The Silent Seven

THE SILENT SEVEN was originally published in the February, 1932 issue of The Shadow Magazine. This is only the seventh of the 325 Shadow magazine stories to be published, and as such the character of The Shadow isn't fully realized yet. But it's still an amazing story, so good it was selected for reprint in paperback form, in the early 1970's. The story you are being offered, however, is not the paperback reprint version. This is the complete, unedited magazine version scanned directly from the original pulp magazine.

As our story opens, New York was been victimized by crimes of a startling nature that have gone unsolved for several years, now. Although there was no proof that they were the work of a single organization, the number seven kept appearing in each case. A strange clue indeed! A bank safe was cleaned out, except for seven pennies. A murdered man, seven buttons clipped from his coat. A dying gangster gasped out the word "seven" when captured by the police during a thwarted burglary. It all points to a group known as the Silent Seven.

Originally, the Silent Seven was a secret organization of seven businessmen, created to promote their interests legally. But gradually it changed to a desperate group of master criminals who would stop at nothing. The Silent Seven, identities unknown and hidden beneath a dark-blue robe, topped by a cowl, command a crew known as the Faithful Fifty. To them, all crimes are justifiable. They demand power and wealth. Society is their prey. With inexhaustible funds and fifty determined workers at their call, they create an unknown band of terror!

Our story begins when old Henry Marchand is murdered. Unbeknownst to anyone, Marchand was one of the Silent Seven. He's killed, his secrets stolen along with his scarab ring, the means of identification among the Silent Seven. Someone is planning to take his place in the sinister group. There's Oscar Schultz, faithful and honest servant of Henry Marchand for more than twenty years. Harvey Willis, twenty-eight-year-old secretary to Henry Marchand for two years. A weak type, but very conscientious. Rodney Paget, a friend of Henry Marchand — clubman — polo player — about forty. And Doctor George Lukens of the Telman Hospital, Marchand's physician. Could it be one of those men? Or perhaps someone else?

The Shadow is determined to find the murderer of Henry Marchand. But he has no idea he will be catapulted into a whirlwind of intrigue and danger, as he is forced to inflitrate the secret society known as the Silent Seven. Forced to unmask and defeat the seven mastercriminals and their hoard of fifty cutthroats. It's a task that only The Shadow has even a slim chance of completing.

In this story, The Shadow appears usually in his typical black cloak and slouch hat. He also appears twice as an unnamed man with a strange countenance, smooth as parchment, masklike in expression, eyes obscured by large heavy-rimmed, dark-tinted spectacles. No mention is made of Lamont Cranston or any of this other normal disguises.

The story is notable in that it features Detective Joe Cardona's first encounter with The Shadow. Previously, Cardona had known that The Shadow existed, so he recognized the being in black when he discovered him leaning over a dead body. But this story tells us that Cardona had never actually seen or talked to The Shadow before.

And another strange thing: when in The Shadow's presence, Cardona becomes dizzy. We aren't told why, but he can't retain the captured Shadow because he becomes dizzy. Could it be some odorless vapor released by The Shadow? Or perhaps some hypnotic trick? Speculation is all we have, because Walter Gibson doesn't say.

Clyde Burke appears in the story. Here, he's an ex-reporter who writes occasional feature stories, and has known Cardona for several years. He's not reporting for a paper now, running a clipping bureau. But at the story's end, he's offered a job with the Evening Classic, later to become the New York Classic.

No mention is made of The Shadow's radio show, something that usually got frequent mention in the early Shadow novels. But the system of emphasized words is used, this time over the phone rather than over the radio. The Shadow speaks an outwardly normal sentence, but gives slight emphasis to certain words that his agents pick up to reveal a hidden message. A cute trick that The Shadow used often in the early years.

Burbank appears in the story, but he's not hidden away in some room answering phones. Instead, he's the attendant at a lunch counter in Grand Central Station. He temporarily leaves his customers to make phone calls to The Shadow. Hmmm… That certainly doesn't seem very efficient.

