THE FOURTH VICTIM
IN a top room of his secluded home, James Throckmorton was seated at a table which served him as a desk. Throckmorton was a man past middle age. He was a student of many subjects, a hobbyist of set ideas.
Tonight, he was alone, wrapped completely in his immediate interest. He was reviewing the first proof sheets of a book which he had prepared on ornithology.
To Throckmorton, this was a task that required the utmost care. The proofs had come from the publisher that afternoon, in exact accordance with a promised delivery.
The study of birds had been a lifelong joy to this man. His comments on the habitats of certain avifauna were matters to which he had given wholehearted consideration.
So absorbed was James Throckmorton that he had paid no attention whatever to the passage of time. This was his one chosen spot when he had work to do, this little room at the top of the house.
Throckmorton had locked himself in this room shortly after eight o’clock. Armed with his favorite pipe, he had set to work to review his writings.
Tobacco smoke clouded the atmosphere; but the man was oblivious to it.
Besides his penchant for a pipe, Throckmorton had an old-fashioned tendency in favor of gas illumination. True, his house was wired with electricity; but when it came to serious work, Throckmorton believed that the best of gas lamps were unsurpassed.
Such a lamp now rested on the table. It was connected by a hose to a special gas jet on the floor. With this illumination, Throckmorton could read for hours without tiring.
More than once, in the past, his first knowledge of the passing of time had been the rays of morning as they issued through the thick glass skylight that formed the only window for this upper room.
As Throckmorton made marginal notations on the proof sheets, he shook his head a bit and glanced at the pipe. He noticed the cloudiness of the room.
The pipe in his hand was the cause. He set the brier on the table. He had been smoking too steadily, he realized.
Once more he became attentive to his task, but a weariness fell upon the man as he worked.
The atmosphere of the room seemed stifling. Perhaps it would be wise to open the skylight for a few minutes.
Stepping upon the chair, Throckmorton fumbled with the fastening of the skylight. He felt dizzy. Breathing deeply, he detected the odor of illuminating gas amid the heavier, more pungent aroma of tobacco.
He sniffed again; then swayed and clutched the handle of the skylight. It refused to budge.
The man’s efforts weakened him. The chair seemed to wabble beneath him. With a gasping cry and a wild grab to save himself, James Throckmorton toppled from the chair and sprawled upon the floor.
The fall half stunned him. Already weakened, the man could make only a feeble effort to regain his footing. He tried to crawl in the direction of the door.
He failed. Footsteps came pounding up the stairs from the floor below. Throckmorton’s manservant had heard the crash of the body and the chair. He was coming to ascertain the cause.
Knocks sounded at the door. The man’s excited voice was crying out. Throckmorton did not respond. He was past the point of speaking.
His body, half turned toward the door, was incapable of further motion. He was overcome by the fumes of gas that had insidiously filled the room while he had been at work.
The door was firmly latched, and Throckmorton had the only key. It was an old habit of his — a sure device that eased his mind against unwanted disturbance.
The servant’s pounding was in vain. It could neither arouse the master, nor could it avail against that heavy barrier.
The footsteps clattered down the stairs. The servant was running for help.
Only the quick action of powerful men could burst through to the room where Throckmorton lay helpless. The task was too great for one, alone.
AS the servant rushed from the front door of the house, he looked in both directions. It was a deserted neighborhood. The lights of the avenue offered the nearest and quickest aid.
The servant hastened in that direction. Running, he did not notice the man who had been hurrying from the opposite direction.
It was not surprising that the servant failed to see this stranger, for the newcomer was dressed entirely in black, and was scarcely discernible in the darkness.
The door of the house was open. The man in black lost no time entering. He saw the stairs ahead and dashed upward. He reached the deserted second floor, and kept on upward.
On the third he paused; then, as he detected a light from the final stairway, he hurried to the fourth.
The servant had turned on the light in the small hallway outside Throckmorton’s study. This guided The Shadow.
Limping from his speedy exertion, he drew up before the door of the little room.
The lock was a special one. Most persons would have smashed the door in preference to losing time with the lock. But no lock could balk The Shadow.
The gloves were off his hands; the fire opal glistened as the supple fingers pried with a tiny, keylike pick.
The lock clicked. The door swung wide. The Shadow, tall and weird, stood above the prone form of James Throckmorton.
He looked like a figure of death, did The Shadow; but his purpose here was to thwart death. He swung upward upon the chair which Throckmorton had used.
His firm hands struggled with the fastening of the skylight. The rusty metal yielded to the power of flesh. The iron frame dropped. Fresh air swept down into the room.
The Shadow turned off the lamp. His fingers ran quickly down the rubber hose and found another handle at the floor. He turned it.
Then he reached Throckmorton and stooped beside the senseless man.
Futilely, The Shadow worked. He sought by his skill to revive Throckmorton, but the escaping gas had done its deadly work.
