“BURBANK reporting.”
The voice came through the receiver of a telephone.
“Proceed,” was the reply.
The speaker was a man clad in black. He sat in the gloom of a dingy room. Only a faint light trickled through from a narrow courtyard outside the window. Opposite was a blank wall.
“Box delivered at five thirty,” said Burbank’s monotonous voice. “Information gained from the janitor.”
“Any description of the box?”
“Exact size not given. Evidently live stock. Box contained air holes.”
“Good. Do you go on duty immediately?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any report on Palermo?”
“Still absent.”
“Good. You are prepared?”
“Yes, sir.”
The speaker hung up the receiver. He rose from the dilapidated chair beside the rickety telephone table.
There, in the semidarkness, his tall form was scarcely more than a fantastic outline.
The man put on a large hat. He threw a dark cloak about his shoulders. Standing for a moment by the window, he drew two automatics from his pockets and examined each in turn. Satisfied with the inspection, he left the room.
Darkness was approaching when the man appeared in the street. His unusual attire seemed inconspicuous as he walked slowly along.
It was a squalid street of the East Side. The warm spring day foretold the approach of summer. Already half-clad children were seeking the evening air. The man stopped as two boys fell in front of him, wrestling.
He stepped by them with a smile. There was a similarity even between the struggles of children and the grapplings of master minds.
The man entered a garage on another street. A few minutes later a coupe drove forth. It was a car built for speed; yet there was nothing striking in its appearance. It was not an automobile that would attract attention.
The deepening shadows of twilight rendered the man invisible from the street. He drove easily, choosing an irregular course. The car turned on to Eastern Avenue. It moved more slowly as it passed a boarded house that bore the number 711.
A policeman was standing outside the building. The man in the car smiled as he went by. The police had been there ever since last night. They had arrived less than a half an hour after the mysterious disappearance of Doctor Palermo.
They had made a thorough search of the premises, looking for a man in black. They had not found him; for he had been wise enough to stay away.
BROADWAY lights were gleaming as the car rolled down that busy thoroughfare. It turned into a side street. There the driver parked it.
He strolled back toward Broadway, a lone individual in the vast throng that moved along the sidewalks.
He seemed even more inconspicuous here. Like so many of the strollers, he was leisurely in his walk.
Choosing a street above Fortieth, he turned from the busy thoroughfare and entered an apartment house.
It was an unpretentious place. A clerk sat at a desk, answering phone calls, asking the business of each arrival.
The newcomer, however, did not approach the desk. Instead he went up the stairway.
His way was blocked by a closed iron grillework. All visitors were supposed to ascend by elevator. The barrier was locked; but the sombre man opened it quickly with the aid of a sharp-pointed steel instrument.
He closed the gate behind him and went up to the fourth floor. He stopped before the door of a corner apartment. He listened to the sound of a woman singing softly.
Again the pick worked, smoothly and noiselessly. The man opened the door and entered.
A woman was smoothing her hair before a full-length mirror in the living room. She was singing when the man came in; now her voice dropped to a gentle hum.
She was exquisitely gowned, apparently about to go out for dinner. The reflection of her face was beautiful, seen in the mirror.
Suddenly her face became rigid. A look of horror spread over her features. Gazing in the mirror, she had seen the image of the man in black.
He stood in the doorway behind her, the collar of his cloak obscuring his face, the broad brim of his hat throwing a shadow over his forehead.
The girl stood motionless. The man in black made no move. A grim, ghastly silence seemed to pervade the room. The girl recovered from her first shock. Still the look of terror remained on her face as she turned from the mirror to view this nocturnal visitor.
Words came from the man at the door — words that seemed uttered by no human lips. The voice was terrifying in its tone. The whispered statement recoiled from the very walls.
“Thelda Blanchet,” said the man in black. “I am The Shadow.”
The girl was too startled to reply.
“I have come to question you,” continued the man in his sinister tone. The sibilance of the word “question”
was unnerving.
The girl placed her hands before her eyes. She swayed, then recoiled as the figure approached step by step. Leaning against the mirrored door, Thelda became suddenly limp. She would have fallen but for two black-gloved hands which caught her arms.
The Shadow threw back his head. The broad-brimmed hat fell to the floor. The collar of the cloak dropped. The girl opened her eyes. She was staring into the face of George Clarendon.
“You tried to betray me,” came Clarendon’s voice.
“No, no,” gasped Thelda.
“Do not lie to me.” There was restrained fury in the man’s words. “You tried to win my love that you might lead me to my doom!”
Thelda’s eyes were pleading as she tried to face her accuser. She was barely able to support herself. The pressure of the hands upon her arms brought marks of livid red. The fascination of the burning eyes seemed to overpower the girl.
“You pretended to love me,” said Clarendon slowly. “Yet your love was only a lure. Look into my eyes that I may know the truth. You sought my love that I might meet destruction. Acknowledge my statement!”
