But the mere pressure of a button upon the lawyer’s desk would summon the attendant instantly. The buzzer was beside the sleeper’s bed.
The doors and windows were locked downstairs. Moreover, they were arranged with a burglar alarm that would arouse Jenks the moment that anyone attempted to enter the house. The alarm system had not been installed in the three rooms on the second floor, but there the windows were barred. The upper part of Ezekiel Bingham’s home looked like a prison; it had had this appearance for so many years that it no longer caused comment among the citizens of Holmwood.
There was a door in the corner of the lawyer’s study. It was sheeted with metal and had a lock of peculiar construction. Behind it was Ezekiel Bingham’s safe - concealed from view at that moment, since the door was closed.
The old lawyer prided himself on a safe of the latest pattern, and well he might, for many of the papers he possessed were of high importance. But it was also a known fact that most of the data that pertained to his legal cases was kept at his office in New York.
It was strange, in a way, that the old lawyer should maintain such a stronghold, for he was not known to be a man who had enemies. On the contrary, he was highly esteemed by the criminal world, for he had successfully defended many crooks. The barriers that protected his house were more of a precaution than anything else; for they meant that the lawyer was prepared to resist any attempt at forcible entry, and hence granted his home a definite immunity.
That night, old Bingham was going over a pile of papers that he had taken from his safe. He sat half-facing the window, which was slightly open from the top. He was wearing his reading glasses, deeply occupied in his work. Yet, no matter how attentive the elderly man might be, he was susceptible to the slightest noise. That was why he chose to work at night, in the silence of suburban Long Island.
The minutes ticked by and the elderly man went on with his work without disturbance. It was after one o’clock when he had reached the bottom of the pile. Then he lifted a long envelope, cut it open with a paper-knife, and drew out a flat sheet of paper.
His perusal of this paper had become a nightly ritual. It was always to be found at the bottom of the pile. Yet, keen though his brain might be, the paper might as well have been blank for all it told him. It was the code message, a copy of which he had given to Elbert Joyce.
That particular night, Bingham studied the paper intently. He had tried to decipher it several times before. He had finally called upon the services of Joyce in desperation. For some reason, known only to himself, the lawyer had been reluctant to let an outsider see the mysterious message.
Now that the expert was at work, the lawyer had definitely admitted his own inability to decipher the legend on the paper. Yet he was curious, impatiently so.
Ezekiel Bingham found the paper fascinating. His forehead wrinkled as he went over the mystic numbers that appeared on the sheet before him.
There was a light rustle at the window. Bingham looked up quickly. Just a breath of wind that was all. His eyes went back to the sheet of paper. As soon as the lawyer’s gaze was fixed, the lower sash of the window slid upward, less than an inch.
The movement was noiseless. Bingham continued to stare at the paper before him. The window moved upward a trifle further until it was open a full two inches.
The elderly lawyer was drumming upon the desk with the fingers of his right hand while his left held the paper. The sash moved more perceptibly now; it came upward until there was a considerable opening at the bottom.
Bingham’s right hand stopped drumming. It pulled open the desk drawer and brought out a long, thick envelope. The paper went into the envelope, and the lawyer sealed the message therein.
But that was not all. He produced some sealing wax and lighted it, letting burning drops fall upon the back of the envelope. He clenched his left fist and pressed the hot wax with a signet ring that he wore on his third finger. Then he studied the seal that he had made, and a satisfied smile appeared upon his face.
A shadow fell on the floor beside his desk. It was a peculiar shadow, long and narrow. It was almost like the shadow of a human being. Had there been a sound, Bingham’s eyes might have wandered to the floor. But shadows are noiseless. The old man’s ears heard nothing.
The shadow was noiseless on the floor, and Bingham did not observe it when he turned his chair and swung away from the desk, still clutching the sealed envelope.
He did not glance toward the window as he walked by, so he did not see that the lower sash was raised. He went to the wall where the steel door stood, and drawing a key from his pocket, unlocked the barrier.
The door swung open toward the window, going back against a blank stretch of wall. The front of the safe was visible, and the old lawyer crouched before it as he worked the dial.
Although his body partly obscured the front of the safe, there were slight clicks that might have been heard. For the old man was deliberate in his movements.
As the door of the safe opened in the opposite direction from the steel door something happened behind Ezekiel Bingham - something which he did not see, and which even his keen ears did not hear.
An arm appeared through the window. It was a long arm, and it reached out toward the edge of the steel door. Long, supple fingers touched the key that was still in the lock, and drew it free. The arm disappeared through the wide bars of the window.
The lawyer was placing the sealed envelope in a compartment of the safe.
The arm appeared again. The hand held the key, and it again sought the steel door. The fingers sought to slip the key back in its place; they did not succeed at first, for the task was difficult. Finally, they made a delicate motion and the peculiar piece of metal found its proper resting place. The steel door moved slightly inward as the key entered the lock.
