THE two men stood motionless in the Oriental room. They were like living statues, as silent and as still as the glaring bronze image that faced them. They were a marked contrast, these two — Doctor Palermo, in his strange Chinese robe; the man in black, with his face obscured from view.
The physician viewed his unwelcome visitor warily. He did not fear the apparition, nor could he ridicule it.
His crafty brain was working, seeking a way to meet this unexpected foe.
He bowed courteously, and spoke suavely to the man in black, choosing his words with his customary care.
“It is a pleasure”—said Doctor Palermo—”a rare pleasure, to meet you. It has cleared a slight doubt in my mind.
“Last night I felt positive that the young man who called on me was directed by one who possessed a keener mind. Now I am sure of it.”
The black-clad man did not reply.
“Though you choose to conceal your identity,” continued Doctor Palermo, “it may interest you to learn that I know who you are. I have heard of you in the past.
“I have been told”—the physician’s voice became ironical—”that there is a man who lives in the underworld, who masquerades in black, and who frightens chicken-hearted gangsters.
“You, I believe, are that man. You call yourself The Shadow.”
As he spoke the final words, Doctor Palermo raised his left hand in a slight gesture. The action was seen by the man in black. Quick as a flash, he wheeled, and spread his arms apart.
He revealed an automatic in each hand. With one gun he covered Doctor Palermo. The other covered the top of the circular staircase. Hassan had appeared there, silent and grim.
The Arab was crouching for a spring. In another instant, he would have been upon his master’s foe.
The Shadow motioned with the gun that covered Hassan. The Arab understood his meaning. He crossed the floor, staring sullenly at the man in the cloak, and took his position beside Doctor Palermo. With a long, sweeping motion, The Shadow placed both revolvers beneath his cloak.
“DOCTOR PALERMO,” he said, in a deep, sinister whisper, “I have come to warn you. To warn you that you must answer for your crimes.
“You are twice a murderer; and last night, but for my intervention, you would have been responsible for a third death. But before you die — and death will be your punishment — I offer you an opportunity to clear the name of a man you have wronged, and to restore those things which you have stolen.
“In return, I shall grant you the privilege of choosing your own death, at your own hands — an easy task for a man of your scientific knowledge.”
Doctor Palermo smiled slowly. He realized that he was at the mercy of this man, yet he sought to defy him by forced bravado.
“You speak of murders,” he said, “and also of thefts. What proof have you that I committed them?”
“I need no proof. I have received a full report of Clyde Burke’s visit here last night. My brief visit to your laboratory confirmed my suspicions.
“But that you may understand my knowledge, I shall enumerate the counts against you.”
Palermo listened in silence.
“One,” said The Shadow, in a tone of judgment. “You murdered Horace Chatham. I may add that you dissected his body in your laboratory.”
The man in the Chinese robe shifted uneasily. This statement was uncannily true.
“Two,” came the whispered voice. “Disguised as Chatham, you killed Seth Wilkinson.”
Palermo offered no denial.
“Three and four,” continued The Shadow. “Each of these men was robbed by you. From Chatham you took—” There was a momentary pause. The eyes beneath the black hat seemed to be reading the physician’s mind. “From Chatham, you took a purple sapphire.
“From Wilkinson, you took”—again that ominous pause—”a paper signed by yourself, leaving in its place a forged note.”
Doctor Palermo’s face became solemn. He seemed to be considering The Shadow’s accusations. A pallor came over his features.
Acting mechanically, he sat down in the thronelike chair, and rested his hands upon its arms. The Shadow loomed before him, like a sentinel of doom.
“You accuse me of those crimes,” said Doctor Palermo hoarsely. “Suppose your charges are true. Are they all?”
“They are all.”
A gleam of triumph spread over Palermo’s features. The man in black had arrived too late to hear the first of Palermo’s conversation with Thelda Blanchet. He did not know of the doom now hovering over their next victim, Roger Crowthers!
“I shall consider your terms,” said the physician quietly. “Perhaps I may agree—”
He did not complete the sentence. Instead, he pressed his hands against the arms of the Oriental chair.
The Shadow saw the action, but was too late to respond. There was a sudden puff of smoke from the chair, and with it, the lights of the room were extinguished. The den was plunged into total darkness.
The automatics were in The Shadow’s hands; but as he pressed the triggers, a bulky form plunged upon him. Shots rang out, but the marksman’s aim was deflected.
Hassan had leaped upon The Shadow, and the man in the cloak went down beneath the Arab’s attack.
Hassan was powerful; but he had not reckoned the skill of his antagonist. As the pistols fell from The Shadow’s hands, he struck out with his clenched fist.
His aim was as straight as if the room had been fully lighted. The blow landed squarely on the Arab’s jaw.
The servant rolled upon the floor.
Striding unerringly through the darkness, The Shadow reached the wall and pressed the light switch.
Illumination filled the room.
Hassan lay unconscious. The bronze image of Chong glared with its fixed expression. But the Chinese chair was empty!
In a few brief seconds, Doctor Palermo had completely disappeared!
