STANLEY WARWICK sat facing Doctor Albert Palermo. They formed a remarkable contrast.
The detective’s face was furrowed with deep lines. He was a rocklike man whose appearance also bespoke energy. He had removed his gray coat and now appeared in a wrinkled suit.
One easily recognized him as a man who did not care for formalities — a hard-headed investigator who could not be deceived by the gloss of gentility.
All this was apparent to Palermo; yet the suave physician preserved his air of smoothness. He was wearing a business suit of the latest cut. Immaculate to the extreme, he exhibited an air of superiority.
He summoned Hassan with a handclap. The servant appeared with two glasses of golden liqueur.
Warwick gruffly declined the drink. Palermo waved the servant away.
“Let’s get down to business, doctor,” said Warwick, in a deep voice. “You called me on the phone a short while ago. Said you wanted to see me. I have never met you before. Why did you call me?”
“I wanted some information,” replied Palermo. “I thought perhaps you might know who was investigating the death of a man called Gunner Macklin.”
“Is that all?” Warwick laughed grimly. “Did it ever occur to you that the detective department knows how to manage its own affairs?”
“I have known the detective department to welcome information,” replied Palermo, in an unruffled tone.
“What information do you have?” questioned Warwick sharply.
“That will be divulged,” returned Palermo, “only when I see the man who is handling the case.”
“Spill it now, then,” retorted Warwick suddenly. “I’m the man on the Macklin job.”
“Ah!” Palermo seemed pleased. “That is excellent, Mr. Warwick. How far have you progressed?”
“Farther than you think, Palermo.” Warwick’s words were brutally frank. “Far enough to ask you a few important questions.”
Palermo raised his eyebrows slightly.
“So you have information already?” he questioned smoothly. “You must be quite clever, Warwick. Or else—”
“Or else what?”
“Or else some one has been giving you ideas.”
“I’ll tell you how far I’ve gotten,” said Warwick, leaning forward in his chair. “That’s far enough to ask you how you happened to be in Florida the same time as Gunner Macklin.”
“A logical question,” purred Palermo. “But not one that would have occurred to you merely because Macklin said something about Florida when he was dying.”
The detective did not reply. He sat back and looked wise.
“Warwick,” said Palermo thoughtfully. “You’re the only man capable of sifting this thing to the bottom.
Evidently you’re working alone on the case.”
“I’m not saying that,” returned Warwick cautiously.
“You aren’t saying it, for obvious reasons,” laughed Palermo. The wide, evil grin appeared momentarily upon his face. “Sometimes detectives have said too much when alone with men whom they suspect of murder. Is that what you mean?”
Warwick remained impassive.
“Don’t worry,” continued Palermo. “You are safe here. Whether or not you are the only man who suspects me, the case is in your hands. You can follow it as you choose.
“You have been tipped off. You don’t know by whom. But I know. You don’t like tip-offs unless they fit in with something you already know.
“Macklin talked of Florida. So when some one called you and said: ‘Doctor Palermo was in Florida at the time Macklin was there’—well, you decided to look into it.”
WARWICK was still studying the physician. He gave no indication that Palermo’s words had struck home. Nevertheless, the speaker continued:
“The tip-off came some time before I called you. Therefore my call must have been a surprise. Something like a coincidence, wasn’t it?
“There was no coincidence about it. I simply surmised that you were due to be tipped off. I hoped that I was first. But your voice, over the phone, betrayed you. It had just that touch of surprise that is easily detected by a keen listener—”
“Palermo,” came Warwick’s interruption, “you may know a lot; but you think you are too wise. Let me do the talking. I know more than you believe.
“Answer this question. What were you and Gunner Macklin doing in Florida?”
There was no reply.
“What do you know about Lloyd Harriman? He was there at the same time.”
Doctor Palermo met the detective’s gaze unflinchingly. The two men stared coldly at each other. A grim look appeared upon Warwick’s face.
“What do you know about Lloyd Harriman?” he demanded, through clenched teeth.
Doctor Palermo smiled mildly as he rested his chin upon the knuckles of his hand.
