"What then?" demanded Banks.
"I have been wanting to see you for some time, Mr. Banks. You will recall that you have three important lawsuits pending."
"Combined, they involve a sum of nearly one million dollars. We had agreed to settle them out of court for a fraction of the amount demanded - less than twenty thousand dollars, all told."
"Well, why haven't you done it?"
"Because of the papers, Mr. Banks."
"What papers?"
"The ones that were brought here by Mr. Houghton, which you never returned to our office!"
"I gave them back to him," exclaimed the millionaire. "I took them from my safe and sent them back by him, two weeks before he was killed."
"We do not have them, Mr. Banks. Frankly, we do not believe that Mr. Houghton lost them or disposed of them. He was too reliable a man. His unfortunate death -"
"It served him right!" cried Banks. "All of them - Houghton - Warfield - and the others! It served them all right! I'm glad they're dead! The next time I meet a cur like one of them, I'll kill him myself!"
The appearance of Graham, the valet, interrupted further threats. Banks sank back in his chair and glared at the servant.
"Mr. Vincent has just called, sir," declared Graham. "He said that he would have returned before but it is pouring rain and he cannot obtain a cab."
"Where is he?" grumbled Banks. "I want him here, to talk with Barton!"
"He is at an apartment on Ninety-third Street, sir," answered Graham. "Shall I summon Chalmers with the coupe?"
"Yes. Do it right away."
The millionaire sank into silence. He was brooding, angrily fighting a mental conflict. Barton preserved silence. He decided it was best to delay the discussion until the arrival of the millionaire's secretary.
The valet went to the upstairs telephone. He was there for several minutes. No one disturbed him. The butler had returned and was busy bringing Banks another drink.
The lawyer had declined the millionaire's invitation to have a highball. Just as the butler arrived with the glass, the valet reappeared.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir," he said. "Mr. Vincent is on the telephone. He says that he is with a Mr.
Clifford Gage, who wishes to speak to you. He says it is very urgent, sir."
Hubert Banks gulped down his drink. He stumbled as he went up the short flight of steps from the living room. He picked up the telephone in the hallway. The valet was at his side.
"That telephone is out of order, sir," he said. "You'll have to use the one upstairs in your room."
The millionaire threw the instrument on the floor with a grunt of annoyance. He walked unsteadily to the stairway and went up the second floor. He was scarcely out of sight before the front door opened and Chalmers, the chauffeur, entered.
"The car's outside," he said to the valet.
"Wait a few minutes," was the reply. "Mr. Banks is busy."
The valet listened as though hearing some unusual noise from the floor above.
"What's that?" he exclaimed.
"I don't hear anything," answered Chalmers.
The valet hurried to the steps that led to the living room. Stewart Barton was still seated there. The butler was also in the room.
"We must go upstairs!" exclaimed the valet. "I'm afraid something has happened to Mr. Banks!"
He started rapidly across the hall. The others, alarmed by his action, followed at his heels.
Hubert Banks, in the meanwhile, was listening in amazement to a strange, convincing voice that was talking over the telephone. He had been surprised to find that neither Harry Vincent nor Clifford Gage was on the wire.
Even in his state of semidrunkenness, he could recognize a voice. But the man who spoke to him had captured his instant attention.
"One million dollars!" came the voice. "You will lose one million dollars! You will always remember June the first, Hubert Banks!"
"June the first!" shouted the millionaire.
"June the first!" repeated the voice. "You have not forgotten that date! Lift that paper from the telephone table. Tell me what you find there."
Instinctively, Banks obeyed. As he drew the paper away, a hoarse cry escaped his lips. There lay a large, color-tinted picture of his first wife, Rachel. Across the blank space above the portrait were written
- in the millionaire's own hand - the words "June the first."
A wild frenzy gripped Hubert Banks. He staggered and seized the side of the telephone table. To his distorted gaze, the portrait seemed a living image.