Harry Vincent is the other agent of The Shadow who appears here. He has a fairly large role in the story, including getting caught and thrown into a death trap of classic proportions. It's the famous cell with the descending ceiling. He must speak and tell all he knows or be crushed to oblivion beneath the pressure of the slow-moving ceiling. Ah, we love the classics!

CHAPTER I. DEATH AT MIDNIGHT

A CHILLING night drizzle swilled through Eighty-first Street. It enshrouded the wizened figure of an aged man, pausing before a brownstone house. He leaned on a silver-headed cane and pulled the collar of his heavy coat closer about his ears. His thin, parched lips moved soundlessly in a continuous muttering.

The house, a relic of other times, even as the figure that stood in the darkness before it, loomed gloomily, like a mammoth mausoleum. The old man seemed to dread entering it. Fear shown on his mummified face.

Then, with sudden effort, he climbed the steps with a crablike, sidewise gait. His trembling finger pressed on the polished doorbell.

Presently the door opened onto a darkened vestibule. The old man entered a dimly-lit hallway without a word. The person who had answered the door was, judging from his manner of deference, evidently a servant.

Silently he took the old man’s coat and hat. Then he pushed aside a sliding door at the side of the hallway and stood in a respectful attitude as his master entered.

There were two men waiting in the room.

One, a quietly-dressed young man, had a worried expression on his pale face. The other was perhaps forty years of age, a tall, debonair type of man, dressed immaculately in evening clothes. He was smoking a cigarette in the end of a long holder. His ease of manner contrasted with the nervousness of his younger companion.

Both men arose to greet the new arrival. The young man spoke quickly.

“I am glad you are here, Mister Marchand,” he said. His tone indicated anxiety.

“I thought it best to return, Willis,” said the old man, in a peculiar, peevish voice.

He looked sharply at the young man. Then he turned to the one in evening clothes and stared at him, questioningly.

“What brings you here, Paget?” he demanded.

The man removed his cigarette holder from his lips.

“I learned that you were returning, Mister Marchand,” he said, with quiet deliberation. “I thought that you might wish to see me tonight.”

“Willis,” said the old man abruptly, “I told you to say nothing to any one.”

“But Mister Paget knew of the attempted burglary,” explained the young man. “He came here that night; happened to be passing at the time. I thought that he—”

“Very well,” interrupted Marchand. “Who else knows about it?”

“Only Oscar.”

The old man turned toward the door. The silent servant had entered. Marchand looked toward him, but did not speak.

Something in Marchand’s eyes indicated that he was questioning the truth of Willis’s statement. Oscar detected the look and nodded in corroboration.

Satisfied, the old man sat down in an easy-chair. Willis and Paget also took seats. Oscar remained standing by the door.

“Tell me about it,” said Marchand, in a querulous tone.

“A WEEK ago,” began Willis, in a hesitating tone, “something occurred that—”

“A week ago?” demanded Marchand sharply.

“Er — yes, a week ago,” replied Willis, uneasily. “That was the first time. But then we suspected nothing—”

“Hm-m-m!” interrupted the old man. “Go on.”

Marchand turned in his chair and stared at Oscar, the serving man. In this way he was gaining the testimony of two men, for he was observing every expression on Oscar’s face as well as listening to Willis.

Willis knew this. It increased his anxiety. He chose his words carefully to make every detail in his story accurate.

“When you went away, Mister Marchand,” said Willis, “Oscar and I obeyed all your instructions. I performed my duties as your secretary. Oscar attended to his duties as servant. One of us was always in the house.

“One week ago tonight”—the young man glanced at an old-fashioned clock on the mantelpiece—”almost at this very time, just before midnight, Oscar tapped at the door of my room, where I was working.

“He whispered to me, sir, and said that he had heard a noise downstairs. We went down together and searched the house thoroughly. There was no one here.

“I believed that Oscar had been deceived by a noise outside. He finally was inclined to believe same as I did.”

Oscar nodded slightly as Willis paused.

“Two nights ago,” continued the secretary, “Oscar again knocked at my door, after I had retired. He seized my arm when I came into the hallway.

“We listened. Both of us heard slight sounds from the front of the house—”

“From my room?” questioned Marchand.

