THE HAND OF THE SHADOW
ARTHUR WILHELM lived on Long Island. His home was a pretentious mansion located not far from Flushing.
There was a driveway in back of the house. This vehicular entrance came in from a side road.
Late in the afternoon, a man came up the drive in a delivery truck. He took a package in the back gate. A servant signed for it. The package was addressed to Arthur Wilhelm.
The servant recognized the package. It bore the label of a large New York tobacco firm. It was a consignment of fresh cigars for the millionaire.
These boxes came in every week. This one had been delivered a day earlier than usual.
Wilhelm had a standing order with the tobacco shop, and the goods came by local express.
There was nothing significant in the early delivery of that package, but the package itself was important. No one, in all the household, was allowed to tamper with those packages.
The millionaire paid a high price for his imported cigars. He felt that this was his own special brand. He liked to see each package in its original wrapping.
So the servant entered Wilhelm’s private room and left the package on the desk. That was in strict accordance with instructions.
It was known that Wilhelm had dismissed one servant who had let one box lie unnoticed for two days by putting it in the hall, instead of placing it in the private room.
When the servant had gone, a tall, thin personage stalked through the room — a man clad in black. Only one man had that mysterious guise and carriage.
It was The Shadow!
Although there was light here, no outside observer could have seen the figure that had entered. The square box lay upon Wilhelm’s mahogany desk.
The Shadow lifted it and examined it with utmost care.
Then supple hands were at work. Delicately, carefully, the wrapping of the package was removed. A stamped cigar box was disclosed.
Between the side and the top of the box, The Shadow inserted a slender piece of steel and probed within.
He stopped his work, and placed the box aside while he carefully removed his black gloves.
The sensitive fingers, white in the gloom, seemed to feel and understand the motion of the flat steel within the box as the probing was resumed.
One might have said that the steel was a projection of the hand that plied it — a living thing, with nerves of its own.
For, while The Shadow worked, he paused and searched alternately. It was a long, painstaking labor. In the other rooms of the house, twilight came; lights were switched on. Still, The Shadow took his time.
At last, the delicate task was accomplished. Slowly twisting the steel, The Shadow’s hand wedged it into a crevice that he had detected.
He held it there carefully, while the other hand, using a second implement, pried open the lid of the box.
AS the lid came up, there was a click. The top of the box swung open to show a boltlike bit of metal that had been actuated by a spring.
This controlled a little hammer, which had fallen with the shock. But the hammer never reached its mark.
Below it was the piece of steel that The Shadow had inserted. This, alone, had stopped the descending hammer.
With right hand steady, The Shadow reached forward with his left and pinched the little hammer. The bit of steel was removed.
The gripping fingers, firm as steel itself, let the hammer descend slowly. The motion was imperceptible.
There was no striking force when the hammer had completed its descent.
The hand drew away, but remained motionless above the box.
Even in the gathered darkness, the fire opal glowed mysteriously. Its dull-red rays were like the reflection of the sun that had set.
The lid of the box went down. The Shadow replaced his gloves.
His black-clad fingers wrapped the cigar box within its original paper, so perfectly that there was no change in its appearance. It rested on the table exactly as it had been before.
A single light shone in the living room when The Shadow glided through the door from the small private room.
The black-clad man stopped short and pressed his body against the wall.
By the side of a large fireplace, he became a thing without motion — another of the long, uncertain shades that lay upon the floor and walls and ceiling of that gloomy room.
ARTHUR WILHELM was at the telephone. He had just came from the city.
His back was turned toward the spot where The Shadow stood. He was speaking to Professor Roger Biscayne.
“All right, Roger,” Wilhelm said. “I’ll dig up those agreements that Harshaw signed. Funny we didn’t think of them while I was at the commissioner’s office.
“Sure, I know where they are… No trouble at all. They’re in my desk. You’ll want them tonight?
“Oh, I see. Call you at the Redan Hotel, at ten o’clock.”
There was a pause; then Wilhelm continued in response to some statement that had come over the wire.
“You mean the little chess set that Harshaw gave me for a present, when he was tickled because I said I’d help him out… The little board, with the chessmen?
“I don’t know what became of that thing… No — I don’t know anything about the crazy game. I had to take it to make the old fellow feel good.
“That’s right… You’re right, I remember now… I put it in the closet of my room… You think it might be important?
“I’ll take a look for it right now. If it’s there, I’ll find it right off… All right, hold the line.”
Wilhelm laid the phone aside. He called, and a servant appeared.
“Hang on to this phone,” ordered Wilhelm, “until you hear me talking upstairs.”
With that, Wilhelm ascended to the second floor. The servant stood by for a few minutes, then hung up. Evidently Wilhelm had found the object that he sought.
The servant was gone. As soon as the room was empty, The Shadow glided toward a wide window.
He raised the sash and slipped out into the darkness. He became a phantom shape, amid the long patches of blackness that spread across the lawn.
His work had been accomplished. He was bound on some new mission.
ARTHUR WILHELM was dining alone that evening. He liked to dine alone, in solitary state.
He ate slowly and thoughtfully. His mind was considering the strange death of Silas Harshaw.
Wilhelm had seen the old man only a few times. Twice, Silas Harshaw had been in this house. Roger Biscayne had conducted most of the negotiations that pertained to Harshaw’s work.
Biscayne had known how to handle the eccentric old inventor. Good fellow, Cousin Roger, thought Wilhelm.
It was well after eight o’clock when Arthur Wilhelm arose from his chair and strolled into the living room. He had dined heavily.
He sat down in the gloomy room and rested. At night, he became drowsy and lethargic. Then he bethought himself of the papers that Roger Biscayne wanted.
He walked to the little private room and turned on the light. He sat at the desk and unlocked a lower drawer. He rummaged there for several minutes.
At last, Wilhelm discovered that which he wanted. It was a folder that contained the agreements he had made with Silas Harshaw.
Dully, Wilhelm read over the papers. He could not see how they would be of any value, for they were not at all specific in their statements, so far as any definite invention was concerned.
They applied to all Silas Harshaw’s labors. They were virtually an option that had expired with Harshaw’s death.
Arthur Wilhelm had brought the small chess set with him. He laid it on the desk with the papers. The wrapped box from the tobacconist was in plain view.
Wilhelm’s eyes glowed in anticipation. Fresh cigars had arrived. One would be enjoyable right now.
He picked up the box and undid the paper wrapping. He held the uncovered cigar box between his hands, admiring it with the eye of a connoisseur.
Setting the box on the desk, Wilhelm, as was his custom, removed a knife from his vest pocket. Opening the blade, he carefully pried the lid of the cigar box.
Both hands lifted the top. Wilhelm was staring toward the box, a glowing smile upon his countenance. The smile vanished. Wild concern replaced it.
Instead of the cigars that he had expected, the box contained a round-shaped metal object.
Its purpose dawned on Arthur Wilhelm. The object was a bomb! The apparatus on the top was a detonator! This box had been sent to blow him into eternity.
Somehow — almost miraculously — the hammer had fallen, or had not been set.
The raising of the lid should have caused the explosion. It had failed because the spring had already acted!
Death had been planned tonight. Arthur Wilhelm was to have been the victim. This time, death had failed to strike.
The hand of The Shadow had intervened!