The slight sound it made was lost as the lawyer closed the door of the safe and spun the dial.
The hand began to draw away, empty. It moved quite slowly. Then it stopped.
Ezekiel Bingham had turned, and was staring at a spot on the floor. A shadowy blotch appeared there. The lawyer was studying it. He rose, and as his own shadow moved, the blot on the floor appeared to fade. The hand was gone, and Bingham had not seen it in the flesh.
The old lawyer gazed suddenly at the window. It was now closed at the bottom; he did not know it had been opened.
Yet he seemed perplexed. He turned and crouched before the safe; then arose and watched his shadow. No, it was not the same. He repeated the experiment. Still he was not satisfied. He went quickly to the window and opened the lower sash. He peered through the bars toward the lawn.
There were shadows there; shadows that seemed to move as the night breeze rustled the trees and bushes. A long shadow flitted over the lawn and vanished. But the keen, piercing eyes of the lawyer could detect nothing else. He had removed his reading glasses and was staring with his far-sighted eyes.
He closed the window and laughed. He turned back and shut the steel door with a clang. He removed the key and placed it in his pocket.
“Shadows,” he murmured. “When people worry about shadows, their minds begin to wander. Croaker talked of shadows. What was it he screamed the night he died? ‘The Shadow!’ That was it! Perhaps The Shadow is a living being. But if he is - what of it?”
The old man laughed again.
He went back to his desk and began to write.
But now his mind was alert as his ears had always been. At moments he gazed quickly toward the window, which he had closed and locked.
The hours went by and the first streaks of dawn appeared. Ezekiel Bingham finished his writing, laid the papers in the desk drawer and yawned.
There was a knock at his door.
“Come in.”
Jenks entered. The man was dressed in working clothes, and stood there, his stolid face impassive.
“I am on duty, sir.”
“All right, Jenks.”
The old lawyer went into the front ro
om and made ready for bed. As he pulled down the shades to obscure the increasing rays of daylight, he smiled and spoke aloud.
“The Shadow!” were his words. “Some people have wild imaginations!”
A faint laugh seemed to mock the lawyer’s - words a laugh that issued feebly from the walls of his room.
“Bah!” snorted Bingham. “Just the scurrying feet of rats.”
CHAPTER XVIII
FELLOWS ASSEMBLES FACTS
Claude Fellows was working in his inner office. He was seated at his personal typewriter. The door to the outer office was closed.
The insurance broker had been engaged so all morning - ever since Harry Vincent had reported at nine o’clock, only to be told to come back toward the end of the day.
It was nearly half past one, and Fellows had not gone out for lunch. Evidently he intended to complete the work that he had in hand.
He struck a few words on the typewriter, then pondered. He shifted to another line, allowing considerable space, and typed a few more words.
He was nearly at the bottom of the sheet. He stopped and drew it from the machine, dropped the piece of paper upon others that were beside him, then carried them all to his desk. There were not many papers in the pile, but Fellows seemed satisfied with what he had accomplished.
He sorted through the sheets, arranged them in order, and read the one on top. It contained simple lines of condensed information that ran down the page at intervals.
Fellows read each statement in an undertone, pausing between the phrases:
“Geoffrey Laidlow - millionaire.
“No enemies - house at Holmwood.
“Collection of gems - kept in safe.
“Family away - wife and two sons.
“People in house - secretary and servants.”
Fellows paused and considered a row of stars that ran across the typewritten page. Then he read below:
“Laidlow returned home - accompanied by his secretary - went into
the library - closed the door - heard a sound in the house - went to the
study - discovered a man at the open safe - was shot and killed - by
revolver kept in safe.”
Fellows laid the sheet of paper face down upon his desk. He scanned the next page of typewriting:
“Howard Burgess - Laidlow’s secretary - came in with Laidlow - with
him in library - ready to go out - wearing coat and gloves - was with
Laidlow - followed him to the study - attacked by the burglar - shot in
the arm - followed the burglar - ran to front window - saw the burglar
escape.”
The third sheet carried further information:
“Ezekiel Bingham - criminal lawyer - lived near Laidlow - passing
the house - heard shots fired - stopped his car saw a man cross the
lawn - entered the Laidlow home - found Burgess - called the police.”
A line of stars; then this data:
“Met a man named Joyce - in his automobile at night - gave Joyce a
copy of the code - original in Bingham’s safe - demanded quick translation
- ordered silence - purpose of the code - unknown.”
The next sheet bore these memoranda:
“Unknown burglar - entered Laidlow home.
“Opened the safe.
“Knew the combination? Worked the dials?
“Jewels were there - he took them.
“He first removed papers - scattered them on the floor.
“Nothing missing - except jewels.
“Killed Laidlow.
“Shot Burgess - dropped the revolver on the lawn.
“Seen by Bingham.
“Escaped across lawn - left no trail.”