“From your room, sir. Before we could act, the door of your room opened. The ray of a flashlight swept down the hall, then disappeared.

“But, as chance would have it, the man who held the light must have seen us. We dashed forward. He gained the stairs ahead of us. I switched on the lights when we reached the first floor.

“The man had disappeared; but a few moments later, we heard a noise in the back hallway. We ran there and found the little window open. The man had escaped!”

“What did you do then?”

“I ran out through the front door. I saw a policeman passing. He went through the house with Oscar, after ordering me to call the police station. The patrol came and several policemen joined us. We could find no trace of the man.”

Willis finished his discourse and waited for comment from Marchand. The old man still stared at Oscar.

Then, suddenly, his gaze turned to Paget.

The man in evening clothes appeared to be indifferent to the conversation. When Marchand looked at him, he was inserting a new cigarette in the end of the fancy holder.

“What do you know about the burglary, Paget?” questioned Marchand.

“Not very much, Mister Marchand,” replied the man. He paused to light his cigarette. “I was driving by that evening. I often come down Eighty-first Street on my way home.

“I saw the patrol wagon. I came in and joined Willis and Oscar. There wasn’t a clew to the chap who escaped.

“I suppose that he ran away before he had an opportunity to steal anything.”

“The door of your room was open, sir,” said Willis, earnestly. “Under the circumstances, I took the liberty to enter. Oscar watched me from the door. The burglar had done nothing to the safe or the closet. Your desk appeared to be undisturbed.

“I believe that Mister Paget is right. Nevertheless, when we discussed the matter, we considered it advisable to telegraph you immediately.”

“That’s explained, Willis,” said Marchand, tersely. “Tell me this: how did the burglar enter my room? Did he destroy the lock?”

“No, sir. He must have opened it with a special type of key. After I inspected the room, I closed the door. The spring lock closed automatically.

“No one has entered the room since.”

THE doorbell rang. Oscar left the room. He returned to announce a visitor.

“Doctor George Lukens, sir,” said the serving man, in a hollow voice. These were the first words he had uttered since his master’s return.

“Usher him in,” ordered the old man.

Doctor Lukens entered.

He was a man with bushy gray hair, and keen, quick-moving eyes. He was more alert than Marchand, yet he bore an appearance that placed him at approximately the same age as the master of the house.

Marchand did not rise to greet Lukens; but the physician approached with eagerness. It was obvious that he was a life-long friend of Marchand.

“Henry!” exclaimed Lukens.

He grasped Marchand’s hand; then his gleam of friendship changed to a professional expression of concern.

“You are in good hearth?” asked Lukens.

“Passably,” replied Marchand, with a sour smile. “I had a long trip to-day. That weak heart you have warned about is none too good. I wired you to come here, in case I might need you.

“You might remain a little while; but I doubt that I shall require any medical treatment.”

The old man raised himself from his chair and walked to the door with his limping step. He rested on the cane when he reached the hallway.

“I am going upstairs,” he announced. “I shall be in my room for a short while. You may all wait here until I return.”

He drew a key from his pocket and went up the stairway.

THERE was a strained silence after Henry Marchand had gone.

Willis was obviously ill at ease. His face expressed the concern of his conscientious nature. He was hoping that Marchand would find nothing wrong in the room which the old man valued as a sanctuary.

Oscar was as impassive as ever. Paget seemed indifferent.

Doctor Lukens, knowing nothing of the matter which had been discussed, sat in a chair and lighted a cigar, content to await Marchand’s return.

Willis glanced at Paget. The man in evening clothes shrugged his shoulders. The action reassured the young secretary.

Paget had belittled the matter of the attempted burglary. He knew, as did Willis, that Henry Marchand kept very little of value in the house.

The safe in the old man’s room harbored only a miscellaneous cluster of papers. Willis had arranged these under his employer’s direction before Marchand had gone away. Hence Paget’s attitude expressed the thought, “Why worry?”

Minutes moved by. There was no attempt at conversation. Each man in the downstairs room seemed content with his own thoughts. They appeared to have imbibed the spirit of gloom which hung throughout the antiquated house.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve.