A slight leak in the hose was at fault. Engrossed in his labors, Throckmorton had realized the danger only when it was too late.
A noise from far below. The servant had arrived with rescuers. Distant footsteps sounded; then came closer. Still, The Shadow would not give up hope, even though his task seemed entirely hopeless.
Men had been revived before, when death seemed to have taken its toll. The room was cleared of gas; cool air was swirling all around.
The Shadow, hearing footsteps at the bottom of the final flight, leaped to the door and closed it.
Pounding fists beat upon the door. A heavy object crashed against the barrier. The stout wood was giving.
Yet, in the dark room, The Shadow still sought to aid the man from whom life seemed totally gone.
Crash! A hole appeared in the center of the door. Another smash. The Shadow arose. A hand, coming through the door, released the latch.
The door swung open. A flood of light came through from the hall. The Shadow was upon the chair. His left arm clutched the edge of the skylight.
It was then that the injured arm failed. The Shadow dropped back into the room — just as three rescuers piled in!
One was a uniformed policeman. The second was a chance passer-by. The third was Throckmorton’s servant.
All had rushed directly to the body that lay within the range of light. They had not seen The Shadow as he stood poised upon the chair away from the door.
Crouched beside the chair, the man in black recovered from his unexpected fall. Now, with all eyes upon the lifeless body of James Throckmorton, he again sprang toward the skylight.
His right arm gripped the edge of the frame. It did the heavy effort. The skylight clattered.
The policeman looked in time to see the vague form poising for its upward leap. He made a dash to stop the escaping figure.
With right arm firmly holding to the edge of the open skylight, The Shadow swung his body forward like a catapult. His feet struck the policeman squarely in the chest.
The Shadow’s form recoiled from the blow it had delivered. Then the black-clad body wriggled upward through the skylight.
The staggering policeman was too late to stop The Shadow’s escape.
Pulling a revolver, he fired through the opening; then he clambered to the chair and managed to raise his head and shoulders to the level of the roof.
He fired twice, toward where he thought he saw a fleeting form. The only answer was a rippling, fading laugh.
THE officer had scarcely viewed the departing assailant. But for the blow that he had received, he would have sworn that the vague figure was no more than a phantom shape.
The weird returning laugh was an incredible, fantastic sound.
Descending into the room, the police man noted that the two men were hard at work, endeavoring to resuscitate Throckmorton.
The presence of a man who had escaped placed a serious aspect upon this tragedy. The officer hurried down the steps and called headquarters.
Fifteen minutes later, the message was relayed to Joe Cardona at the Redan Hotel, where the star detective had been summoned by an urgent call from Mayhew.
Word of this new tragedy brought a grim expression to Cardona’s lips. The name of James Throckmorton fitted with the new initials on the fourth note.
J. T. could be no one else!
Leaving orders with Mayhew, Cardona set out at once. His subordinate put through phone calls in accordance with brief instructions.
When Cardona arrived at Throckmorton’s, he found the group of three men still standing by the body of the asphyxiated victim.
There was no doubt that Throckmorton was dead; nor was there doubt as to the manner of his death. Faint traces of the gaseous odor were still apparent.
Cardona listened to the statements of the men gathered there. He went to the gas lamp and attempted to light it. He found that it was turned off at the floor.
Carefully twisting the handle, Cardona started the flow of gas, then lighted the lamp. Stooping, he sniffed the trickle that oozed from the base of the lamp.
This indicated the manner of Throckmorton’s death — unless it had been faked by the man who had been discovered in the room.
What part had that unknown person played? Had he entered by the skylight? How long had he been with Throckmorton?
These questions were unanswerable. They threw a cloud of perplexity over the whole affair.
Cardona was studying every angle; the more he considered the case, the less he could understand the stranger’s presence.
A companion of Throckmorton’s would not have attempted an escape. An enemy — if he had come here to kill — would surely have adopted a quicker and more effective course than this one.
Facts again — but disconnected facts. A case that would have appeared as accidental death, but for the appearance of an unknown intruder and the definite link of the fourth death announcement.
Cardona was puzzled.
While the detective vainly tried to reason, more persons arrived in the house. Footsteps approached. Police Commissioner Weston appeared with Professor Arthur Biscayne.
Cardona had ordered Mayhew to notify them both. The detective sergeant had called Weston’s home. Biscayne had been there.
With stern, troubled face, Cardona extended the fourth note toward Weston and Biscayne. It said:
IN MEMORY OF J. T. WHO DIED LAST NIGHT HE WAS THE FOURTH
Cardona pointed grimly to the dead body on the floor of the little room.
“James Throckmorton,” Cardona said slowly. “He is J. T. He was the fourth. We arrived too late. No one could save him.”
Cardona was right. The rescuer whom he indicated had arrived too late. One other had arrived before them — The Shadow.
He, too, had been too late in his race with death.