The light clicked out. The Shadow moved about in the gloom. Then a door opened softly and closed again. The Shadow had departed from the apartment.
LATER, a click sounded in a pitch-black room. A bluish lamp glowed upon a polished table. Long, white hands appeared beneath that light. A shimmering gem glowed from a finger of the left. Those pale hands were like detached creatures. The Shadow was in his sanctum.
A hand began to write in bluish ink. Words dried, then faded as The Shadow inscribed his thoughts. With uncanny precision, he was reconstructing events at Congo Mollin’s. He had disregarded the decanter and the glass. Only one man had imbibed liquor. But two had smoked cigarettes.
Congo Mollin, lacking a cigarette holder, had consumed two in the living room, while his visitor was smoking two cigarettes in a holder. Then Congo had gone into the bedroom to don evening clothes. His guest had accompanied him. Three cigarettes — all smoked in a holder — gave evidence of the visitor’s presence.
Cigarette holders were no longer fads. A person using one would probably be fastidious. The type of man who would wear evening clothes. A soft laugh told that The Shadow was gaining an answer to the mystery of Congo Mollin’s death.
Picturing a visitor in evening clothes, The Shadow visualized Congo dressing to accompany his friend.
Congo coming out into the living room. Passing the windows, a target for waiting snipers.
Crooks had seen the visitor enter clad in full evening dress. They had mistaken Congo for him. Their quick fire had found the wrong man. The desired victim had departed, unscathed. Chances were that he, like Congo, was a crook.
The Shadow, however, left nothing to chance. He had taken special interest in the death of Congo Mollin because it lacked motive. His deductions proved that assassins had missed their man. Someone was still at large, a tribe of killers ready to find his trail.
The Shadow saw an important task: To determine whether or not this person was a crook like Congo.
He pictured the unknown as a smooth, keen individual. One who had not lost his nerve after seeing Congo die. One clever enough — if crooked — to have coaxed Congo into doom intended for himself!
Writing on the sheet of paper, The Shadow inscribed names from memory. Those names had been on Markham’s list. They were the persons in whose employ Congo had served prior to his imprisonment on Welfare Island.
There were six names in all. Among them was that of Cuyler Willington — for Congo had at one time served as valet to the fashionable crook. That name had no special significance as yet. The Shadow passed it as he went to the bottom of the list.
Titus Thoreau. That was the final name. Thoreau, a New York banker, was Congo’s employer at the time the crook had been arrested for robbery. Thoreau would remember the man. Again, The Shadow laughed.
This very evening, Joe Cardona had mentioned the most important point regarding Congo Mollin: namely, the dead man’s past. But Cardona could see no link between the past and the present. Congo Mollin had been quiescent since his release from Welfare Island. He had had no gang connections, even before his imprisonment.
To The Shadow’s analysis, the fact that Congo had been on good behavior since leaving the Island was an indication of some past connection. Why had Congo found it good policy to settle down to quiet life after his release?
That was a question that The Shadow was determined to answer. Through it he could see some chance of learning the identity of Congo’s unknown visitor. He could then discover why that man’s life had been sought.
The light clicked out. A soft laugh crept through the black walls of the sanctum. It rose to a mocking tone that faded with eerie echoes. Then came silence. The Shadow had departed.
THE master sleuth had seen no cause for haste. He had divined that the man he sought must he cunning enough to keep away from danger for days to come. In that assumption, The Shadow was correct.
But at the very moment of The Shadow’s decision, chance was creeping into affairs of crime. Strange circumstances were due to cause a change of tactics on the part of Cuyler Willington. Already, the man whom The Shadow sought was on his way to a meeting that was destined to inspire him to a desperate counter-thrust.
Murder was in the making, thanks to that attempt by Turk Berchler. Cuyler Willington, the hunted, was fated to become the hunter!
CHAPTER X. THE SECOND MACHINE
A TAXICAB had stopped on a secluded street in the West Eighties. A man was peering from the window. His was the face of the hunted. The driver turned to open the door. The man calmed himself, stepped out and paid the fare.
The cab pulled away. Cuyler Willington stood alone on the curb. He repeated his quick glances in both directions. No one was in sight. Willington ascended brownstone steps and rang a bell.
A full minute passed while Willington waited, close against the door. Then came the clatter of a lock. The door opened. A nervous, pasty-faced man stepped back as Willington entered.
“Hello, Brophy.” greeted Willington, quietly. “Close the door.”
“Very well.” Brophy’s voice had a slight quaver. “I–I didn’t expect you. I–I thought that maybe Mollin was coming—”
“Didn’t you read today’s newspapers?” questioned Willington, abruptly, as they walked toward a flight of stairs.
“No,” replied Brophy. “I have been busy packing.”
“Congo Mollin is dead.”
“Dead! You — you mean murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Who is responsible?”
“The police are trying to find out.”
“Mollin,” mumbled Brophy. “Mollin — dead—”
“But he talked to me before he was killed,” interposed Willington. They were at the head of the stairs.
“That’s why I’m here, Brophy. Where can we talk?”
“In my laboratory,” faltered Brophy. “In here.”
He led the way to a small room that was fitted with electrical machines and other equipment. Willington took a chair; he drew a cigarette from a case and placed it in his holder.
Willington was not in evening attire tonight; but he was fashionably dressed. He made a contrast to Brophy. The electrical expert was wearing a shabby suit with baggy trousers.
“So you’re packed up,” parried Willington. “Does that mean you are going somewhere?”
“Only if you permit me,” responded Brophy, quickly. “I–I could see no harm in packing while I waited to hear from you.”
“Where are you going? That is, if you go.”
“I haven’t decided. I need a change. I’ve thought of Bermuda. But I haven’t bought tickets yet—”
“That’s good. We have a little matter to settle before you leave. A question of a thousand dollars a month. My expense money, Brophy. I need it. I’m going on a trip myself.”
“I–I do owe you a thousand, Mr. Willington. That is, I would owe it, according to our agreement. But they have cut off my advance royalties.”
“So Mollin told me.” Willington’s tone was a velvet purr. “He said you were cut down to the amount that you receive from your investments. Unfortunate for you, Brophy. You will have to sell some of your securities.”
“I can’t do that!” exclaimed Brophy. “They are part of a trust fund left me by my uncle. They bring me in very little, Willington. Very little.”
“I am ready to consider a cash settlement, Brophy. Five thousand dollars. No more payments.”
“But I don’t have the five thousand.”
WILLINGTON eyed Brophy steadily. He could see that the man was telling the truth. Brophy would have jumped at this chance to clear himself from further blackmail.