“Midnight!” exclaimed Doctor Lukens. “I had no idea it was so late. I intended to be here shortly after eleven. Well, well! I am expecting an important phone call. I must be going home very shortly.”

The physician became restless. He glanced at the clock, then beckoned to Oscar.

“I must leave soon,” said Doctor Lukens. “Oscar, would you go upstairs and tell Mister Marchand that I cannot wait much longer? Perhaps he can come down immediately.”

The serving man nodded. He left the room. Doctor Lukens followed him and watched him as he ascended the stairs. The sound of knocking was heard below. A pause; then another knocking.

Oscar came down the stairs. Willis, suddenly apprehensive, joined Doctor Lukens in the hall. Paget rose leisurely and followed.

“He does not answer, sir,” said Oscar.

WILLIS went up the stairway, two steps at a time. The others followed and found the secretary listening at the closed door of the room.

Willis knocked twice. There was no response.

“You’re sure he’s in there, Oscar?”

The serving man nodded.

“Something has happened, then. What shall we do?”

Doctor Lukens settled the question.

“Break through the door,” he ordered. Paget sprang to action. With surprising strength, he flung his body against the door but it did not yield. Oscar hurried away and returned with a heavy hammer.

Paget seized the tool and directed a series of well-aimed blows upon the lock. He battered the metal with no result. Then, changing his tactics, he drove the hammer through the wooden panel above the lock.

Reaching through the opening that he had made, Paget released the lock from the inside and the door swung open.

Willis, unable to restrain himself, pushed the others aside as he dashed into the room.

Henry Marchand was seated in a chair before his desk. His head and shoulders rested on the top of the desk. His left hand was outstretched, with widespread fingers. His right arm lay limp at his side.

A shallow drawer was opened in the desk, just beneath the top. In it lay a sealed envelope.

Doctor Lukens bent over the huddled form of Henry Marchand. The others stepped back.

Willis, with wild, staring eyes, gazed about the room, as though inspecting the heavily-shuttered windows.

Paget stood silently by, his cigarette holder in his hand.

The physician raised his head and turned to the waiting group. He scarcely seemed to see them or to observe their apprehension. His lips quivered as though he wished to speak but could not utter words.

Then, suddenly, he regained his voice and spoke. Slowly uttered, his words carried the grief of a friend mingled with the announcement of the professional physician.

“Henry Marchand is dead!”

CHAPTER II. THE HOLLOW NEEDLE

THE body of Henry Marchand had been removed, otherwise the room was the same. Its antiquated lights still cast their ghoulish gleam upon the scene.

Beyond the door through which the four men had forced their way, a dim hall light revealed a short, dark-visaged man who seemed to be awaiting some one. This was Detective Joe Cardona, of the New York police.

Footsteps came from the stairway. The detective became alert. He raised his hand in greeting to a tall, broad-shouldered individual who arrived at the top of the stairs.

The newcomer was Cardona’s superior, Inspector Timothy Klein.

The two men entered the room. In brief, matter-of-fact tones, Cardona gave the circumstances of Henry Marchand’s death. Then he pointed to the open drawer in the top of the desk. He removed the envelope from the drawer, and extracted a folded paper.

“The envelope was sealed,” explained the detective. “I opened it. Here’s what I found inside.”

Inspector Klein studied the paper. It was thickly inscribed with a series of curious, unintelligible marks.

“A code,” remarked the inspector.

Cardona nodded. “But I can’t make anything out of it.”

The inspector handed the paper to Cardona, who pocketed it, with the envelope.

“What else have you found out?” asked Klein.

Cardona referred to a written report.

“Four men were here when Marchand died,” he said. “They all entered the room together. We have gone over the place thoroughly. It seems impossible that any one else could have been in the house.

“Marchand died here, alone. I have quizzed all the witnesses, separately and together. I have also learned facts regarding each of them. They all appear reliable.”

CARDONA paused and laid four separate sheets of paper upon the desk. He took a chair and proceeded with more detailed information:

“Oscar Schultz,” he read. “Servant of Henry Marchand for more than twenty years. Considered faithful and honest. Says very little and answers questions readily, though briefly.”

