to Jocelyn's face, felt the trembling lips and learned that they could

  not frame a motion which might be understood and interpreted.

  There was still one opportunity. Jocelyn's eyes were open and staring with a vivid glare. The man could

  hear. He would listen to any instructions that might enable him to throw his last effort against the fiend

  who had brought him to this horrible fate.

  Slowly, in quiet, whispered tones, The Shadow spoke to the dying man. Jocelyn watched the form above

  him. The financier's eyes glistened as his ears gained the significance of The Shadow's plans.

  "You must name the one who caused this," declared The Shadow solemnly. "Letter by letter, I shall seek

  his name. Indicate, with all your strength, the letters that tell it."

  BREATHING in long heaves, Jocelyn watched and listened. The Shadow's ominous voice droned the

  letters of the alphabet. One by one they came until the letter "U."

  At that point, a change occurred in Jocelyn's expression. With all his might, the dying man did his best to

  prove that The Shadow had reached the important letter. The glow and barely visible motion that showed

  in the financier's eyes caused The Shadow to stop.

  Without hesitation, the black-cloaked watcher began another intonation of the alphabet. Jocelyn, stiff as a

  corpse, still heard and watched with glaring eyes. His effort, this time came upon the letter "R."

  The third recital by The Shadow ended with the letter "L." Once again, The Shadow noted Thomas

  Jocelyn's supreme effort to aid in the gaining of the name.

  "A" — The Shadow's whisper came slowly—"B — C — "

  A noise sounded from the front door of the apartment. Some one was pounding there. The Shadow did

  not stir. His voice kept on its low drone:

  "— D — E—F — "

  Men were crashing at the barrier. The Shadow watched Jocelyn's eyes with steady, focused gaze. His

  voice recited the letter "I." The sign came from Jocelyn.

  "A — B—C — " The Shadow stopped on the third letter. He had gained another signal. Pandemonium was

  breaking from without. The door was yielding to crashing blows. With total disregard for the attack, The

  Shadow began a new series of letters.

  "H." As The Shadow named that letter, Jocelyn's eyes glimmered with dying frenzy. The Shadow stood

  with folded arms, oblivious to the fact that voices were sounding through the half-broken outer door.

  "Urlich," announced The Shadow.

  Jocelyn's intake of breath paused. The financier emitted a tremendous gasp. His eyes were fixed in a

  hypnotic stare. The man was at the verge of death; but the mention of that name gave him a last burst of

  strength.

  "Urlich," repeated The Shadow. "I know his name. I shall meet him soon!"

  The outer door came down with a terrific, loud smash. Hoarse shouts resounded as men tumbled into the

  apartment. The commanding voice of Joe Cardona sounded above them.

  "Hold it, men! Hold it! There may be some one in that inner room!"

  The Shadow's eyes were still upon Thomas Jocelyn. The dying financier no longer moved. His whole

  form was rigid, as though petrified by the final effort of hatred. A hissing sound sizzled through those

  drawn lips. The face now dead, was ghast
ly.

  Thomas Jocelyn's prolonged strain had brought a sudden end to his sighing death. No longer did he

  exhale fumes that menaced all who might approach. The venomous potion's power was exhausted.

  The Shadow's cloak swished, and its spreading folds revealed a crimson lining. With swift stride The

  Shadow was turning toward a door at the end of the room. He reached it while the detectives were

  approaching from the outer room.

  The door closed behind The Shadow's departing form. Moving through the darkness of a smaller room,

  The Shadow gained a window that opened into a courtyard. A few moments later, a weird, phantom

  form was moving slowly down the wall of the building.

  IN the meantime, a squad of men suddenly burst into the lighted room where the two dead bodies lay.

  Detective Joe Cardona, his swarthy face grim and his sharp eyes moving quickly, surveyed the inert

  forms of Thomas Jocelyn and the pretended servant, Grewson. Cardona saw that they were dead.

  "Try that door over there," he ordered.