The pathetic, accusing eyes of the picture; the date inscribed in his own hand - these were too much for his burdened mind to withstand. He still held the small desk telephone in his left hand. He pressed the receiver to his ear and uttered unintelligible articulations into the mouthpiece. Then his words became plain.
"Who put that here!" he shouted. "Tell me! I'll kill him! I'll kill him!"
The monotone of the voice became persuasive as it responded to the man's insane outburst.
"Open the drawer of the telephone table," it said. "You will find the revolver there.
"You ask the name of the man who has caused all this. I shall tell you! He is in your employ. He is the man who calls himself Jenkins, your valet.
"He is outside your door this very moment, gloating. He is the one who has caused your ruin. Kill him!"
Hubert Banks had yanked open the drawer of the telephone table. He was drawing forth the loaded revolver as he heard the final words.
He did not pause to wonder who had placed the gun where he could find it. He flung the telephone against the wall. He stared at the picture on the table. He seized it in his left hand and rushed to the door of his room, brandishing his revolver.
As he jerked the door inward, he came face to face with the valet. Behind the man stood the other men.
A wild, maddened laugh came from the millionaire's lips. As Howard Jennings, the pretended valet, leaped back in sudden fear, Banks swung the revolver directly toward the man whose death he now desired.
Three times the millionaire's finger pressed the trigger. Jenkins staggered at the first report. He fell lifeless, the useless tool of the plotter who no longer needed him - of The Master who had cunningly contrived his doom!
Hubert Banks had drawn himself to his full height. Now he relaxed and leaned against the doorway, mumbling vague epithets. Even his befuddled mind grasped the seriousness of the action which he had taken.
The monotonous words that had persuaded him over the telephone were clouded in his memory. He realized that he had killed a man; that this greatest fit of fury had caused him to commit a murder.
The men in the hallway were stupefied. They formed a silent, immobile group, each one shuddering in horror at the deed which they had witnessed.
Hubert Banks stared toward them with unseeing eyes. He became conscious of the picture which he held in his hand. His gaze softened and he laughed gently, as his demented mind brought back old recollections.
His eyes turned. He saw the revolver that he held. Slowly, deliberately, he raised the muzzle of the gun to his temple.
The watchers stood, fear-stricken. A man came rushing up the stairs. He burst through the group. It was Clifford Gage. He called to Banks in warning; but the millionaire did not heed the cry.
Before his friend could reach his side, Hubert Banks again pressed the finger of his revolver. The report sounded. The millionaire collapsed upon the body of Jennings, just as Gage made a futile effort to pluck the revolver from him.
The three men who had witnessed the tragedy stood still in silent horror. It was Clifford Gage who leaned over the bodies and learned that both men were dead.
Upon the floor, close by the body of Howard Jennings, lay a small object. It was an oval disk, the token of The Black Master. It had fallen from the dead man's pocket.
Gage picked it up, unnoticed. He stood up and faced the silent three. They saw his firm lips murmur the words, "Too late."
Then, with bowed head, he walked by them and descended the stairs.
His sudden arrival and departure restored their self-control. Headed by Chalmers, the chauffeur, they moved forward to examine the bodies of the dead men.
Clifford Gage stood in the hall below. He was like a statue, lost in perplexity. Once again, he had witnessed the power of The Black Master; that strange, unknown monster, whose unseen hand dealt sudden, violent death and did not spare those who performed his bidding.
Mechanically, Gage reached to the table beside the door and lifted a large hat and a long flowing cloak that he had cast there when he had burst into the house at the sound of the first shots.
Slowly, methodically, he donned the cloak and wrapped its collar about his face. He placed the hat upon his head. Its wide, turned-down brim totally obscured his features. Then his manner changed.
In one brief instant, the identity of Clifford Gage had been absorbed by the unknown character of The Shadow. The door opened silently and closed again. The man in the cloak was gone - gone into the stormy night!