The detective read from references on the second sheet.

“Harvey Willis,” he said. “Age twenty-eight. Secretary to Henry Marchand for two years. Seems genuinely broken up by his employer’s death. A weak type, but very conscientious. Has always followed Marchand’s instructions to the letter.”

Klein raised his eyebrows as Cardona read the third name.

“Rodney Paget,” said the detective. “A friend of Henry Marchand—”

“You mean the young clubman?” interrupted Klein. “The polo player?”

Cardona nodded. “He’s not so young, though. About forty.”

“I’m going back a few years,” returned the inspector, with a smile. “Young Paget comes from a good family. I knew his father thirty years back. Always well liked.

“This is Rodney, Junior, eh? He has good connections, but I don’t think he inherited much wealth. What’s his connection with Marchand?”

“Paget is connected with a brokerage house. He handled stocks and bonds for Marchand. He came here tonight to see the old man.”

“All right. Who’s the fourth?”

“Doctor George Lukens.”

“Of the Telman Hospital,” grunted the inspector.

“He was Marchand’s physician,” explained the detective. “He came here tonight after receiving a telegram from Marchand. The old man was not well. He wanted the doctor to be here when he arrived.”

“A good group of witnesses,” commented Klein.

“More than that,” declared Cardona. “They were instrumental in bringing the police immediately upon Marchand’s death.

“This case puzzles them as much as it does me. If there are clews to Marchand’s death — whatever may have caused it — they have supplied important items of information that will prove valuable.”

“For instance?”

“Lukens, to begin with.”

“Marchand had a weak heart. He had returned from a long trip. Lukens, as his physician, thought at first that heart failure was the cause of Marchand’s death.

“With another doctor, that would probably have ended the matter. But Lukens is so thorough that he looked for something else.

“He conferred with the police surgeon. They brought in a toxicologist. They are convinced that Marchand’s death was caused by some unusual poison. They have not yet discovered the mode of application.”

INSPECTOR KLEIN looked around the room as though seeking some spot in which a concealed person might be present. The detective smiled.

“We’ve searched this place thoroughly,” he said. “Willis and Oscar helped us. It’s lucky that they did. See that closet door?”

The inspector nodded.

“Unless you turn the knob twice before you pull the door,” said Cardona, “you will get a face full of tear gas. Just a little idea of Marchand’s. He has an alarm wired to the knob of the safe.”

“This desk?”

“Unprotected. But look at the clever construction of this drawer.”

Cardona pressed the drawer inward. There was a sharp click. The detective jumped back instinctively.

Then he looked closely at the desk.

“Look at that!” he exclaimed. “It’s cleverer than I thought! What happened to the drawer, anyway?”

The compartment had closed so perfectly that neither the inspector nor the detective could find its outline in the woodwork.

“Neither Oscar nor Willis knew about this drawer,” said Cardona. “I pushed it in before, but not all the way.

“Now I’ve locked it. How in blazes are we going to open it?”

“We’ll try later,” said the inspector, dryly. “Anything more?”

“Yes,” returned Cardona, turning away from the desk. “It was Willis who called the police. He and Oscar believe that the house was entered twice during Marchand’s absence.

“The first time, Oscar heard a noise downstairs. The second time, they discovered a man in this room.

The burglar escaped through an open window on the first floor. They gained no description of him.

“The second attempt caused them to summon Marchand home.”

“Why?”

“Because the old man was very particular that no one should enter this room.”

“Why?”

“We do not know, unless the answer is in the code message which we found in the drawer. I have traced Marchand’s career. It is above reproach. He had no enemies.

“He retired from the woolen business twenty years ago. Since then he had increased his wealth by profitable investments.

“Willis is familiar with all of his financial affairs, and they were very simple.”

“If there was nothing here,” observed Klein, “why did the burglar enter?”

“Marchand is known to own some valuable jewelry’” said Cardona. “The gems were owned by his deceased wife. They are not kept here. They are in a safe-deposit vault.

“My theory is that the burglar thought they were somewhere in this room, yet he didn’t try the safe.”

