AT three o’clock that afternoon, a man called at detective headquarters and inquired for Joe Cardona.
He was taken into the detective’s office. Cardona was out; but he arrived half an hour later, to find the visitor awaiting him.
He looked quizzically at the stranger, a tall, sallow-faced man, who wore a blue serge suit and brown slouch hat. Cardona had never seen the man before; but he was impressed by the fellow’s appearance.
The man’s face was firm and expressionless; it seemed molded from a solid substance.
Before the detective could inquire the stranger’s business, the man arose and drew back the left side of his coat to reveal a badge of the secret service. Cardona extended a hand in greeting.
“Blake’s my name,” said the visitor, in a quiet voice. “Terry Blake. You wouldn’t suspect it from my name, but—”
He paused and broke into a smooth-flowing conversation of Italian. Cardona, surprised, answered in the same tongue. After a few more remarks, Blake resumed his conversation in English.
He had just explained to Cardona that he was of Italian ancestry on his mother’s side of the family.
Cardona, noting his features closely, observed certain prominent characteristics of that race.
“I suppose you want to see me about the Farmington case,” remarked Cardona.
“You guessed it,” replied the secret-service man. “I’m working on these anti-Fascist operations. It looks pretty much like this case fits in.”
“No doubt about it,” declared Cardona. “There’s only one hitch—”
“The method?”
Cardona nodded.
“Bombs and stilettos are in their line,” he said. “This poison business is a new wrinkle.”
“Not exactly new,” observed the secret-service man.
“No?” came the surprised reply.
“Italy,” said Blake, “was famous for the Medicis. I’ve seen the survival of some of their subtle poisons. The art has faded, but it is not dead—”
“I can’t see the connection,” declared Cardona. “Any knowledge of poisons in Italy would belong to members of the aristocracy, some of whom still have criminal leanings. But the anti-Fascists are a Communistic group—”
“You think so?” interrupted the secret-service man, with a thin, slow smile. “You should pay a visit to Rome. You would find it different from New York. In Rome, the Fascisti are a middle group, hated by the Communists and secretly despised by the aristocracy. The activities against the Fascisti are not confined to the lower classes.”
Cardona nodded thoughtfully.
“I get your drift,” he said. “Here in New York, we have only the bomb-throwers and their type. But in this case — with international affairs at stake — it may be that a more elaborate plot has been arranged—”
“I regard it as possible,” declared Blake.
“We haven’t had much luck on the poison,” lamented Cardona. “The toxicologist has found out its general nature, but he can’t place it. He figures it works slowly at first; then suddenly. That gives us no help. It might have been given to Farmington at lunch — in the morning, as early as breakfast—”
“Or the night before?”
“No. That would have been impossible. Not earlier than the morning — even then, not too early.”
“What clews have you discovered?”
“None.”
Cardona tossed a typewritten report to the secret-service man. It was a record of the detective’s conversation with Philip Farmington.
“Have you discovered anything in Farmington’s little office, that you mention here?”
Cardona shook his head in response to Blake’s quiz.
“Any documents?”
“None of importance.”
“Suppose we go up there,” suggested the secret-service man.
“All right,” agreed Cardona. “Here’s something you’d like to look at before you go.”
He brought out the note which Philip Farmington had received from Double Z. The secret-service man examined it closely.
“You’re sure it is bona fide?” was his question.
Cardona produced other letters. For fully ten minutes, Terry Blake studied and compared the letters. He laid all aside except the note which had been found in the hand of Joel Caulkins — the note which warned the recipient he had but one week to live.
The secret-service man turned the note sideways, then upside down. He returned it to Cardona. The detective almost fancied that he saw a sudden gleam in Blake’s eyes. Before he could ask a question, the secret-service man had arisen.
“Let’s go,” he said brusquely.
THEY reached Philip Farmington’s home. Cardona had a key to the office where the banker had died.
The men entered. Blake examined the chair in which Farmington had been seated. Cardona smiled.
“We went all over that,” he said. “No poisoned needles. Not a clew here, old fellow. But I thought you’d like to look at these papers.”
Terry Blake examined some documents that had belonged to Philip Farmington. Finally, he laid them aside and sat in the chair before the desk.
“Farmington was sitting here?” he asked.
“Yes.” Cardona took the chair he had occupied on that other occasion. “I was over here, talking to him.”
“What did he do?”
“Very little. Offered me a cigar, when he came in. From that box on the desk.”
“Good. I’ll be Farmington. Have one.”
Cardona accepted the perfecto with a smile. Blake began to take one for himself.
“Wait!” said Cardona, entering into the game. “Farmington took one from the desk drawer. I remembered it at the time. I found out later he prefers a strong brand of pure Havana.”
Blake opened the drawer indicated. It had been left unlocked. He found the box of cigars. One layer was gone. A single cigar was out of the second layer. Blake fished a cigar loose and bit off the tip.
“Farmington cut off the end,” observed Cardona. “I remember he took a cutter from his pocket. Flipped the tip away.”
“Never mind,” replied the secret-service man. He lighted the cigar. The pungent odor caused Cardona to sniff.
