WHEN Rodney Paget arrived in his apartment, he closed the door and looked carelessly about him.
Even when alone, he carried the bored expression which had become second nature with him.
His eyes rested upon a picture that hung at a slight angle. He approached it. He raised the lower corner of the picture the fraction of an inch from the wall, and noted a tiny pencil mark.
He carefully let the picture go back into its first position. A slight smile flickered on his lips.
He had set the picture at that angle and had marked the wall to correspond. Had any one moved it without replacing it exactly, a clew would have remained.
Paget made a similar examination of a large cigarette box. He opened the box and carefully inspected its interior. Then his attention turned to a partly filled bookrack on the table. He produced a ruler and carefully measured the distance between the end book and the end of the rack.
Table drawers were next. Each one had some trivial feature for which Paget looked. Each drawer met with his satisfaction.
If any one had searched the premises during Paget’s absence, it seemed almost a surety that some trace would have remained. Still, the clubman’s inspection did not cease.
He placed his left hand above a doorway and ran his fingers along until he encountered the projecting corner of an envelope. He drew the envelope from the crack where it was inserted and examined it carefully. The envelope was sealed and bore no signs of having been opened. Paget replaced it with his right hand.
Now, as an afterthought, Paget’s attention turned to the most obvious object in the room — a pile of folded papers in the far corner of a table. He picked up each paper and opened it.
When he reached the fourth, a tense expression came to his face. The paper had opened easily. Paget looked closely near one corner. There he saw a minute mark — so tiny that the keenest eye would not have noticed it without knowing the particular spot.
Paget’s actions became more careful. He opened the next paper with studied precision. Upon it he discovered a similar mark.
PAGET became calmly deliberate. Some one had been in the apartment during his absence. A skilled, careful searcher had gone through all his papers.
That person had shown uncanny ability. He had successfully eluded every snare that had been placed in his path with the exception of the innocent folded papers. These had been prepared for the searcher’s coming.
Paget had applied a tiny dab of glue near the corners of two papers before he had folded them. The searcher had unwittingly broken the slight adhesion.
Paget lost no time in his next inspection. His footsteps turned to the alcove. There he carefully examined the spring blind of the little window. He ran his left thumb along the rolled-up portion, and a slight smile of satisfaction was his response.
The window shade had not been touched so far as he could see. Nevertheless, he released the catch and lowered the shade. The concealed papers came into view. Paget held them there, and his practiced eye judged their exact position. It met with his approval. He raised the blind and locked it.
He was sure of two facts, now; first, that some one had entered his room; second, that that person had not examined the window shade. Paget peered through the little window. It opened on the blank interior wall of the building. No one could have seen it from the street.
Paget roamed the apartment for a few minutes, checking up to make sure that no one was concealed there. He left the place and walked to a drug store. After a cautious glance that satisfied him no one was near, he called a number which he had evidently committed to memory.
“Faithful,” said Paget in response to the answer from the other end of the wire.
“Fifty,” came the reply.
“Silence.”
“The Seven.”
“Five,” said Paget, softly but emphatically.
“Request,” came the answering word.
“Through Number One.” Paget’s words were scarcely more than a whisper. The receiver clicked at the other end of the line.
Paget left the drug store and took a cab to the Merrimac Club. Despite his apparent calm, he was inwardly excited.
He had made the first step in a new adventure. He was testing the most subtle secret of the Silent Seven.
IT was not until two o’clock in the afternoon that Paget learned what his next step was to be. The latest edition of the Morning Monitor was placed upon the table in the reading room of the Merrimac Club.
With no expression of great interest, Paget picked up the tabloid and began to glance through its lurid pages with a disdainful air.
He dropped the paper once and started to walk away from the table. This gave him an opportunity to observe that no one was in the room. As though inspired by an afterthought, Paget went back to the newspaper and turned to the meager want-ad column. He quickly discovered the item which he sought.
It was at the top of the column.
Advertising agency requires man of long experience. Only those with actual qualifications should reply. Report for interview in office to-morrow morning. Applicants not considered by letter or telephone. Acme Advertising Agency, Site 590, Tacoma Building.
The advertisement was an answer to Paget’s request. Its identifying clews were that each sentence contained exactly seven words; and that there were five sentences.
Paget observed these facts; he also noted the address given in the advertisement. But he chose to ignore the stipulation that applicants should appear the next day. He left the club immediately, and in a short while arrived at the Tacoma Building.
He was the only person who left the elevator at the fifth floor. He found suite 590, and after a leisurely glance down the hallway, he entered the reception room. A stenographer was seated there. The girl looked inquiringly at the visitor.
“I came in answer to your advertisement,” said Paget.
“To-morrow,” replied the girl, turning back to her typewriter.
“I would like to have an interview this afternoon,” insisted Paget.
The girl stopped her work and pointed to a door at the right.
“Go in the waiting room, then,” she said. “I won’t take your name until I have notified Mister Bishop that an applicant is here. He’s busy now. You’ll have to wait a while.”
Paget entered the room. The door closed automatically behind him. He heard a click as though a latch had locked.
The room was small. It had no windows. There was simply a closed door opposite the entrance through which Paget had come.
The room was furnished with a table and several chairs. It was lighted by a large lamp in the corner.