“Hm-m-m!” observed the inspector. “Maybe both times he was discovered before he had an opportunity to make a thorough search.”

“Still, I can see no connection between his attempts and the death of Marchand,” said Cardona. “Willis thought there might be a connection; but he has no theory. Nevertheless, he called in the police.”

“Very good,” said the inspector. “Now you’ve brought us back to the starting point — Marchand’s death.

All else is superficial, for the present.

“How was Marchand poisoned? That’s what we’ll have to find out.”

THE inspector arose and paced around the room. Detective Cardona looked at him in admiration.

Joe Cardona was looked upon as the smartest detective in New York; but he knew that his real ability could not approach that of Inspector Timothy Klein. Cardona’s superior was a man who dealt in simple facts; who reached to the heart of crime. He reduced all information to the lowest quantity before he acted.

The inspector stopped pacing. He pointed to the desk.

“Open that secret drawer again,” he said.

Cardona inspected the desk. He moved his hands down the side, seeking some spot that would yield.

His efforts brought no result. He opened an ordinary drawer in the center of the desk.

“Maybe there’s some kind of a key here,” he said.

Among other objects, he found a pair of dice.

“Look at these,” he said. “Lying seven up.”

“Seven,” commented the inspector, taking the dice. “There’s been a lot of crimes in which the number seven has figured. Remember that bank robbery, where they left seven pennies in the safe?”

“Maybe the same gang has something to do with this.”

“Let’s keep away from vague theories, Joe,” said the inspector. “Get that secret drawer open. Any sign of a key yet?”

“Here’s a thimble,” said Cardona.

The inspector took the object. It was a silver-plated thimble that had been lying amidst a pile of paper clips.

“Hm-m-m!” grunted the inspector. “Funny thing to find in an old man’s desk.”

The detective made no comment in return. He closed the drawer. He moved his hand along the side of the desk, following a line where he knew the shallow secret compartment must lie.

He paused near the back of the desk. His fingers were upon an ornamental molding that was divided into sections. Cardona tapped and detected a movement in the woodwork.

As he pressed upward, the tiny segment of molding slid into the top of the desk, showing a hole beneath.

Cardona removed his hand; the segment dropped.

“Look here!” exclaimed the detective.

The inspector leaned over the side of the desk.

“Watch this,” said Cardona. “I slide this piece of molding up like this. See? Then it drops back again. Now I push it up with one finger; then insert another finger in the opening beneath.”

INSPECTOR KLEIN’S brawny fist descended upon the detective’s wrist. Cardona’s arm dropped away from the desk. The tiny bit of molding slipped back into place.

The detective looked at the inspector in amazement, as one would stare at a man who had gone suddenly insane.

“What’s the idea?” he blurted, unable to restrain his anger.

The inspector handed him the thimble.

“Put that on your finger,” he said. “Then push your finger in the hole when you raise the molding.”

The detective obeyed, wondering. When he pressed with the finger that wore the thimble, the secret compartment suddenly appeared at the front of the desk.

“Did you notice anything?” asked Klein.

“Yes,” replied the detective, still puzzled. He looked at the thimble. “It seemed as though I struck metal.”

“Pliers?” demanded the inspector.

Cardona felt in his pocket and produced a pair of tweezers.

“Those will do,” said Klein.

He leaned over the desk and raised the sliding molding with the thumb of his left hand. Holding the tweezers in his right, he probed the hole beneath the molding.

Slight clicks followed; then the inspector twisted his hand and drew out the tweezers.

Raising the instrument to the light, he revealed a short, slender point of metal, clipped between the ends of the tweezers.

“It looks like a needle!” exclaimed Cardona. “Like the needle of a sewing machine.”

“It is a needle,” said the inspector quietly. “Look at the point of it. A hollow needle, with a remarkably sharp point. Only the thimble prevented it from piercing your finger.

“If you had not worn the thimble on your finger—”

The inspector paused to gaze steadily at the detective. A look of enlightenment was dawning on Cardona’s face.

“If I had not worn the thimble—” came the detective’s words.

“—you would have died as Marchand died!” was the inspector’s ominous reply.