“Strong, all right,” said the detective. “Funny I didn’t notice it yesterday. Guess I was too busy taking notes.”
“So Farmington was sitting here when he died?”
“Right there.”
“It beats me,” admitted Blake. “You’ve got a tough crime to solve. Well, we’ll be cooperating.”
His hat was lying on the desk. He accidentally knocked it on the floor as he arose. Cardona saw him stoop to pick it up. They left the room and rode downtown in a cab. Blake dropped off before they reached headquarters.
In his office, Joe Cardona found a short, stocky man awaiting him. The stranger introduced himself as Tim Malloy, of the secret service.
“What!” exclaimed Cardona. “I just left one of your men.”
“Who?”
“Terry Blake.”
Malloy scratched his head speculatively.
“Terry Blake,” he said. “I thought he was in Italy. What did he look like?”
Cardona described Blake.
“That sounds like Blake,” declared Malloy. “Didn’t know he was back. Funny he hasn’t reported.”
The subject was dropped. Malloy asked to see the Double Z correspondence. Cardona produced it.
That was all Malloy required. After the government man was gone, Cardona wondered.
Funny thing, he thought, that Terry Blake should have come without being assigned on the case. That visit to Farmington’s seemed odd. Malloy had suggested no such visit.
Suspicions began to enter Joe Cardona’s mind. He was on the verge of another hunch. He stared from the window at the gathering dusk, and felt that he would like to meet Mr. Terry Blake once again.
HAD Cardona’s gaze been able to pierce both blackness and solid walls, he might have viewed a distant scene which would have surprised him. It would also have explained, in part, the visit of the man who called himself Terry Blake.
A light was shining in the midst of a windowless room. Its rays, focused downward by an opaque lamp shade, cast a luminous circle in the center of a square-topped table.
Within that sphere of light, two hands were moving. Those hands were long, slender, and tapering; yet strong muscles were apparent beneath their smooth-textured skin. Upon a finger of the left hand, a strange gem glowed beneath the lamplight, its bluish depths changing in hue from purple to deep red.
The stone was a girasol — a rare fire opal unmatched in all the world. It was the lone jewel of The Shadow.
Objects appeared as if from nowhere. A pencil and a piece of paper. A small goblet filled with water. A tiny box. A phial of dark-blue liquid, whose changing shades rivaled the matchless girasol. These appeared from the outer darkness, arriving within the circle of light as though conjured from space.
Finally a curious book with flexible covers made its appearance. The hands opened the book and revealed a page of Chinese characters.
A pointed finger made its way up the page. It stopped and moved slowly from character to character.
Eyes in the dark were reading from the book. The hand plucked the pencil from the table and made short notations upon the sheet of paper. The book remained open, but was pushed to one side, where it lay as reference.
The hands opened the tiny box and shook a quantity of yellow powder into the little goblet of water. The liquid took on a yellowish tinge, the powder dissolving immediately.
The hands produced an envelope; also a small pair of tweezers The metal prongs were dipped into the envelope. They came out, carrying a small brown object between their tips. It was the end of a cigar, which had been clipped off with a cigar cutter.
The tweezers were dipped into the yellowish liquid. Half a minute went by; then the hand that held the tweezers removed them and let the soggy cigar end fall upon the envelope.
Now the phial was in use. Those living hands uncorked it and poured three drops into the glass. The bluish globules seemed to writhe and melt into the yellow liquid, until they had completely colored it a pale green. The goblet remained in view. The hands were motionless. The eyes outside the light were watching.
For a short while, nothing occurred. Then, with mysterious slowness, the color of the liquid again began to change. The green darkened. It took on a brownish tinge. When the metamorphosis was complete, the clear liquid had become a dark, muddy solution.
THE right hand picked up the pencil. Upon the paper it inscribed a Chinese character. Beneath, the hand wrote the word li-shun. Then it inscribed words of explanation:
This poison, in liquid form, dries and adheres to any object upon which it is applied. Moistened, it quickly comes away and leaves no trace. Some one opened the cigar box in Philip Farmington’s desk drawer. The box contained no loose cigars. The second layer was intact. Not wishing to leave traces, this person removed a cigar from the center of the row and inserted a similar cigar, which had been treated with li-shun. This cigar was slightly loose, so that it would be taken without effort by Farmington.
The hand rested. Then it added:
First proof: The remainder of the row was intact. Farmington would have disturbed it in taking a cigar from a tight row. Second proof: Cardona did not notice the strong aroma of the cigar which Farmington smoked. The person who placed it in the box had not obtained a cigar as strong as Farmington’s own brand.
Another pause. Then:
No trace of the poison could remain on the cigar after Farmington had chewed the end. But the tip, cut off beforehand, lay on the floor where Farmington had thrown it. The analysis shows li-shun on that tobacco.
The paper lay with its strange information until the right hand seized it and crumpled it. Then the hand wrote:
Facts in the Caulkins death.
It crossed out the words and added the single remark:
Later
This sheet was crumpled. The hands, working swiftly, removed the various articles from the table. The light clicked out. A low, soft laugh echoed eerily from the walls of the room.
It was the laugh of The Shadow. The master mind that worked in darkness had discovered how Philip Farmington had died!