CHAPTER XVII. DOCTOR ZERNDORFF IS AMAZED
A SMILE of satisfaction spread over the features of Doctor Heinrich Zerndorff as he read the evening newspaper. Clad in his dressing gown and reclining in his easy-chair, the great criminologist was enjoying the greatest triumph of his long career in behalf of justice.
The news that brought him such pleasure was the conviction of the five men implicated in the great New York explosions. The police had enmeshed these men in a web of evidence that was indisputable. All had been found guilty of murder, and had been sentenced to the electric chair.
Never had the wheels of justice moved so rapidly. The date of the executions had been set.
There had been little difficulty in convicting the three who had placed the bombs. The evidence was too strong against them. Witnesses, at first uncertain, had eventually given sworn testimony that was damning.
The men themselves had admitted their crimes, although they claimed that they had placed the bombs at the order of a superior who had not told them the work that they were doing. They disclaimed all knowledge of what the packages had contained. Such protests had made no effect upon the juries.
With Sforza and Pecherkin, the case had been different. They were radicals who had made threats against the government. They had known, and had dealt with, the three who planted the bombs.
But they disclaimed all connection with the tragedies, and their names were not mentioned directly by any of the three who were convicted for the placing of the bombs.
The fact was established, however, that both Sforza and Pecherkin had been seen in the vicinity of the house on the East Side where the three bomb-planters had gone for their instructions.
It was proven that Sforza and Pecherkin had known Vervick, the man who had made the bombs, although that finding was based chiefly upon their acquaintanceship when all had lived in Europe.
Sforza and Pecherkin were unfortunate enough to possess bad records. Popular antagonism had added to their plight. The absence of bomb killings since their imprisonment was unspoken testimony against them.
There had been a campaign of protest in their favor. An organization had been formed to appeal their case. Much had been written in their behalf but all pleas had failed. Their case was now beyond appeal.
The telephone rang while Doctor Zerndorff was still reading the final details of the convictions. Detective Joe Cardona was on the wire. The sound of his voice delighted Zerndorff.
"It is great work for you, yes!" he exclaimed. "Great work, Herr Detective! The evidence was good enough, yes! Ah, yes, I am pleased! The ways of these American laws are too difficult, yes! Those men were bad! I have known it all the time!
"These people who have had the doubt do not understand. They have never lived in Russia, nor in Italy.
They have not seen, as I have seen. Ah, thank you, Herr Detective! It is to you the credit goes, yes, not to me! No. Gute nacht."
Doctor Zerndorff hung up the telephone and returned to his newspaper. His eye fell upon a paragraph on the front page. His forehead wrinkled. He recalled the name mentioned there.
The paragraph dealt with the affairs of the Banks estate. It referred to the millionaire who had murdered his valet and committed suicide, three weeks ago.
He remembered that Clifford Gage had spoken of a plot against Hubert Banks. He recollected the name of The Black Master. Clifford Gage had never returned. Had he met an unknown fate at the hand of some powerful foe?
"Perhaps," murmured Doctor Zerndorff thoughtfully, "we have not caught within the net all that we should have caught, yes? Some people have found fault, because they say Sforza and Pecherkin are fish that do not belong.
"Ah, those men should be within the net, yes. I have known them in the past. But I fear just this, that when the net was made, it should have done all its work, yes. One more could perhaps have been taken with it!"
He shook his head and laid the paper on the floor beside him. He closed his eyes and drowsed for a moment. Suddenly he became wide awake. He sat up straight and blinked. A man had entered the room and was sitting in a chair beside him.
It was Clifford Gage.
"How have you come in here?" Zerndorff demanded. Then his manner softened. "Ah, yes. Otto is not here. You have rung the doorbell, yes? I have not answered. I have been asleep!"
"The door was unlocked," said Gage quietly.
"I shall remember that," replied Doctor Zerndorff. "I shall tell Otto, yes. That should not be, when he is away!"
"It was important that I should see you," added Gage.
"You have seen the newspaper, yes?" inquired Zerndorff.