Paget noted that several advertising devices were displayed on the table. One attracted his attention. It was a glass frame with gray backing, mounted on a pedestal.
Evidently Paget knew what he was expected to do. He acted immediately. He went to the lamp. He turned out the lights and sat in a chair. After a short pause, he spoke.
“Silence,” he said, softly.
A light appeared in the gray frame. There, in gleaming letters, was the word “Seven.” It stood as a silent reply to his password.
“Five,” said Paget.
The word “seven” disappeared. In its place came the word “one”.
Paget, as the fifth member of the secret group, was in communication with the chief of the organization.
Every word that the clubman uttered was transmitted to some other place — how distant, Paget did not know — where a hand controlled the switch that made the answering words appear.
“I require the immediate aid of the Faithful Fifty,” said Paget, his low voice disguised and scarcely audible in the darkness.
The word “one” disappeared from the frame. In its place came the word “proceed,” which formed letter by letter.
“One of my agents,” said Paget, slowly, “is in danger. He has been of assistance in our work. It was through him that the enterprise began. Some one is seeking to trace his movements.”
Paget paused. The word “proceed” remained in the frame.
“My agent’s name” — Paget smiled in the darkness — “is Rodney Paget. He has been staying at Wilbur Blake’s home. He reports that some one has been watching him. He believes that this enemy has also entered his apartment. Because he is being watched, he has left Blake’s house.”
The light went out. Now letters formed in the frame, spelling first one word, then another, to form a complete sentence. Paget watched it closely, until it became entirely blank.
“Who — is — watching — him—” were the words.
“A person called The Shadow,” said Paget. “He is a man of mystery. He appears only at night—”
He stopped his sentence as new words began to form in the frame.
“We — know — of — The — Shadow—” was the message of Number One.
“Ah!” Paget spoke almost without thinking. “Do you know his identity?”
“No,” came the illuminated reply.
“How may he be eliminated?”
“Where — is — Paget—” came the next words.
“He stays at the Merrimac Club,” answered Paget. “He is there during the day and the evening.”
“Where — does — he — live—” The illuminated words flashed with weird precision.
Paget gave the location of his apartment, in a low, careful voice.
“He — will — find — orders — there—” announced the flashing panel.
Paget could think of nothing else to say. He sat in the darkness, awaiting a further command. None came.
Suddenly the lamp in the corner became illuminated and Paget was momentarily surprised to find himself in the illuminated room. There was a click at the entrance. The door had unlocked.
A few minutes later the stenographer entered.
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “Mister Bishop cannot see you to-day. You may come back to-morrow and give your name then.”
PAGET left the room. His eyes sparkled with admiration as he rode down the elevator — pure admiration of the system employed by the Silent Seven.
There, in a darkened room, he had conversed with Number One — a man who might be miles away. He knew that both doors must have been locked during the conference, and that the room was absolutely sound-proof.
It was nearly five o’clock when Paget arrived at his apartment. He had been there only a few minutes when a note was pushed under his door. He opened the envelope. The message read: Leave the club at ten o’clock tonight. Come to the Perry Warehouse on Sixty-eighth Street near Tenth Avenue. Enter side door and go upstairs. V.
Paget memorized the simple instructions. He tore up the note and tossed the fragments in the wastebasket.
He donned a tuxedo; then sat in an easy-chair and thoughtfully puffed a cigarette through the ivory holder. His hand went to the watch pocket of his trousers, where he had placed the scarab ring.
He was attempting to visualize the plans of Number One. He rejected the theory that he might be under the surveillance of the Silent Seven. As Number Five of that organization, he had been unchallenged at the meeting.
He thoroughly believed that the mysterious man known as The Shadow was a free agent who was threatening his plans.
The note had come from Number One whoever he might be. It assumed, of course, that Paget had been informed to watch for it by Number Five.
The signature, V., was a clever touch, as it showed the author knew that Paget’s chief was Number Five, V being the Roman numeral for five. At the same time, any one finding the note would suppose V. to be the initial of the writer.
Paget knew that a trap was in readiness at the Perry Warehouse. He felt confident that it was laid to ensnare The Shadow, should the man in black track him there.
If, by some chance, The Shadow had discovered the note, or might enter the apartment and find it in the wastebasket, he would be lured by his knowledge, without the necessity of trailing Rodney Paget.
It was after six o’clock. The clubman left his apartment. He came suddenly from the front door of the building. He stood there while he lighted a cigarette.
From the corner of his eye, he detected a man lounging across the street. He divined the purpose of the watcher. In his report, he had stated that The Shadow might possibly have entered his apartment. He felt sure that the inconspicuous observer had been stationed there by the Silent Seven.
A chance thought came to Paget’s mind as he rode away in a taxicab. It brought a smile to his lips.
There was a certain humor in this situation; that the Seven were giving him their cooperation. For there were facts concerning his connection with the Silent Seven that were known to Rodney Paget alone.
Glancing back, the clubman made sure that no one was following his cab. He was satisfied that The Shadow was not on his trail.
“After dark,” murmured Paget, to himself. “After dark — then — The Shadow. Tonight — that will mark the end.”
Unseen forces were at work. A mighty criminal organization was ready for an emergency. The Silent Seven did not fear the law. The victims that they doomed never escaped their verdict. Soon, another victim would be added to their list of crimes!