He knew that the visitor must have found some secret entry to Dreblin’s study. That room was at the rear of the house; it was likely that the stranger had come in by a rear door. With that thought, Harry strolled from his own room and descended the front stairs. He saw no sign of Alfred; so he kept out through the front door.
There was a passage between Dreblin’s house and the building next door. Harry stepped in that direction; then stopped. Far along the passage, he saw a figure beside a door near the rear of the house. Apparently, the man was locking the door behind him.
The fellow turned. He cut through to the rear street. As his form came into the glow of a street lamp, Harry saw that the visitor was tall and stoop-shouldered, wearing a light gray overcoat.
Promptly, Harry approached the door that the man had left. Trying it, he found it locked.
An unused door; not a formidable barrier. Dreblin had doubtless supplied his friend with a key. Harry knew it would be too late to trail the vanished visitor. It was also wise for him to return to his own room. So he went to the front of the house and entered.
Again, Alfred was absent. Harry went up to the second floor.
Tiptoeing into his own room, he listened. He heard footsteps coming down from the third story. Harry went to the typewriter. Soon a knock came at the door. Harry stopped typing and opened it. Alfred, dull-faced and obsequious, was standing outside.
“If you’d like coffee, sir,” said the servant, “let me know at any time. I forgot to tell you that, sir, when I went up to my quarters on the third floor.”
“Shall I call to you up there?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Hastings always did so. You may do the same, Mr. Vincent.”
“Good. I’d like some coffee after I finish work. Right now, Alfred, I think that I’ll go out for some fresh air. All right if I leave the front door unlocked for about fifteen minutes?”
“Better ring, sir. I shall post myself downstairs to await your return.”
Harry left the house and went to a corner drug store. There he put in a call to Burbank. He reported what he had learned at Dreblin’s. Burbank told Harry to stand by; to call again in five minutes.
When he made his second call, Harry gained instructions. He was to return to Dreblin’s, there to continue with his duties as secretary. That was all. Harry, however, knew that Burbank must have held converse with The Shadow during that five minute interval between calls.
SUCH had been the case. The Shadow was in his sanctum. A blue globe was burning above a polished table. White hands lay beneath the light. Upon one sparkled a resplendent gem, a rare girasol, the only jewel that The Shadow wore.
The right hand inscribed inked notations. Like written expressions of fleeting thought were these comments of The Shadow. A soft laugh sounded from the near side of the lamp. Prompt results had favored the campaign in which The Shadow had employed Harry Vincent.
Philo Dreblin had received a secret visitor. The man had entered and left by a private passage to the magnate’s house. That same person would be back tomorrow night at nine. He answered the description that The Shadow wanted.
The man in gray! Not dark gray — the color of Donald Powlden’s overcoat — but light gray. The man who had been seen at the places where crime had struck. The one whose identity The Shadow considered essential to a clearing of the atmosphere that shrouded crime.
Murderer — Trail maker — Chance visitor
The Shadow inscribed these words with spaces between them. The man in gray might be any one of the three. Possibly, he was the actual killer of three victims. Again, he might have followed his path merely to complete the trail that had led to Donald Powlden.
That second point left two possibilities, which The Shadow indicated by two words:
Accomplice — Dupe
If an accomplice, the man in gray had gone to three scenes of crime with the deliberate intention of passing himself as Powlden. If a dupe, he had been sent to those spots by the real murderer; yet he himself had not known that crime was in the making.
The third possibility still existed: that the man was a chance visitor. Weighing possibilities, The Shadow knew that he could form no definite conclusion until later. Once the identity of the unknown man was discovered; once the fellow was encountered face to face, it would be possible to learn what his actual part had been.
Three possibilities. Contemplation of them produced a whispered laugh from The Shadow. The situation had become intriguing. Should the man in gray prove to be the murderer, The Shadow would be at the end of his trail. Should he prove to have been a trail maker or a chance visitor, The Shadow would be ready for further steps.
One fact was certain. All of the three possibilities pointed to definite action and The Shadow had plans that he had withheld until this moment. Reaching across the table, he obtained a set of earphones. A tiny light glimmered. A voice responded:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Instructions to Burke,” informed The Shadow. “Occupy Apartment 8 A at the Belgaria tomorrow.”
“Instructions received.”
“Instructions to Marsland. Contact with Burke.”
“Instructions received.”
“Further instructions to agents tomorrow.”
The Shadow replaced the earphones. The tiny bulb went out. The glare of the bluish light ended with a click. A laugh rippled through the sanctum — pronouncement of The Shadow’s departure.
The mysterious investigator was faring forth; but he would remain inactive until the morrow. Nine o’clock in the evening would be the zero hour. Then would The Shadow aim for swift and conclusive results.
CHAPTER XII
CARDONA HAS A HUNCH
THREE men were seated in a private room of the Cobalt Club. The first was Acting Commissioner Wainwright Barth; the second was Detective Joe Cardona; the third was Hiram Caffley, manufacturer of ferroluminum.
Another evening had arrived; it was nearly half past seven; and the three were engaged in brief conference. Barth intended to remain at the club; but Cardona was due at headquarters; and Caffley had to leave shortly for his home on Long Island.
“I called you here, Cardona,” stated Barth, in his imperious tones, “that you might give Mr. Caffley a detailed report on your search at Donald Powlden’s. Mr. Caffley is still perturbed about the missing documents that pertain to Duro Metal.”
“I still have the signed contract,” explained Caffley, “and I hold the certified check. I want to manufacture Duro Metal, and I am prepared to buy it from heirs or representatives of the murdered men. But I can not do so while the facts about Duro Metal are still missing.”
“I understand that,” nodded Cardona. “But I don’t think you’ll ever get those documents, Mr. Caffley. I’ve quizzed Powlden time and again. It’s a cinch that he’s destroyed them.”
“Did he make a statement to that effect?”
“Not him. He’s cagy.” Cardona paused to grunt and shake his head. “Powlden won’t admit a thing, even with all the evidence we’ve got against him. But he’s made a couple of wise remarks that have got me thinking.”
“I have talked with Powlden,” added Barth. “As Cardona says, the man is cagy. He has a trick of stating what he might have done, had the opportunity been his. But those are not admissions.”
“I asked him about the Duro Metal papers,” stated Cardona. “He said that if he had gotten hold of them he would have destroyed them. Admitted he wanted to get even with Lentz and the others, because of the sharp deal they once pulled on him.