THE SHADOW picked up his automatics. He approached the chair and examined it. He turned in all directions, while his sweeping gaze covered all parts of the room.
Quickly he stepped over and pressed the tapestries that covered the walls. Then he strode to the doors that opened on the room, and merged with the outer darkness. The light of an electric torch swept about the roof. It revealed nothing.
The Shadow returned.
Perplexity gripped the man in black. He had been completely deceived by the clever illusion performed by Doctor Palermo. The physician’s disappearance had been a startling mystery.
As if seeking the solution, The Shadow took his position in the thronelike chair, and pressed his hands against the arms. There was no result.
There was a sharp click from the opposite side of the room. A panel slid open. It revealed a fine meshwork of steel, with a single, tiny opening, through which extended the muzzle of a revolver.
The gun was fixed in place; yet a swivel arrangement of the meshwork enabled the weapon to cover the entire room. Behind the meshwork stood Doctor Palermo, his hand resting leisurely upon the instrument of death.
“You fool!” The physician’s voice was gloating. He smiled as he looked at The Shadow, and even through the meshwork, it seemed the evilness of his smile was apparent. “You thought to trap me here in my den.
“Had I expected your visit, you would have died before now. It pleases me to let you live for a few minutes, for you are helpless.
“Fire away with your automatics. No bullet can pierce this steel that shields me. I advise you to wait, however, while I entertain you with a few brief facts. For should you become restless, I may suddenly terminate the interview.”
Doctor Palermo moved his right hand significantly upon the handle of the swiveled gun. The Shadow watched him silently, his useless automatics held in his relaxed hands.
“You are nearly correct in your conjectures,” said Doctor Palermo. “It was Hassan — not myself — who killed Chatham. I disposed of his troublesome friend, Wilkinson.
“Forgetting these trivial matters, you may be wondering how I disappeared so completely from that throne you are now occupying, and how I reached the special elevator that brought me here.
“I, in turn, am wondering how you penetrated to my apartment. Hassan must have been careless; I shall reprimand him for his mistake.
“Yet it is well that you came here. Your visit will enable me to proceed with my intended plans, free from molestation.
“No one suspects me of any crime. My past deeds were slight, compared with those that I intend to perform.
“Here, high above the city, I am living in a veritable Gibraltar— upon a mighty rock. No gangsters or mobsmen of your type can reach me. I am secure!
“While I speak — this, I know will interest you — a man’s life is slowly passing. Within a few minutes, Roger Crowthers, the well-known millionaire, will depart from this world.
“The proper treatment might save him, but his physicians do not realize that his malady is caused by a slow, subtle poison, and that the last dose will soon be administered with his usual medicine. You could save him, perhaps, if you were free.”
As though actuated by a sudden frenzy, The Shadow sprang from the Chinese throne and aimed an automatic toward the steel meshwork. The gun spat fire, and a bullet flattened itself against the metal screen. A second shot followed.
Doctor Palermo calmly turned the swiveled gun toward The Shadow’s body, and placed his finger against the trigger. As he exerted the pressure that was to loose the death shot, The Shadow fired again.
The bullet, guided by an unerring aim, reached an unexpected spot. It struck the muzzle of the swiveled gun. Palermo’s hand fell limp at his side.
THE SHADOW turned toward the circular staircase. Before he had gone a single step, he met with a new opponent. Hassan had arisen.
He caught The Shadow from the side, and pinned the arms of the man in black. Palermo, weaponless behind his steel screen, uttered a cry of satisfaction as he witnessed the Arab’s action.
The Shadow stooped, and gave his body a sudden twist. Hassan was hurled headlong to the floor. The huge bulk of the Arab overturned and smashed an ornamental Chinese table.
Undaunted, the man scrambled to his knees and made a dive for the man in black. The butt of The Shadow’s automatic landed on the Arab’s skull.
A shout of mingled rage and fury came from behind the steel meshwork, as Doctor Palermo saw the escape of his intended victim. He was unable to make an immediate pursuit. Precious seconds had gone by before he managed to unfasten the screen from the inside.
Once free, he hesitated. He was sure that The Shadow had gone, yet he feared that the man in black might be waiting down below.
The Shadow, however, was no longer in the apartment. Rushing to the anteroom, he summoned the elevator. Then he quickly removed his black robe and hat.
When the operator arrived, he was surprised to see a quiet, solemn-faced man awaiting him. He did not know that Doctor Palermo had been entertaining a visitor.
There was a telephone in the drug store that adjoined the lobby of the Marimba Apartments. There a man entered, hastily consulted a directory, and put in a call. He waited silently until the number was obtained.
“I would like to speak to Mr. Crowthers’ physician,” said the man at the phone.
After a brief pause, a new voice came from the other end of the line.
“I must speak to you regarding Mr. Crowthers’ condition,” said the man at the phone. “It is a matter of life and death—”
An interruption came across the wire. The solemn voice of Crowthers’ physician was tragic as it sounded clearly in the receiver.
“I am sorry”—were the words—”very sorry to inform you that Mr. Crowthers died seven minutes ago.”