"I have," answered Gage.
"What do you think of it?"
"I believe that two innocent men have been sentenced to the electric chair."
"Two bad men, yes! Not two innocent men!"
"I do not believe they are guilty," returned Gage, in a firm tone. "There is one man responsible for all this!
I have told you of him before. That man is The Black Master!"
"I believe what you have said about him," retorted Zerndorff, "but that does not change these two men, Sforza and Pecherkin. Perhaps it is that man called The Black Master who has made them do what they have done?"
"He is in back of it all!" declared Gage. "If I could find him - as I have hoped - I might prove his guilt and bring freedom to these other men. But so far, I have failed!"
"You must find him!" exclaimed Doctor Zerndorff. "You must find him, yes! If I am wrong about Sforza and Pecherkin, I shall say so - when I have the proof! But this man they call The Black Master. What has become of him?"
"I do not know," replied Gage frankly. "I can only tell you this. He has added to his list of crimes since I last saw you, yet I have been unable to find a single clue!"
"Why?"
"Because he is merciless. He destroys all his subordinates along with all his evidence!"
"He is stopping his crimes, then?"
"For the time. But he will begin again, Doctor Zerndorff!"
Gage picked up the newspaper. "You have seen this? An editorial, impeaching Sforza and Pecherkin. It says that their imprisonment has stopped explosions," Gage laughed mirthlessly.
"Stopped explosions! Yes! Until they have been executed! Then The Black Master will begin a new reign of terror!"
"You think so?" There was apprehension in Doctor Zerndorff's tone.
"I know it!" declared Gage emphatically. "Let me tell you of this man, Doctor Zerndorff.
"He sought the ruin of Hubert Banks. Four men were in his employ. After they had done his bidding, he destroyed three of them ruthlessly, murdering a score of innocent victims besides. Destroyed them by explosions that seemed designed for terror, yet which were really intended to cover up the murders of individuals! His bomb maker, Vervick, died in an explosion!
"The men he employed to place the bombs are sentenced to death! They are ignorant and bl
ind. They have pictured him as a terrorist, fitting him in as he intended them to do, so that the crimes could be blamed upon Sforza and Pecherkin.
"One man escaped his toils - Perry Warfield. The Black Master employed Killer Bryan to get rid of him.
Also Matthew Stokes.
"I have learned why that man died. He was doing private investigation for Hubert Banks. His work might have led to a discovery of The Black Master.
"It was Killer Bryan who was chosen to do away with Hubert Banks, after the millionaire had been driven insane by financial losses. But that was forestalled, thanks to you, Doctor Zerndorff. So - a new agent was employed - a man wanted by the police. His name was Howard Jennings.
"As valet to Hubert Banks, he worked within the man's home and did The Black Master's bidding, until Banks, virtually insane, killed Jennings and committed suicide.
"There again, we encounter the cunningness of The Black Master. Through his contriving, his own agent perished. Since then, he has worked entirely alone.
"In an effort to protect Hubert Banks, I sent a man named Harry Vincent to counteract the machinations of The Black Master. Vincent was lured to the den of this superfiend. There, in some hideous way, his mind was tortured.
"Vincent suspected danger and sent me a warning before he was captured. I arrived a few hours afterward. I found him in the midst of a deserted house, his mind in a daze.
"What had been a lair of The Black Master was nothing more than an empty building!"
Profound amazement was expressed on Doctor Zerndorff's countenance. His enthusiasm over the convictions of the bombers had been forgotten in the intense interest which had now gripped him.
He studied the face of Clifford Gage. The man showed unmistakable signs of weariness.
"What of this Vincent?" questioned Zerndorff. "He is still stunned, yes?"
"He is improving," replied Gage. "I have placed him in a private sanitarium. He will soon be well; but any reference to his terrible experience would shatter his nerves. He must not be questioned for months to come!"
"And this man you call The Black Master? Have you heard more of him, yes?" Zerndorff continued his questioning.
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