MIDDLETON SPEAKS AGAIN
THE side entrance of the old house loomed black as Harry Vincent stood before it. There was a dim light upstairs — in the back room on the second floor. Otherwise the house seemed uninhabited.
Harry tried the door. It was locked. The young man pulled some keys from his pocket.
Picking locks was not one of Harry’s natural accomplishments. But he had learned important secrets of that art during his period of service with The Shadow.
Harry risked the glow of his flashlight, and smiled as he saw that the lock was a simple one. He tried a master key. The lock turned.
Within the house, Harry was more free with his light. He saw a stairway, leading from the front. He followed it to the second floor. In another minute he stood listening outside Middleton’s door.
The heavy breathing of a man was audible. The door was locked. Harry tried his key, and found that there was a key on the other side. The clicking of metal apparently caused no alarm.
Harry still heard Middleton’s breathing. He was sure that the man was asleep.
Prying with the master key, Harry was quickly rewarded. A dull plop from the other side of the door showed that the inner key had been forced from the lock, and had fallen on a carpeted floor.
Harry opened the door and entered. By a rear, shaded window, a young man reclined in an armchair. There was only one light in the room.
Harry approached and put his arm on the young man’s shoulder. The sleeper’s eyes opened. A startled gasp burst from his lips. Then his head dropped back. He appeared exhausted.
“Middleton,” whispered Harry, “I’ve come to warn you. The police are coming. I am a friend. We must get out of here.”
“The police?” questioned Middleton. “Let them come. I’m ready to give myself up. I’ve been afraid to go to them. I hope they’ll be here soon.”
“Come,” said Harry.
He tried to help Middleton to rise. The young man floundered back helpless. Harry realized that the fellow had reached a state of complete nervous exhaustion. It would be impossible to get him out of here.
But that was not necessary. Harry had another plan — it involved risk, but he was willing to take it. In a moment, he could tell if it were practical.
“Don’t make any noise,” he warned.
Harry extinguished the light. He raised the shade beside Middleton, and peered into the darkness. He barely distinguished the outline of a roof over the back porch.
Leaning out, Harry looked upward. The top of Middleton’s window projected. Above it was the flat roof of the building. Yes, the plan was feasible.
Harry, strong and agile, knew that he could clamber above the porch and hoist himself to the housetop in less than half a minute. The porch roof spread, and the buildings in the rear were dark. He could make his escape free from observation.
Once on the housetop, the rest was easy. There were several houses in the row; this one was at the end. A flight across the roofs and a clean get-away. All while Cardona and his invaders were looking for Middleton!
HARRY opened the side window. The little door was just below. That was where Cardona would approach. Harry’s job was plain. Here, by the side window, he could talk to Middleton.
He would also be on hand as a prosecutor in case one of Flash Donegan’s men arrived before the police. When Cardona came, he could have Middleton — for the man’s information would then be on its way to The Shadow, with Harry bearing it!
Even if Harry should be found with Middleton, there would be no serious consequences. For Harry was not engaged in crime. He could pose as a good Samaritan, who had helped Middleton to his home. The man’s weakened condition would make the story plausible.
These possibilities flashed quickly through Harry’s keen brain. Now, leaning forward in a chair by the side window, he began his quiz.
“You’re worried, old fellow,” he said gently. “I’m here to help you. Talk to me.”
“You’re a friend?”
“Yes.”
The tone impressed Jerry Middleton, and the darkness eased his nervousness. He realized that his enemies already knew what he knew. Only a friend would want to hear his story.
“I’ll talk to you,” he said. “I’ll talk. Don’t question me. I’ve got to talk, or I’ll go mad!
“I knew all about these murders — all before they happened. All except Hasbrouck. That was news when I read it in the paper.
“I’m to blame, but I was in it before I knew it. I joined the cult. I believed that crime was right. I brought Buchanan there. I wanted him to be one of us. Then I saw the book.”
“What book?”
“The Book of Death. We were all in it. Each had his page — a page of death. But we of the faith were immune — unless we broke the faith.
“I learned all that, and then I found that Buchanan was not one of us. He had not stood the secret test. He was to be — a sacrifice!
“I was afraid then. Afraid when Charn called for me alone and showed me the book. But I took some more of the drink that Charn gave me. It made me happy. I agreed to the sacrifice. I was there. I saw — I saw Buchanan die!
“That changed me. I had some of the drink. I knew it was dope — hashish, I thought. I left town the next day. I tried to forget. It was all right until the drink was gone. Then I seemed to become mad.
“I tried to get some hashish. I failed. I tried other narcotics. I could stand none of them. Then came terrible dreams — dreams with the names of others who were written in the book.
“Dale Wharton’s name was among them. I wrote him from Connecticut. He tried to come to see me secretly. He was being watched — by Charn. He was killed.
“George Andrews, another. I was going to see him. I arrived too late. He was hanging, dead. Then Charles Blefken. I had to warn him. I thought he was safe when I found him at his home.
