IT was night again. A truck drew up at the side entrance of the Marimba Apartments, and the driver beckoned to the porter.
“Here’s that box you were expecting,” he said. “Better get another guy to help us lift it. It’s heavy.”
“That little box?” questioned the porter incredulously.
“Must be loaded with lead” replied the driver. “Took three husky boys to hoist it on the truck.”
The porter looked about him. There was no one else on duty. While he was wondering about the third man, a figure appeared from the shadows at the side of the building. It was the form of roughly dressed man, whose old, frayed sweater seemed too bulky for the size of his thin frame.
“I’ll help youse, boss,” said the newcomer, in a wheedling voice. “I usta work on a truck. Lemme lend youse a hand.”
The three men tugged with the box, which was cubical in shape, measuring slightly more than three feet to a side. The porter and the truckman sought to bear the brunt of the work, but they were scarcely able to move it, until the stranger added his efforts.
Then the box moved easily, and the truck driver stared in amazement at the strength exhibited by the volunteer.
“Whoosh!” exclaimed the porter, when they had the box in the freight elevator. “I’m glad you showed up with this. Doc Palermo has been asking about it all afternoon. He bothers the life out of us, with his blamed boxes and packages. Rabbits, guinea-pigs — a lot of junk!”
The elevator reached the fortieth floor. Hassan, the Arab, was awaiting it. He helped the three men slide the box from the elevator, and the operator also lent a hand. With five at work, the box moved easily.
The freight elevator opened on the only entrance to Doctor Palermo’s apartment, and the men lifted the box to carry it through the opened door. Hassan urged them to the left, where an opening beside the bookcases took them into the physician’s laboratory.
The porter nodded and pointed to the stranger who had helped them. Hassan seemed to understand. He gave the man fifty cents.
The elevator operator went out with the truck driver; the stranger, after a moment’s hesitation, followed.
The porter was about to leave, but Hassan stopped him.
The porter understood that he was to open the box. He pulled a hammer from his pocket, and pried off the lid.
With Hassan’s aid, the box was turned on its side, and a bulky object wrapped in burlap slid from the packing case. Hassan gave the porter some money, and the man left.
After cutting the wrappings of the burlap, Hassan left the laboratory and closed the door to the anteroom.
“What became of that guy that helped us?” questioned the porter, as he rode down in the elevator.
“Guess he came down with me,” replied the operator. “He came out with us. To tell you the truth, I forgot all about him. Ask the truck driver.”
The truck was no longer there when the porter reached the street, so the matter was forgotten.
IN the meantime, a passenger elevator was speeding upward to the fortieth floor. When it stopped, a woman stepped out, and rang the bell in Doctor Palermo’s anteroom.
Hassan, in the hallway, drew back a small curtain that covered a frame on the wall. He pressed a switch.
A picture lighted, to show a full view of the anteroom.
The woman in the picture was facing the closed door. She was smartly dressed, trim of figure, and exceedingly handsome. Her well-molded features, and eyes that sparkled beneath dark lashes were evidently familiar to the servant.
He pressed another switch as he closed the curtain over the picture. Then he went into the laboratory. It was fully fifteen seconds before the door opened of its own accord, and the woman entered.
It was Hassan who came from the door at the end of the hallway, and bowed in recognition. The woman walked along the hall, and as she passed a niche beside the bookcases, her shadow, long and fantastic, seemed to merge with a spot of blackness on the floor.
After she had passed, the blotch trembled, as though the moving shadow had disturbed it. Neither the woman nor the Arab noted the strange phenomenon.
Hassan led the way to the door that opened on the circular staircase. The Arab snapped his fingers. The door opened.
The woman did not appear to be surprised. Evidently she was familiar with this place and its mechanical mysteries. She went up the staircase.
Hassan closed the door and returned to the laboratory.
Then, from a corner of the room, appeared that same blotch that had been in the hallway. It took the shape of a man’s shadow. It moved toward the door that led to the circular staircase.
It seemed to rise and became human in form. A man dressed in black stood before the door, his sable cloak and his turned-down hat concealing his identity.
The man snapped his fingers. There was no result. He moved closer to the door, and repeated the action.
Still the door did not respond.
The head of the figure bowed, as though the man were looking at his feet. Carefully, he chose a position, picking the exact spot where he stood. As he snapped his fingers for the third time, the man in black moved his left foot slightly forward.
The panel-like door slid back. The Shadow stepped through and closed the door behind him. A soft laugh came from beneath the hat.
THE sound of a low, melodious voice pervaded the Oriental room upstairs. Doctor Palermo, clad in his crimson robe, was speaking, as he sat in his thronelike chair.
Before him sat the feminine visitor, an alluring smile upon her lips; and beyond was the distant vista of the lighted metropolis.
“You have done well,” said Doctor Palermo. “Our work has been slow, but careful. Sometimes I have chafed at the delay. Had we used more haste, it would not have been necessary for me to take certain risky measures with other persons.
“However, I do not fear the consequences. One hour more, and the wealth that you have left with me will be ours.”
“Will be yours, Albert,” replied the woman softly. “Yours, as I am yours.”