The pages that followed were all very brief; they mentioned facts and actions concerning other persons who had arrived on the scene after the murder was committed.
Fellows read these quickly; then he looked over a report sheet which gave information concerning the careers of the various people mentioned - with the exception of the unknown burglar.
These report sheets showed that Fellows was unquestionably a capable man when it came to assembling cold information. As a matter of fact, he had handled a few insurance policies for Geoffrey Laidlow, and was in a position to obtain considerable information concerning the millionaire’s past life. He had worked through insurance sources to gain data about Ezekiel Bingham, and Howard Burgess as well; and a pile of newspaper clippings that lay in an opened desk drawer indicated that he had overlooked no source from which he might have obtained additional facts.
His reports, thorough as they were, showed nothing very unusual. Both Geoffrey Laidlow and Ezekiel Bingham were well-known persons who had often been in the news. Fellows had managed to go through the clippings in the “morgue” of one of the New York newspapers, but had gleaned very little of interest from that source.
His report on Howard Burgess corroborated all that the police had discovered; it showed that the secretary had been an old and trusted employee, related to Mrs. Laidlow. The man had known a great many of the millionaire’s affairs, and had handled many of his money matters. Yet, evidently, some important affairs were kept from Burgess, for the secretary had stated that he did not know the combination of the safe.
Fellows permitted himself the liberty of a few remarks on this point. They were the only items of original thought in the whole parcel of information, and they were on a separate page that carried question marks above and below:
“Laidlow probably kept the safe combination to himself because he
had the jewels there. It is strange that he relied upon this antiquated
safe, because no other valuables were there. All important papers were
in safe-deposit vaults at banks. No record to show that the jewels were
ever kept at a bank.”
Then, at the bottom of the page, appeared this entry:
“I have included facts regarding Elbert Joyce in the statements
which concern Ezekiel Bingham. Let me remind you that Harry Vincent
brought no evidence to link this with the Laidlow murder. Your
instructions were to include these facts, and I have done so.”
It was now nearly two o’clock, the insurance broker noted as he glanced at his watch. He hurriedly folded the papers and placed them in a large, heavy envelope, which he thrust in the inside pocket of his overcoat. Then he put on his hat and coat, buttoned the outer garment tightly, and opened the door to the outer room.
“I am going out to lunch,” he said to the stenographer. “I shall be back at three o’clock.”
Instead of going directly to a restaurant, Claude Fellows hailed a passing cab the moment he reached the street. He rode down Broadway and went east on Twenty-third Street. His destination was an old, time-marked office building. He dismissed the cab upon his arrival.
Fellows went up the steps to the third floor, and stopped at a door near the end of the hall. On the frosted glass appeared the name, “B. Jonas.”
Fellows drew the envelope from his pocket and pushed it through the mail chute beneath the glass.
Very little light showed through from the room within. It evidently had a single window that opened upon an air shaft, which provided very little illumination. There was dust on the glass of the door, thick dust. Apparently, no one had been in the room for weeks or months.
In this old building, the tenants paid extra for janitor service; and it appeared that Mr. Jonas frowned on such a luxury.
But all this was an old story to Claude Fellows. He had once made inquires regarding the closed room, but since then had given the matter no attention.
Curiosity was not one of the insurance broker’s characteristics. He was a man who dealt in fact, method, and routine. Since he had become used to the duties that he performed for the man he knew as The Shadow, he had accepted them as a matter of regular business.
Fellows thought
of this as he was eating lunch in a hotel near Twenty-third Street. He recalled various affairs which he had handled for the man of mystery, and his mind went back to the circumstances which had brought about the connection.
Some months ago, Fellows had been in financial straits. He had mentioned his troubles to various friends and had tried to borrow money, without success. Then he received a letter without a signature - a letter which had offered him opportunity and prosperity in return for faithful service.
He had accepted the terms of the letter - accepted them by walking along Broadway from Forty-second Street to Twenty-third, on the east side of the street, carrying a cane in his left hand!
That had been the signal. The following day he received a letter written in ink that faded to blankness after he had read the letter. This was followed by a code which simply transposed letters. He memorized the code, then destroyed it.
Since that time, Fellows had been a trusted agent of The Shadow. His work had been of a passive sort, conducted entirely from his office. He had gained information on certain subjects, and had sometimes caught an inkling of what they signified.
This matter of the Laidlow murder was the most important of them all; and it was the first case in which he had knowingly come in contact with another of The Shadow’s men.
The reports which he had deposited in the mail box of the office that bore the name of Jonas were the culmination of his routine work. What The Shadow wanted with them was more than Fellows knew; and he was not particularly concerned about the matter. He knew that his patron could have probably gained all the information himself; in fact, may have done so. But the reports presented facts in definite, condensed form, and they would at least serve as a check-up.
The insurance broker was glad that his services were needed. His own business was doing well of late, but he was always assured of a regular income from this new and unknown source. Cash came in by messenger once every month.
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