“Do you intend to answer me?” quizzed Warwick.
Doctor Palermo pursed his lips. He seemed about to speak. While Warwick waited, the physician made a slow and deliberate reply that brought a gasp of amazement from the detective. For Palermo did not speak in words. He spoke in letters.
“N… O,” he said.
“Y… E… S,” replied Warwick, staring as a man in a daze.
“Noyes,” said Palermo quietly, pronouncing the letters as if they were one word.
“Seyon,” was Warwick’s peculiar response.
Palermo pressed his hands to his chest. One hand was spread; the other showed two fingers.
“The Silent Seven,” hissed Palermo.
Automatically the detective put his hands to the lapels of his coat. One hand was spread; the other formed a fist.
“The Faithful Fifty,” said Warwick, in a voice filled with awe.
From his vest pocket, Palermo removed three coins — a five-cent piece and two coppers. Rising, he delivered them to Warwick. The detective stared at the coins. All three bore the date 1915.
The detective fumbled in his pocket and brought out a fifty-cent piece, which he gave to the physician. Its date corresponded to those on the other coins.
“WARWICK,” said Palermo, drawing his chair close to the detective, “you know the mission of the Silent Seven. They are known only to themselves”—his voice became low and impressive—”and their followers must obey them without question.”
Stanley Warwick nodded.
“Like the others,” continued Palermo, “you have gained your present position through the influence of some member. We are men of power, seeking more power.
“Here in New York you have been useful to us. But never did we demand your services except in cases of extreme urgency. That is why our power has become great and our secrecy has been preserved—
because we have not abused our privilege. How often have you worked for us?”
“Only twice,” replied Warwick.
“Both times concerned matters of tremendous consequences, did they not?”
“They did.”
“Then be prepared. This time a great task lies before you. It concerns a most dangerous man — a man who, if he ever suspected the existence of our band, would do his utmost to destroy it.
“That man is called The Shadow!”
“The Shadow!”
“Exactly. Like each member of the Seven, I have purposes. I perform my work so smoothly that no one has ever before suspected me.
“But The Shadow is a superman. It was he who disguised himself as Haggerty, in an effort to force a confession from the lips of Gunner Macklin. I prevented it. Pretending to be an interne, I gave Macklin a poisoned drink.
“The Shadow is now seeking to destroy me. It was he who told you to investigate me.”
“A whispered voice,” gasped Warwick. “It sounded uncanny — over the telephone.”
“The voice of The Shadow,” said Palermo. “The voice of my most bitter enemy! I must thwart him!”
Warwick’s furrowed face took on an expression of determination. He was a fighter, this man. The public knew him as a detective who worked months upon a single clew, a man who would stop at no opposition.
But he owed allegiance to the Silent Seven; that allegiance ruled his life.
“With your aid,” came Palermo’s low voice, “I can defeat The Shadow. You are a man above suspicion.
The police are at your disposal. Through you, I can combat this menace which threatens all of us.”
“Give me your commands,” replied the detective.
“Say nothing of the Macklin case,” said Palermo. “Work on your own, in your accustomed way. Keep all information to yourself.
“The Shadow may be watching your departure from this building, but he will suspect nothing. He will believe you came here to quiz me.
“In the meantime, I shall set a trap. The Shadow may be watching for gangsters; he will never believe that the police are out for him. He is a dangerous man. He must die!”
Stanley Warwick’s face seemed to harden as he nodded.
“You have been here long enough,” Palermo said. “I know where to reach you. Do not come again until I instruct you to do so.”
When Stanley Warwick left the Marimba Apartments, four eyes were watching him from the darkened room across the street. Harry Vincent made his report. Stanley Warwick had been in Palermo’s apartment less than half an hour.
The Shadow’s agents left their hiding place, satisfied with their work. They were confident that the net was tightening about Palermo.
Little did they suspect that their enemy had already laid the groundwork for a new and vital thrust.
The name of Stanley Warwick bore the sterling mark. As Palermo had said, this relentless pursuer of criminals was above suspicion. No one could possibly know what had transpired that evening in Palermo’s apartment. No one — not even The Shadow!