“Thelda, you have served me well.” Doctor Palermo’s voice expressed approval. “In return, I have promised you happiness. With that happiness, you shall have wealth. Wealth and power. Without wealth and power, no one can be truly happy.
“Then”—the man’s voice became prophetic—”you and I can perform great undertakings. When you love me, Thelda, you love the most powerful man the world has ever known.”
There was no boastfulness in Doctor Palermo’s statement. He recited it as a fact. The woman nodded in understanding.
The man in the crimson robe arose and walked to the doors that opened on the roof. He surveyed the panorama of twinkling lights, and his lips formed that ugly, evil smile.
“The world is mine”—resumed the speaker—”mine, if I choose to take it. But the one failing of those who possess power is their desire to overexert it.
“I shall be wise, Thelda. I have been wise in the past. Then, I needed money. Now, with millions—”
He turned and looked at the girl. She rose from her chair, her eyes bright with admiration. She approached Palermo and clutched his arm.
“You mean it, Albert?” she asked. “From now on — you and I—”
The strangely-clad man shook his head slowly. With a gentle, easy motion, he removed the girl’s grasp.
He pointed to the chair, and went back to his own resting place.
“We must wait, Thelda,” he said. “We must wait first of all — until Roger Crowthers has died.”
“That will be within the hour!” the girl exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with sudden hatred.
“Then,” returned Palermo, “we will be free — free to use the wealth that he has given you, unknown to any one. As his nurse, Thelda, you have played a perfect part.
“The world will be surprised that his wealth is not greater. They will not know of the millions which you have brought to me — nor can any one discover the effects of the slow poison you have administered by my direction.”
“Then we are free — free tonight to—”
“Not yet. I suspect a hidden danger. It affects me — Albert Palermo; but not you — Thelda Blanchet.
“Last night, a man called here. He questioned me. He pretended to be a newspaper correspondent. He spoke of many things, and among others, he mentioned — this!”
From beneath his robe, Palermo brought forth a jewel box. He opened it, and revealed the purple sapphire. With an exclamation of delight, Thelda stepped forward to view the gem more closely.
“Some day,” said Palermo significantly, “this sapphire will be yours, Thelda. But I must keep it for the present — until I have dealt with the unknown dangers which surround it.”
“The man who was here last night?” Thelda’s question expressed grave concern. Palermo dismissed it with a laugh.
“A creature of little account,” he said. “I would not have troubled with him, myself. I gave the word to Macklin. That was all.
“But something went wrong with Macklin’s plans. The man did not die. He was rescued — by another.
We have an enemy who may be troublesome. That is why I say to wait.”
BEFORE the girl could reply, Hassan entered. He went to the corner of the room, and opened a sliding door that revealed a dumb waiter.
The Arab pulled the cords, and the carrier came in view. On it rested the strange Oriental image of a dwarfed, seated figure.
The statue was of bronze; its arms were crossed, and its fierce, ugly face stared straight ahead with glaring eyes.
“What is it?” questioned Thelda, in an awed voice.
“The image of Chong,” replied Doctor Palermo. “I have long desired it for this Oriental den. It is said to have come from the imperial palace in Peking.”
He helped Hassan lift the image from the carrier. The two men were barely able to raise it. They placed it upon a taboret in a corner of the room, a place that had evidently been prepared for the bronze statue.
A long shadow appeared upon the floor; but no one observed it, so intent were they in their examination of the Oriental statue. As Doctor Palermo stepped back, the shadow disappeared in the direction of the hangings on the wall.
“Perfect!” exclaimed Doctor Palermo. “Perfect!”
Thelda Blanchet glanced at her wrist watch.
“I must go,” she said. “It would be well if I were there when—” She glanced toward Hassan, and stopped her sentence. “It would be well for me to go.”
Doctor Palermo bowed. He smiled slightly as he detected the look of tenderness in the girl’s eyes. Thelda followed Hassan down the circular staircase.
Minutes ticked by. Doctor Palermo sat on his thronelike chair, and stared steadily at the image of Chong.
The physician himself was as motionless as the statue. A long interval had passed before he moved. Then only his lips acted, as they spoke aloud.
“The image of Chong,” said Doctor Palermo. “Patient, unmoving, and unyielding. With it here, I shall know absolute security. It is a perfect reproduction.”
His voice rose, and he seemed to be playing a dramatic part, as he spoke venomously.
“One man blocks my path to power! One man! I shall eliminate him!
“Tonight, his identity is unknown to me. Soon I shall know him. Once I have seen him—”
He did not complete the sentence. A sudden intuition told him that he was not alone in the room.
He turned quickly, expecting to see the form of Hassan. Then Palermo became motionless, his gaze transfixed.
A tall man in black cloak stood in the center of the room. The figure’s hands were hidden by its folded arms. The man’s face was invisible because of the black brim of a large turned-down hat. Yet, from beneath that brim, glowed two eyes of fire!
“Once you have seen him”—it was a whispered voice that came from the man in black—”once you have seen him — what then? Answer my question! The man you seek is here!”