“Then, when he left the room, I was frightened. I was afraid to stay. I found his body. I didn’t wait an instant. I hurried here. Now I am afraid to leave this place. Afraid — afraid—”
Middleton’s voice died away in a slow, hoarse whisper. The man’s head dropped back in the chair. Harry listened by the side window. He heard nothing. He knew that Cardona could not be entirely noiseless. There were still important facts to learn.
“The mark of Charn,” murmured Middleton vacantly. “The mark of Charn. I saw it placed on Buchanan’s forehead. The mark—”
He gave a slight cough; then came a whispered gargle. Harry waited for him to speak again. He heard a slight hissing from Middleton, as though the man were exhaling between his teeth.
Then, the dim form of the man by the window slid to the right. Harry could see the whiteness of his face as it fell forward.
ACTING impulsively, Harry drew the shade of the side window. He leaped across and drew the shade at the rear. He turned on the single light. He saw Middleton, slumped sidewise in the chair.
Harry approached and raised the man’s head. Middleton was dead!
Upon his forehead was a small round spot — no larger than a dime. Harry knew now what the sizzling had meant. Some unseen assassin of the dark had killed this man, and left the mark upon his forehead.
The mark of Charn!
As Middleton’s head dropped back; Harry saw another mark — a thin white line that encircled the dead man’s throat. Middleton had been strangled by a slender noose. More than that — the noose was here!
Upon the floor, Harry’s eyes spied a small thread of red. He picked it up and examined it. It was thin, but strong — made of a material that resembled catgut.
It was a long moment before understanding dawned on Harry. The method of the murder was obvious. The killer had reached through from the blackened window. Invisible in the dark, he had performed his terrible deed.
But why had he left the evidence? Had Harry’s presence frightened him away? No — the other murders had been perpetrated as boldly as this one, yet no such clew as this had remained—
Then came realization. The murderer had not expected Harry to find the cord of death. It was to lie there, to be found by the police.
Already on the way, the killer had expected the police to discover Harry Vincent, here, at the scene, beside the dead man, with a hopeless story!
He was to be branded as another archfiend — perhaps a disciple of Glendenning!
It did not take Harry more than a few seconds to act. Out went the light. He peered from the side window. Leaning, he could see the street, forty yards away. He saw a figure standing there.
Was it Joe Cardona, preparing the attack? Harry did not wait to learn. Softly, he drew the shade of the rear window and slipped out to the porch roof.
He clambered up the side of the house. On the roof, he headed for the other end of the flat-topped row.
Reaching his objective, Harry stopped beside a chimney. He was stooping, and his form could be but dim in the glow that came from the illumined streets. While Harry was standing there, another form appeared, but the young man did not see it.
This was the figure of a man, which rose from a crouched position near the edge of the roof. It approached with a crablike stride. It edged around the side of the chimney. It was close to Harry, now. Its arms were extending, and still, Harry Vincent did not know of its presence!
Something flipped upon Harry’s shoulder — a light, cordlike object. But at that instant, Harry, intent upon his escape, spied a projecting cornice at the rear edge of the roof.
With a leap, he was away. Over the edge, he went, dropping to safety on the roof of the porch below.
The other man was in pursuit; but his crablike gait was slow. He stopped at the edge of the roof, and a peculiar whistle followed. It was scarcely audible to Harry, in the alleyway in back of the house — the vantage point which he had now reached.
The creature on the roof swung downward. He became swift when he depended upon his arms instead of his legs.
Down by the porch below, Harry Vincent awaited, ignorant of the menace dropping from above. Again, a sudden impulse saved him. He saw an excellent way to leave this place — through a narrow passage that ran between houses on the rear street.
He headed there, swiftly. He came to a little street that led to the right. But it was a blind alley, ending abruptly. It looked like a good way out. Harry turned. Then, from the wall beside him, a man appeared.
Harry saw an upraised arm. He tried to ward off the coming blow. He was too late. He felt a terrific shock at the back of his head. He crumpled on the paving.
When he recovered consciousness, Harry found himself moving upward. He was in darkness, riding in a small elevator. He heard a few words spoken close beside him. Then he lapsed into senselessness.
BACK in the old house, Joe Cardona and another detective were staring at the body of Jerry Middleton. Cardona held the red cord in his hand.
He was gazing at it in perplexity. He and his companion were too intent at that moment to think of the black window beside them.
Even if they had glanced from it, they would have seen nothing. For the form which was peering from outside was as black as the night itself. In an instant, it was gone, upward.
Tracing its course along the roof, the figure stopped by the chimney, where Harry Vincent had been. It advanced to the edge of the roof, and a tiny, coin-sized glow of a flashlight rested on the cornice.
The light went out; the figure slid from the roof. When it appeared again, with the light, it was in the alleyway. It reached the spot where Harry Vincent had been struck down.
There was nothing here now. But that probing light must have revealed minute traces of the conflict.
For amidst the darkness echoed a low, sinister laugh — a vague and mysterious sound that would have terrified the ears of listeners. The Shadow had arrived too late. But his intuition had told him all that had occurred.
The Shadow knew; and The Shadow’s laugh presaged misfortune for those who had captured Harry Vincent!