THE WORD OF THE SHADOW
HALF PAST NINE at Silas Harshaw’s apartment. Joe Cardona was pacing the floor of the study, nervously puffing a cigarette. Weston and Biscayne had not arrived.
Doctor Fredericks was here, reading a newspaper in the outer room. Cardona was anxious to begin operations, but he had thought it best to bide his time until the others arrived.
Detective Sergeant Mayhew entered. Cardona knew what he wanted. The thought worried the star detective.
Mayhew was here to state that the men were at their posts in the hotel, again watching the mail chute. Another letter was due tonight!
That letter would bring an announcement of death. Its arrival would be a crucial test for Joe Cardona.
He had stated that the killings had been ended. He had given no proof to support his statement.
The proof was one that Cardona dared not reveal. His proof was — the word of The Shadow!
Why did Cardona trust that strange, mysterious voice that had spoken over the telephone from nowhere?
The detective’s only answer was that he had heard the voice in the past; and its words had always proven true.
“I’m going down to the lobby,” said Mayhew. “We’re not going to miss out tonight. That chute has a glass front. Every time a letter drops, it will be reported.
“Before, I had the boys looking for people. Tonight, they’re watching for letters, too. There’s a post-office man down there, ready to open the box.
“Good!” said Cardona. “I’ll come down with you. I want to meet the commissioner when he comes in.”
Doctor Fredericks joined the two detectives as they went to the elevator. The three descended to the ground floor.
Mayhew instructed the operator not to go above the ninth story. While Cardona waited in the lobby, Mayhew went up the stairs.
A few minutes later, Commissioner Weston entered the hotel with Professor Biscayne.
The two men joined Cardona. The detective explained why he was waiting. It was nearing ten o’clock, the time when the mail would be collected.
Cardona watched the mail box while he talked with Roger Biscayne. The professor stated that he expected certain documents that might throw some light on the death of Silas Harshaw.
He agreed with Cardona, however, that the search of the apartment was the most important step.
“Let’s go up,” suggested the detective, with a gesture of impatience.
He turned toward the elevator. At that moment, the clerk at the desk announced a phone call for Professor Arthur Biscayne.
“Who is it?” asked Biscayne.
“The name sounded like Williams,” replied the clerk.
Biscayne took the telephone. His voice, usually calm, became excited.
“Arthur!” he exclaimed. “What! On your desk! It couldn’t—”
His voice broke off. His face was pale. Biscayne turned toward Cardona and motioned with the telephone.
Before he could speak to the detective, the professor was listening intently, and he was anxiously resuming conversation.
“That’s right… The local police… Yes, yes… Come in here. Have them bring it… Everything. Wrappings and all.
“What’s that? A cigar box? Like one you get every week… Don’t delay… Get here at once!”
The phone dropped from Biscayne’s hands. The startled man seized Cardona by the shoulders.
“A bomb!” he cried. “A bomb, on Arthur Wilhelm’s desk! Set to kill him! Wrapped in a cigar box. He opened the lid — the detonator must have failed.
“Wilhelm! I can’t believe it — he was to die tonight!”
Cardona was bewildered. He was trying to piece the riddle.
It seemed incredible that Arthur Wilhelm could have been the fifth man — Wilhelm, with whom they had chatted in the commissioner’s office. Yet with perplexity came remembrance.
The word of The Shadow! Death would not strike tonight!
A call echoed from the stairway. It was answered by another cry. Mayhew rushed down from the mezzanine. He pointed wildly toward the mail box.
“A letter!” he exclaimed. “They saw it flashing by; but no one saw it dropped into the chute. They called all the way down from the ninth floor.
“It must have been dropped at the tenth. The men are going up to see.”
The man from the post office was unlocking the mail box. Cardona was trying to regain his composure. He heard Biscayne talking excitedly to Weston and Fredericks.
He was telling them of the attempt on Arthur Wilhelm’s life. With such startling news announced, the three had no thought of the letter.
But Cardona was thinking of it. With Mayhew at his side, he was crowding toward the mail box.
THE man at the box brought out a letter. Its address was identical with those that had been received before. It was typed with capital letters.
Cardona seized the envelope. He ripped it open and pulled out the paper. He spread the sheet with shaking hands.
It bore a typed announcement, but Cardona’s eyes were unseeing so far as the typewritten words were concerned.
Across the center of the sheet, written in well-formed characters of bright-blue ink, were these words:
Annulled. By The Shadow.
“There’s writing on it,” exclaimed Mayhew, peering at the letter from Cardona’s elbow. “What does it say?”
Eagerly, Cardona pressed Mayhew aside. He dashed up to Commissioner Weston and thrust the paper into his hands.
“Look at this!” gasped the detective. “See what it says!”
Weston was reading, with Biscayne and Fredericks moving close. He read aloud: “In memory of—”
“I don’t mean the typing!” exclaimed Cardona. “I mean the writing!”
“The writing?” questioned Weston, in perplexity. “What writing do you mean?”
“Across the message” — Cardona was gripping the paper — “right in the center—”
The detective’s words froze on his lips. His voice became an inarticulate stammer.
There was nothing upon the paper now except the typing! The written words had vanished!
A disappearing ink; that was the only explanation. Some quick-acting chemical agent that faded almost instantly the moment that it encountered air.
But to Joe Cardona, it seemed miraculous. It was as though The Shadow had spoken to him alone; then an invisible hand had wiped away the words, so that no doubting eyes could see them.
Cardona’s face was worried. He thought he would have to explain his excited statement. That would make him look ridiculous, particularly so in the eyes of Commissioner Weston.
How could he explain? To say that he had seen the name of The Shadow written there, would incur the commissioner’s rage. It would prove beyond doubt — so far as Weston was concerned — that Cardona’s mind was shaky.
Mayhew, alone, had glimpsed the writing, but had not read it.
By good fortune, Cardona was saved from his dilemma. It was Biscayne who rescued him, without knowing it.
The professor was pointing to the typed lines. His finger rested upon the inevitable initials.
This message read:
IN MEMORY OF A. W. WHO DIED LAST NIGHT THE FIFTH — AND LAST
“A. W.,” said Biscayne soberly, “means Arthur Wilhelm. He was to be the last victim. He has been saved — saved from a horrible death — saved by luck alone!”
Commissioner Weston nodded. The reign of terror had ended. This was to be the final crime. Unlike the others, it had failed.
Joe Cardona said nothing. His statement of yesterday was vindicated. The hand of death had failed to strike tonight. Luck or no luck, he had been right.
But he knew that it was not luck that had saved Arthur Wilhelm. Some one had frustrated the scheme of the perpetrator of these murders.
That some one was The Shadow. The mysterious, unknown man of the night had been true to his word.
His eyes half closed in thought, Cardona saw a blank before him. Upon that blank were inscribed the words that had disappeared — words that were gone forever now. Words that Cardona would never forget.
Annulled. By The Shadow.
The Shadow had proven mightier than the hand of unseen death!