  Two detectives followed the direction that The Shadow had taken. They reported that the next room was

  empty. Cardona ordered a thorough search.

  While his men were busy, he studied the bodies more carefully. Swift, silent death had struck here

  to-night.

  While Cardona was awaiting the arrival of the police surgeon, another officer suddenly appeared at the

  door of the room. It was Detective Sergeant Mayhew. Cardona saw that the man was bringing important

  news.

  "Gawky Tyson has been killed!" announced Mayhew. "They ganged him down at Red Mike's!"

  "Yes?" questioned Cardona. "Why?"

  "Some one passed the tip that he was a stool pigeon. That was the end of him. The killers made a

  get-away. Not much chance of trailing them. But listen, Joe — I found out something important. Larry

  Ricordo was there tonight."

  "At Red Mike's?"

  "Yes. Red Mike admitted it. Says that Ricordo talked over the telephone and — "

  "That proves it!" interposed Cardona. "It proves my hunch, Mayhew. When word came down to

  headquarters that there was trouble here, I came up to this place myself. I figured Larry Ricordo might be

  in it.

  "Gawky probably got the lay and was going to tip us off, like he did the other night, when he watched

  Slips Harbeck. Larry Ricordo is in back of this, Mayhew. It's murder this time; double murder!"

  Cardona picked up the telephone and called Inspector Timothy Klein. The detective was anxious to

  release all possible mechanisms that would aid the law in a widespread effort to capture Larry Ricordo.

  Through radio patrol, the order would go out to arrest all suspects who might prove to be the wanted

  gang leader.

  THE arrival of the police surgeon brought new food for thought. The appearance of the dead men was

  perplexing to the physician. He pointed to the bodies as he gave the detective a temporary explanation.

  "This one" — the surgeon indicated Grewson—"appears to have succumbed quickly to the effects of

  some poison fumes. The other" — the doctor motioned toward Jocelyn—"was given poison in a liquid

  state. His death was prolonged. He must have been alive up to the time you entered."

  Joe Cardona stared at the pitiful form of Thomas Jocelyn. He noted the sealed lips thin and drawn in

  death.

  What could those lips have said? What could Jocelyn have known?

  Cardona regretted that he had not arrived in time to question the dying man. Little did the ace detective

  realize that had he been there to make such a quiz, it would have meant his own demise!

  The glassy eyes of the dead financier were toward the ceiling. Their vacant stare was eloquent. They

  showed the traces of a fury that made Cardona continue to wish that he could have heard Jocelyn's last

  words. That was impossible now. No one had heard them, Cardona decided.

  The detective was correct in his assumption; but as he studied Jocelyn's lips again, he forgot the dead

  man's eyes. Cardona did not realize that where lips had been futile, eyes had managed. Cardona would

  have been amazed had he known that Jocelyn's eyes had aided in the delivery of a final message.

  Larry Ricordo! The gang leader was the man that Joe Cardona wanted. The detective's thought did not

  go beyond; Cardona had not yet reached the stage of searching for a supermind higher than Ricordo.

  Such consideration had been undertaken only by The Shadow. He was the one who had looked beyond

  Larry Ricordo. The Shadow, ignoring Jocelyn's dying words, incoherently gasped amid exhalations of

  deadly fumes, had gained the name he sought.

  The Shadow was gone, with no trace of his mysterious presence behind him. The Shadow had seen both

  Grewson and Jocelyn die. The Shadow had learned of Professor Folcroft Urlich, through the single name

  which he had gleaned from Thomas Jocelyn.

  The master of darkness had departed, to wage combat with the master of silent death.

  The Shadow knew!

  CHAPTER XVIII. IN THE LABORATORY

  Two men lay huddled at the side of Professor Urlich's laboratory. Propped against the wall, their hands

  bound behind them, Cliff Marsland and Clyde Burke stared wearily at the scientist and the gang leader

  who stood beside him.

  Both of The Shadow's agents had taken hard bumps in their encounter with Larry Ricordo's gorillas.

