The clock on Roderick’s mantelpiece showed twenty minutes of eight when The Shadow began a silent but methodical search through the premises. Drawers slid open from tables almost of their own accord.
Letters, stacks of papers, all were scrutinized by a practiced eye. At last the search ended.
The clock on the mantel struck eight sharp tinkles. Those sounds seemed to culminate The Shadow’s effort. Not one trace of Thade, The Death Giver, had been discovered by the black-cloaked seeker.
There was a telephone table in the corner; there, The Shadow made his way. From a stack of telephone books, he raised the one marked Long Island. Held in a gloved hand, its thick back downward, the book wavered under delicate balance until its pages fluttered in two directions.
The book had opened at opposite pages which listed names beginning with the letter Q. The Shadow’s laugh rippled softly. On one of those pages appeared the name of Vernon Quinley.
Paul Roderick was the man who had called Quinley, that night of the explosion in the bearded man’s garage. Harry Vincent had mentioned a phone call in his report. The source of the call was evident now.
Roderick had used this book on several occasions to look up Quinley’s number, wisely refraining from making a notation of the Felswood number.
That was why the book, balanced by a careful, guiding hand, had opened to the spot where Roderick had so frequently referred.
What worked with one book might work with another. The Shadow’s hand raised the book marked Manhattan, and held it in the same delicate balance. The pages fluttered doubtfully. The keen eyes watched them; and the hand did its part in the careful operation. The book finally wavered and opened at one particular place. The names on the facing pages were those which began with the letters TR.
UPON the margin of the right-hand page was a slight sign of a rumple in the paper. It denoted the spot where a thumb had pressed. The eyes of The Shadow ran down the column of names. They spied a significant fact.
A dozen names, together in the column, bore a distinct trace of a consultation. They were not marked by the imprint of a finger, but the printed ink was smudgy. Paul Roderick, in looking for a certain name, had inadvertently run his finger over this column, leaving the tell-tale mark.
Carefully, The Shadow noted the lowermost of these names. The third from the bottom of the smudged group was that of Harlan Treffin. The stopping finger would have blurred the names below. This one name — Harlan Treffin — was the most likely choice. Still, the others could not be entirely eliminated.
Here, at least, was a probable man with whom Paul Roderick had had recent contact. To-night, The Shadow would be seeking facts that involved the man. The Shadow had reached an important point in his quest. An unexpected event was to speed his immediate action.
The telephone began to ring. The Shadow reached forward and gripped the instrument in his gloved hands. Lifting the receiver, he spoke in a careful tone. It was not the voice of Paul Roderick — which The Shadow had never heard — but over the telephone it carried a distant note that did not disturb the speaker at the other end.
“Hello — Roderick?”
“Yes.”
“This is Treffin. Do you want to see me to-night?”
“Yes — alone.”
“Certainly. I’m alone now, here at my home. Are you coming up?”
“Yes. Wait until I arrive.”
“All right. I called you last night, but no answer. I waited until nine, expecting to hear from you. I’ll be here.”
The Shadow swept from the room the moment that he had concluded the call. There was no time to be lost. Harlan Treffin’s last words had revealed the arrangement between him and Paul Roderick. If Treffin, calling, received no response, he was to wait until he heard from Roderick.
Therefore, Treffin might receive a call from Roderick any minute between now and nine. The Shadow was racing against time. He must reach Treffin’s home before Roderick could call from some unknown spot.
A taxi driver on the street was surprised to find that he had a passenger. A voice spoke through the window between the front and the interior of the cab. It ordered the taximan to hurry to an address on an uptown street — the number of Harlan Treffin’s home, which The Shadow had noted in the phone book.
The driver, hoping for a substantial tip, responded. He caught a traffic break on an avenue, and whirled along at breakneck speed. The taximeter clicked its changing fares with unusual rapidity. Fifteen minutes later, the cab squeaked to a stop at the required destination.
A five-dollar bill fluttered into the driver’s hand. The passenger was gone.
The cabby stared along the street. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he pocketed his fee and drove away. For all he knew, a ghost had ridden with him to-night. Why should he worry, so long as ghosts paid with five-dollar bills and required no change?
THE taximan, in his wondering gaze, had passed over the door of Harlan Treffin’s home. It was there that The Shadow had gone, his black cloak hiding his outline against the darkness of the door.
A gloved hand was working with a steel instrument. Hardly had the cab moved away before Treffin’s front door opened and The Shadow entered the gloomy hall.
There was a light in a rear room. Gliding quickly along the floor, The Shadow neared the open door. His gloved hand came from beneath his cloak. It clutched a huge automatic. Sharp eyes peered through the door.
Harlan Treffin was seated at a table across the room. The man’s head was on his hand. He was thinking deeply. The light came from brackets on the wall — not from the lamp on Treffin’s table. Beside the lamp was a telephone.
A few moments later, Harlan Treffin glanced suddenly upward to find himself staring into the huge muzzle of the automatic. Beyond the gun he could see burning eyes that peered from beneath the brim of a broad slouch hat. A tall figure, clad in a black robe, had materialized itself in this room.
A startled cry died on Treffin’s lips. He sensed the menace of The Shadow. This dread avenger of the night was a sight that would make a bold man quail. Harlan Treffin, unnerved, could not even stammer his fright.
“Harlan Treffin” — The Shadow’s words were cold — “I have come to question you to-night. Speak when I command. Tell me what you know of Thade, The Death Giver.”
A hunted look came into Treffin’s gaze. He tried to turn his eyes away, but the blazing orbs of The Shadow terrified him. Mechanically, almost against his will, Treffin nodded his willingness to obey.
“You have seen Thade?” came The Shadow’s query.
“Yes,” gasped Treffin. “I have seen him.”
“Where?”
“At his abode.”
“What is its location?”
“I do not know.”
Treffin’s plaintive words indicated that the frightened man was telling the truth. The Shadow divined the reason for the man’s ignorance and put it to the test.
“Who took you to see Thade?”
“Paul Roderick,” blurted Treffin hopelessly. “I was drugged. I did not know — where I was going—”
The telephone began to ring. The Shadow’s voice was quick in its low command.
“Answer it,” he ordered. “If it is Roderick, simply say that you called him at eight, but received no response.”
Treffin reached weakly for the telephone. His hand faltered as the ring continued.
“Obey!”
The Shadow’s command had a steadying effect upon Harlan Treffin. The man nerved himself for the task of answering the telephone. Supercharged with fear, he seemed to regain his normal senses at The Shadow’s bidding. He picked up the telephone and spoke.
“Hello… Yes, this is Harlan Treffin… Ah, Roderick. Yes, I called you to-night… You weren’t there…”