CHAPTER III. KLEIN’S SOLUTION

INSPECTOR TIMOTHY KLEIN stood in the center of Marchand’s room. Hands behind his back, he surveyed a group of men gathered before him.

The group included the four who had found Marchand’s body. With them were the police surgeon and the toxicologist who had been called in by Doctor Lukens.

Joe Cardona was in the background, leaning against the wall.

“So you found the mark on Marchand’s finger?” questioned Klein.

“Yes,” replied Doctor Lukens. “On the second finger of the right hand. But I am at a loss to explain how it came there.”

The inspector smiled as he looked at the other men present. All seemed bewildered, with the exception of the toxicologist.

“Show them, Joe,” ordered Klein.

The detective came forward. He swung the desk away from the wall so that its side faced the group.

With his right hand he operated the movable molding, raising it with his forefinger and pressing his second finger into the opening beneath. With the action, the secret drawer shot from the front of the desk.

The witnesses came forward in surprise. They examined the mechanical apparatus on the side of the desk. Then Klein moved them back and beckoned to the toxicologist.

“I sent for this man without telling you, doctor,” he said to Lukens. “You were one of the four who discovered Marchand’s body, so I left you out of it for the time being. I wanted him to see what he could find on this.”

The inspector exhibited a small envelope, from which he dropped a hollow needle upon the table.

“Don’t touch it!” warned the toxicologist. “It contains a very virulent poison! It caused Marchand’s death!”

“When Marchand operated the secret drawer,” explained Klein, “he wounded himself with the needle point. That is why he died.

“This discovery, made by Detective Cardona and myself, explains the death of Henry Marchand. He was the victim of his own snare!”

“His own snare?” questioned Lukens.

“Positively,” replied the inspector. “We all know the precautions the man adopted — the closet, protected by tear gas; the safe, with its electric alarm.

“The drawer” — he tapped the desk — “which he seemed most anxious to guard, was protected by the poisoned needle!”

RODNEY PAGET broke the few moments of silence which followed.

“It’s rather surprising,” he said, “that Mister Marchand should have done this. He must have had enough wisdom to know that he would need some other method of opening the drawer. It doesn’t sound logical—”

The inspector smiled as he held up his hand in interruption.

“Marchand was fully prepared,” he said. He drew the thimble from his pocket. “Cardona found this in the desk. The old man had it handy, so that he could open the secret compartment without injury. In fact, it was this very thimble that prevented Cardona from suffering the same fate as Marchand.

“By some freak of fate, the old man forgot to put the thimble on his finger. It was probably due to his condition after the long journey.”

Doctor Lukens nodded. He turned toward Paget as though to corroborate Inspector Klein’s theory.

“I can readily understand that,” said the physician. “Mister Marchand was very forgetful. He used to complain of the fact to me.

“When he arrived home last night he was worried. He went upstairs in haste. It is not at all surprising that he forgot to take the proper precaution.

“The document in that secret compartment was evidently of great importance to him. He wanted to be sure that it was safe. He did not realize the mistake he was making.”

“Perhaps you’re right, doctor,” agreed Paget. “Mister Marchand used to forget some very important matter regarding his investments.”

“Willis will remember this,” declared the physician. “When Mister Marchand installed the tear-gas ejector on the closet, he nearly set it off by mistake. Mister Marchand told me about that himself.”

“Yes, sir,” said Willis. “He also had trouble with the alarm on the safe. He forgot to disconnect it three times. Both Oscar and I answered it.”

Inspector Klein approached the secretary.

“Did you have any knowledge of this secret drawer in the desk?” he asked.

“No, sir,” replied Willis.

“How about you?” asked the inspector, addressing Oscar.

The servant shook his head.

“Very few persons came in this room, sir,” volunteered Willis. “Mister Marchand had me here on secretarial duties. He occasionally conferred alone with Mister Paget or Doctor Lukens. Offhand, I can think of no one else.”

The inspector looked around the room.

“This place looks prosperous enough for a safe cracker to try it,” he announced. “I can’t see any connection between the attempted burglaries and this unfortunate accident that killed Mister Marchand. Of course, it was the telegram that brought him back.”