  Clyde Burke, in particular, showed signs of genuine grogginess. Cliff had been overpowered by a swift

  attack; Clyde had gone down from a single sharp blow.

  It was Clyde's condition that gave Cliff Marsland a cue. Knowing that his companion was actually in a

  state of inertia, Cliff feigned the same condition. Thus both were able to avoid some of the questions that

  Larry Ricordo was pumping at them: questions which pertained to the activities of The Shadow.

  Clyde Burke's presence at the spot where Cliff Marsland had been taken was not merely coincidence.

  The Shadow had foreseen the possibility of some one following Cliff when he left Red Mike's. Through

  Rutledge Mann, Clyde had been instructed to remain in the vicinity of the place where Cliff put in his

  regular phone calls.

  As a reporter who handled crime news, Clyde Burke made frequent excursions into the bad lands. His

  duty had been a simple one; failure had occurred partly through his own lack of vigilance and partly

  through a surprising display of stealth on the side of Ricordo's mobsters.

  Now was no time for regret. The present objective — Cliff was the one who saw it clearly — was to avoid

  all troublesome questions. Thus Larry Ricordo's ugly threats and his imprecations, directed chiefly at

  Cliff, brought nothing more than indifference and evasion.

  "So you're The Shadow's stool, eh?" queried Ricordo. "What about this other mug — your buddy who

  carries a reporter's card. What was he doing when we grabbed you?"

  Cliff Marsland half opened his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. No reply was the best way to deal with

  Ricordo's questions. The gang leader spat a series of oaths, and swung to face Professor Urlich.

  "See what you can get out of him!" growled Ricordo. "You wanted me to bring him here. Maybe you can

  make him squawk!"

  "There is no need for haste," returned the scientist, with a calm, evil smile. "As a matter of fact, Ricordo,

  questioning is hardly necessary."

  "Why not?"

  "We may consider two assumptions," remarked the professor, in tones that came coldly to Cliff<
br />
  Marsland's ears. "One: that these men can give us no information of consequence. Two: that if either of

  them does know facts, they will give them voluntarily, under proper treatment.

  "If they know nothing, they are useless. Therefore, it would be best to destroy them. If they know

  something, they will cry it forth as the only hope of life when they see the fate that is planned for them."

  Professor Urlich's gleaming smile widened in wicked proportions.

  HIS statements worried Cliff Marsland. The Shadow's agent realized that he and his fellow prisoner were

  being classified as biological specimens suitable for some experiment. Cliff sensed a terrible menace

  ahead.

  "Furthermore," added Professor Urlich, "I am confident that there has been no failure in the plan which I

  devised for to-night. At this present minute, Thomas Jocelyn is probably dead; and The Shadow with

  him.

  "In fact, I am so positive of my success that I see no reason why I should not destroy these

  trouble-makers without further delay. Nevertheless, I enjoy experimental killing. The time may come

  when I shall choose to make dying men talk. If I can produce such result with these victims, I shall add

  another page to my book of scientific research."

  "It's up to you, professor," grinned Ricordo. "You're the guy that can do it."

  "Human life," remarked the professor, staring toward Cliff Marsland as he spoke, "means nothing to me.

  I have equipped this laboratory for the purpose of experimenting with such life.

  "When persons block my path, when the human element seems dangerous to my plans, removal is the

  one solution. You realized that" — Urlich had turned, and was speaking to Ricordo—"when I sacrificed

  Thomas Jocelyn. In my first important experiment, The Shadow intervened. After that, I twice led him on

  a blind trail. To-night, however, I felt that the original course would be best.

  "The Shadow leaned above Alfred Sartain that night in the penthouse studio. I am confident that he must

  have leaned above Thomas Jocelyn tonight. You know the answer, Ricordo. I was removing Jocelyn,

  because he had become dangerous. Jocelyn was breathing death. Thus I arranged for one victim to take

  another with him."

  "A great stunt, professor," commented Ricordo. "I don't see how The Shadow could have slipped out of