The newspaper crinkled in the rear of the cab. The Shadow had already read the news accounts of Donald Powlden’s arrest. At headquarters, Joe Cardona had matched the heel prints and had also tabbed Powlden’s fingerprints with those on the piece of paper found in Lentz’s office.
Powlden’s cheroots were identical with those found at scenes of crime. The inventor admitted ownership of the spectacle case; but stated that it was one that he had left in his desk and had not carried for months.
The law had conceded itself a closed case against Donald Powlden. Every shred of evidence pointed to the inventor as the murderer of three men. The letter that had come by noon mail to Lentz’s office was classed as a device on Powlden’s part — an effort to make it look as though he thought Lentz had still been alive on the morning after the murder.
When it had come to a pinch, Powlden had denied authorship of the letter. That, at least, was Joe Cardona’s opinion. The ace detective had told reporters that he anticipated a full confession from Powlden by morning.
To The Shadow, however, there were subtle, hidden threads in the fabric of evidence that had been woven against Donald Powlden. The Shadow had good reason to believe that someone other than the inventor had visited each of the three murdered men shortly before their deaths.
Moreover, the chain of circumstance was too strong against Powlden. All pointed to planted evidence — from The Shadow’s viewpoint. Cheroot stumps without ashes, each in conspicuous view. A heel print at the scene of every crime. Finger impressions on a chance piece of paper. A dropped spectacle case. A letter mailed to Lentz’s office — much more dangerous as a clue than useful as a bluff, had Powlden been the actual murderer.
The Shadow wanted facts; and Powlden’s house on Eighty-eighth Street offered them. A soft laugh sounded from the rear of Moe Shrevnitz’s cab as the vehicle neared its destination.
WHEN Moe drew up just west of Broadway, an unseen figure glided to the sidewalk. From a bag conveniently placed in the taxi, The Shadow had gained cloak and hat of black. Enshrouding darkness held him invisible as he approached the deserted home of Donald Powlden.
In gloom beside the wall of the building, The Shadow groped for a living room window that opened on a small areaway. He needed no flashlight to effect an entry. Probing between the portions of the sash, The Shadow pried the catch loose with a thin strip of flattened steel.
The sash moved upward. The Shadow entered. There he used the flashlight to make an examination that he had foregone that afternoon. His soft laugh was the answer. This window had been pried loose before; but not in The Shadow’s expert fashion.
Scratches on the woodwork showed where someone had effected an entry. That much discovered, The Shadow extinguished his flashlight and crossed the room to a point where he found a floor lamp. He turned on the lamp.
Weirdly outlined in the semi-gloom, The Shadow began a methodical search throughout the living room. This place had been scoured by the police in gathering evidence against Powlden. The Shadow, however, was looking for other traces.
Powlden had mentioned a key ring, bearing a key that fitted the front door as well as one for the desk. Cardona believed that Powlden had thrown those keys away. The Shadow thought otherwise. He knew that someone had entered here during Powlden’s absence. That person, possessed of the missing keys, would have had constant access to the unoccupied house.
Hence The Shadow believed that more than one visit had been made to this place. How many, was a matter of speculation, even for The Shadow; but visitors could have left traces. Such were the clues that The Shadow sought.
A telephone jingled from the confines of the hallway. The Shadow’s search ended abruptly. His tall shape swung from the table that he was examining. With a quick sweep, The Shadow reached the lamp and extinguished it.
The ringing continued. A faint swish sounded in darkness as The Shadow moved to the direction of the noise. The cloaked intruder intended to answer the call. The ringing ceased as the receiver clicked from the hook.
“Hello…” The Shadow’s voice was a simulation of Powlden’s quaver. “Who is calling?”
“Who’s that?” came a sharp voice over the wire.
“Donald Powlden,” replied The Shadow.
“Powlden?” returned the voice. “All right. Listen, Powlden! I’ve got a tipoff for you. Can’t give it over the wire. Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“Come to the first house east of Walton’s warehouse on Ninety-first Street. You know where the place is?”
“I can find it.”
“Come in a taxi, see? There’ll be somebody waiting for you. Ask to see Louie. Get it?”
“I understand.”
The receiver clicked at the other end.
THE SHADOW hung up; then laughed softly. Hidden in darkness, he divined the reason for this call. The Shadow knew well that the man at the other end of the wire had not mistaken him for Donald Powlden, despite the disguised voice that The Shadow had used.
The police had finished with this house. The call had not come from headquarters. It was unlikely that any chance acquaintance of Powlden’s would have put in a call. Since three o’clock this afternoon, newspapers had proclaimed the facts of the inventor’s arrest; and the news had flashed across the country.
There was a simple answer; one that The Shadow had guessed even while the telephone was ringing. This house was under observation. Some lurker had seen the dim glow of the floor lamp which The Shadow had turned on.
That watcher had not relished the idea of invading the inventor’s home and starting trouble in a place that the police had so recently visited. The watcher had reported to someone. The best plan had been a telephone call.
The ringing of the telephone would have driven the average prowler from the house. Probably persons were outside, waiting for such a chance. The Shadow, however, had followed the bold procedure of answering the telephone in Powlden’s voice — a plan that had kept the opposition guessing.
The response had been the announcement of a rendezvous. The man across the wire had pretended that he thought The Shadow must be Powlden. He had deliberately sought to coax The Shadow away from this terrain. That was to The Shadow’s liking.
In the darkness, The Shadow found a stairway. He ascended to the second floor; then the third. He found a clamped trapdoor leading to the roof. He opened it and emerged beneath a sky that showed the high, dull glare reflected from lighted districts.
The Shadow moved from roof to roof. He weaved his way past radio aerials that formed dim lines in the gloom. He reached a house with a barren roof. He tried its trapdoor and wedged the barrier loose. The Shadow dropped into a darkened hallway.
He descended through a house that he had classed as vacant and which proved to be so. Flicking a light in the darkness, The Shadow discovered a telephone in the first floor hall. He lifted the receiver and heard the dial tone. The telephone was connected, despite the fact that the house was empty.
In pitch darkness, The Shadow dialed a number, finding with speed and accuracy the finger spaces that he wanted. Soon a voice came across the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report,” ordered The Shadow, in a low-toned whisper.
“Report from Vincent,” came Burbank’s reply. It was in an even, monotoned voice. “At the Hotel Metrolite. Takes duty as Philo Dreblin’s secretary beginning with tomorrow morning—”
“Report received. Instructions for tonight: Vincent to obtain the special cab. Contact on avenue just west of Walton’s warehouse, above Ninety-first Street.”
“Instructions received.”
“Instructions to Marsland. To post himself and Hawkeye behind house east of warehouse, on Ninety-second Street. Intercept suspicious stragglers.”