He slapped his hand upon the table.

“This case is obvious,” he declared. “Death by misadventure. The circumstances were very unusual. I nearly lost a good man because of it” — he indicated Cardona with his thumb — “but we were fortunate.

“Detective Cardona has full reports. Give him a complete analysis of the poison in the needle. That’s all.”

“One moment, inspector,” said Doctor Lukens. “I am speaking now as a friend of Henry Marchand — as his closest friend.

“The circumstances of his unfortunate death are, as you say, obvious. But I am extremely anxious to learn the meaning of the paper that was in the envelope. It contained a code message, I believe. Is there no way that we can decipher it?”

Detective Cardona produced the envelope. The inspector handed it to Doctor Lukens.

“It is no longer evidence,” declared Inspector Klein. “It is a personal document belonging to the estate of Henry Marchand. We shall leave it in your possession, Doctor Lukens.”

“But I cannot decipher it,” objected the physician. “Nor do I know who could do the work. Yet it seems important to me.

“A document so highly valued by Henry Marchand — by my old friend who—”

“Let me have it,” said Cardona quietly. “I’ll have photostats made of it, doctor, and I’ll return the original to you.

“I’ll turn the copies over to some experts. They can decipher nearly anything. You’ll hear from me later.”

“Regarding the newspapers,” began Doctor Lukens.

“They won’t run much of a story on it,” said Inspector Klein reassuringly. “It isn’t a murder; it isn’t even a suicide. Death by misadventure.

“If any one had wanted to kill Marchand, they would have got him while he was away from here. They don’t come into houses like ghosts. That’s what I told Detective Cardona.

“‘Tell me how Marchand was poisoned,’ I said, ‘and we’ll have the solution.’ Right, wasn’t I, Joe?”

The detective grinned and nodded.

BACK at headquarters, Cardona turned out a colorless report covering the case of Henry Marchand.

The theatrical aspects of the tragedy did not impress him. The detective was too used to death to see anything dramatic in the finding of Marchand’s body.

He had been perplexed by a mystery; with the aid of Inspector Klein, he had solved it. No murder and no crime. An unfortunate combination.

Cardona’s only reflections on the matter concerned his own narrow escape. He did not care to dwell upon his mistake. The inspector had apparently forgotten it. That pleased the detective.

The newspapers covered the story, and Cardona minimized the case. The circumstances of the death were interesting, and the finding of the code was an added point. But as an accident, the death was not a highly sensational one.

The name of Henry Marchand was little known. The old man had lived as a recluse for many years.

Hence the story was printed in condensed form, and was crowded off the front page by the excitement of a gang killing that occurred the same night.

Cardona expected to hear no more from the press. He was mildly surprised the next day when one newspaperman approached him for an interview. This was Clyde Burke, an ex-reporter who wrote occasional feature stories. He had known Cardona for several years.

“Say, Joe,” said Burke, “that Marchand case was a funny one, wasn’t it?”

“Nothing much to it,” replied Cardona. “I gave the dope to the inspector. He figured it out right. Accidental death.”

“How about the code in the old man’s drawer?”

“It doesn’t interest us. Probably some private data that belonged to Marchand. I had photostats made so the experts can get busy on it. I did that to please Marchand’s friend, Doctor Lukens, but I sent them all away and gave the original back to Lukens.”

“I’d like to see it. Maybe I could figure it out.”

Cardona was thoughtful.

“I guess I could recall one of the copies and let you have it. But you’re not reporting for a paper now, are you, Burke?”

“No. I’m running a clipping bureau.”

“Fine job for a newspaperman. Give me your address, Burke. I’ll send the code along by mail.”

“By the way, Joe,” said Burke, “what’s the low-down on this Marchand case? The sheets didn’t carry much of a story on it.”

The detective seemed reluctant to talk; then, prompted by Burke’s questioning, he eventually delivered all the important details of Marchand’s death.

CLYDE BURKE returned to his office. There, with the facility of a trained journalist, he typed the essential features of the detective’s account. Beneath the report he placed the words: “Copy of code will follow.”