The girl nodded feebly.
“You sought my love,” repeated Clarendon. “Now, know its power!”
The sternness disappeared from the piercing eyes. Instead they began to brighten as though filled with a miraculous light.
The girl was fascinated. Her strength returned as Clarendon released her arms. She extended her hands.
As they rested on the man’s shoulders, Thelda raised her face beseechingly, her lips seeking a kiss.
“Speak to me first,” commanded Clarendon.
Thelda clung closely to the man in black, still held by the power of those searching eyes.
“You loved Albert Palermo,” said Clarendon.
“I love him no longer,” whispered Thelda.
“He ordered you to seek me.”
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
“I do not know.”
“When will he return?”
“Not until midnight.”
Clarendon’s words were amazing in their tone. They bore a marked resemblance to the sinister speech of The Shadow and at the same time carried no unfriendliness.
Thelda’s replies were spasmodic. They seemed to come without effort, as though the girl spoke without realizing what she said.
“I am going to Palermo’s apartment tonight,” said the man.
“Don’t go!” The girl’s words carried anxiety. “There are terrible dangers there!”
Thelda’s eyes were wide with fear for the safety of this man whose personality had conquered her. All loyalty to Palermo was forgotten. George Clarendon now dominated her existence.
“Tell me”—came Clarendon’s quiet tones—”where the danger lies.”
“In the Chinese room,” replied Thelda, speaking in a far-away voice. She seemed to be visualizing that apartment with all its barbaric splendor.
“There are many snares in that room. Some objects are charged with an electric current sufficient to stun or kill any one touching them. There is a little incense burner, so exquisite that one cannot resist the temptation of examining it.
“When Albert is away, that burner contains a dangerous explosive. The telephone, should one handle it, emits a poison gas. Yet this I know: if you do not touch a single object in that room, nothing can harm you.”
“The Chinese throne?”
“It carries no danger.”
“That statue of bronze—”
“No one should touch it. Albert received it one day when I was there. He said it was shipped to him from China. It may now be another trap.”
Clarendon considered the girl thoughtfully. She seemed eager to tell the truth. He continued his questions.
“Where does Palermo keep his stolen goods?”
“In the corner of the Chinese room. The taboret in the corner opens. In it are securities and other papers, some of which I–I helped him to obtain.”
“Is the taboret dangerous?”
“Yes. It’s secret is a simple one but very dangerous. You must turn a little knob to open it.
“Any person doing so is sure to turn the knob to the right. Such an action would mean instant death. The taboret is always prepared that way.
“Sometimes I have shuddered when Albert has opened it. He always turns the knob to the left. He has seemed so close to death — so close to death—”
THELDA’S voice trailed away. The glamour faded from her eyes. The strain had weakened her. She was on the verge of collapse.
Clarendon caught her as she was about to fall. He placed her in an armchair and looked at her with pity.
Thelda opened her eyes.
“George,” she whispered weakly, “George, I love you. Tell me that you will not — go away.”
The man in black drew a pad from his pocket and wrote a few penciled words. He folded the paper and placed it in the girl’s hand.
“Thelda,” he said sternly, “I do not condemn you for your past actions. You have made amends. Your future will be different. You must forget Albert Palermo.”
“I have forgotten him.”
“You must forget me.”
“I can never forget you. George I love you!”
“You must forget me.” The man’s voice was prophetic. “You shall forget me. You are leaving here tonight. You are going away from New York. My instructions are written on that sheet of paper; they are the last message you will ever receive from me.”
He turned away. His action denoted decision. From that instant, Thelda Blanchet knew that her love for George Clarendon had become hopeless.
Clarendon was The Shadow again, his cloak about his shoulders, his broad-brimmed hat upon his head.
He had assumed the shape of a gigantic creature. He dialed a number on the telephone; his voice became a whisper as he spoke.
“Vincent,” he said, “are you ready?”
There was a pause; then The Shadow began to give instructions. He seemed totally oblivious of the presence of the girl. He did not even look at her.
He acted as though she could hear nothing that he said. In this he was correct. Thelda had fainted.
When the girl recovered consciousness, she was alone in the room. She could not recall a word that she had said.
All had been a strange dream, a fantastic vision in which terror had turned to love and love had become disappointment. The face of George Clarendon dominated her recollections.
She stared at the paper in her hands.
Thelda: Go. Tonight. Home.
There was no signature. The message needed none. The girl now understood it all.
Her former love for Albert Palermo had become a shoddy sham. She hated the name of the man. Her new love for George Clarendon was denied her.
The temptress had been conquered. For the first time in her life she felt remorse.
A man passing in the outside hall paused a moment; then went on. He had heard a woman sobbing.
The sound came from the same apartment where The Shadow had heard a woman’s song.