He put the card back in his pocket, and once more glanced up the stairs. His hat was in his right hand; the fingers of his left sought the knob of the vestibule door. His back grazed the nearer of the two velvet curtains.
Something brushed over Don Hasbrouck’s shoulder. It felt like a wirelike cord, moving swiftly sidewise. The invisible object had fallen over his head. It was moving slowly upward, toward his collar.
It might have been the imperceptible touch of this cord; it might have been a sudden thought that had flashed through Hasbrouck’s brain — at any rate, the detective shuddered.
He held his breath and stood still as he sensed a motion behind him. Then he slowly drew his left hand from the doorknob and pressed it against the curtain.
His fingers encountered a solid object through the velvet! Hasbrouck started to move forward. He stopped abruptly.
A wild look came upon his face. His eyes bulged, and his hands shot toward his throat. The tiny cord was there, tightening into the flesh! The detective’s clawing fingers could not loosen its terrifying pressure!
A gurgle sounded in the doomed man’s throat. His gangling form toppled backward and slumped against the curtain. Hasbrouck went down slowly, his fall governed by that cord which bound his neck. The cruel thread was biting — strangling — killing!
Invisible hands came from the curtain. Hasbrouck’s inert form was drawn into darkness. A short, sizzling sound came from behind the velvet curtain. Then all was silent in the hall.
Ten minutes later, Larkin came downstairs and locked the front door. The secretary turned and went upstairs, passing the spot where Don Hasbrouck last had stood. There was nothing to indicate that the detective had not left the house.
Detective Hasbrouck’s forebodings had been realized. Here, in this great, sinister, silent house, he had met his fate. His lips were sealed by death!
CHAPTER II
THE SOCIETY SUICIDE
A QUIET-FACED man was seated in an office on the ninth floor of the Badger Building. The door of his private room was open. Beyond was a stenographer at a desk.
The glass-paneled door at the outer entrance bore the number 909, in reverse figures. Beneath it, also in reverse, was the inscription:
RUTLEDGE MANN
Investments
The man at the desk was somewhat rotund in both face and body. Like most persons of his proportions, he was inclined to be leisurely.
He picked up a letter from the desk, handled it thoughtfully; then arose and closed the door of the private office. He returned to his desk, cut the envelope with a letter cutter, and took out a folded sheet of paper.
The paper bore a coded message which Rutledge Mann perused without difficulty. Even as he finished reading, the ink on the letter began to disappear. Mann tore up the blank sheet and deposited it in the wastebasket.
He picked up the telephone and called the office of the New York Classic. Connected with the editorial department, Mann asked for Clyde Burke. He spoke a few cryptic sentences into the telephone, then hung up.
Some twenty minutes later, there came a rap at Mann’s door. The stenographer opened it.
“Mr. Burke is here,” she said to the investment broker.
A young chap of medium height entered the room. He was plainly dressed, but presented a neat appearance. His eyes were keen as he closed the door behind him.
“The Andrews case?” he questioned, in a low voice.
“Yes,” responded Mann. “What do you make of it?”
“Plain as the nose on your face. George Andrews got hit in the stock market. Discharged his servants and took a little apartment. Broke. Things became worse. He hung himself.”
Mann fingered a clipping on his desk. It told the story.
George Andrews, young society man, had committed suicide by hanging himself from the hook of a skylight in his studio apartment. With his neck in a dangling loop, he had kicked away the chair on which he had been standing.
His body had been discovered by a maid who had entered in the morning.
Friends of Andrews had stated that the young man had been depressed because of money matters. This was all covered in the early editions of the evening newspapers.
“Too bad,” observed Mann. “I was talking this morning with a chap who knew Andrews well. He said that he had seen Andrews yesterday afternoon.”
“What did he say about him?” Burke asked.
“Well, Andrews was certainly hard up. But he was somewhat cheerful at that. He told my informant that he was expecting a visit from Jerry Middleton.”
“The polo player?”
“Yes,” Mann went on. “Middleton is a great traveler. Andrews evidently expected him back in New York last night. Middleton has money. Perhaps Andrews thought Middleton would lend him some.”
“But—”
“Either Middleton refused, or did not arrive as expected,” the man at the desk ignored the interruption. “I incline to the latter opinion.”
“Why?”
“Because I called up Middleton’s town house, and they told me that he was still away, and not expected to return. They said that they didn’t know where he was.”
“Well,” commented Burke, “it looks plain enough. Andrews needed dough. That’s why he killed himself. But, of course” — he hesitated thoughtfully — “there may be some other reason in back of it. A man isn’t too quick to take his own life.”
“What about this case, Clyde?” asked Mann, changing the subject.
HE drew a clipping from the desk drawer. Burke looked at it. The account was a few days old. It told of a small motor boat found adrift in Long Island Sound. The owner, a sportsman named Dale Wharton, was missing. It was assumed that he had fallen overboard and drowned.
“There may be a mystery here,” observed Burke. “They’re expecting the body to turn up any time, now. When they find it, there may be a clew.
“Wharton started out at night, alone, for a run over to Connecticut. Left Long Island; that’s all they know about him.”
Mann nodded.
“A peculiar case,” he said, “and there’s another one that the newspapers know nothing about. A young man, rather prominent socially, has been missing for approximately two months.”
“Who is he?” Clyde Burke’s question came in a tone of surprise. Very few such items failed to reach the news office of the New York Classic, the tabloid newspaper with which Burke was connected.
“A man named Robert Buchanan,” declared Mann. “His relatives have been disturbed about his absence. He was engaged to marry Margaret Glendenning, who lives with her uncle, a retired manufacturer. No one seems to know where Buchanan has gone.”
“How did you find out about it?” Burke asked.
“I hear many things at the Cobalt Club,” declared Mann, with a note of pride. “It’s my business — as you know — to keep posted on matters unusual. I learned of Buchanan’s disappearance about ten days ago.”
“And then—”
“I sent the information to— to the proper person” — there was a hidden significance in Mann’s words — “and of course I made notes on the Wharton case also.
“I must admit, however, that I would have seen nothing in the suicide of George Andrews. But to-day, I received instructions.”
Burke nodded. He knew what Rutledge Mann meant by “instructions.” For both Clyde Burke and the investment broker were the secret agents of that man of mystery — The Shadow.
Rutledge Mann, working from the security of a comfortable office, and spending his evenings at the exclusive Cobalt Club, served as a contact man for The Shadow.
Clyde Burke, ostensibly a newspaper reporter with the Classic, in an ideal position to conduct outside investigations, was an active agent of The Shadow.