The Living Shadow s-1

by Maxwell Grant

  Fellows knew that if he required money for an emergency, a note placed in Jonas’ door would bring a prompt response. He was wise enough never to question a messenger who brought an envelope from his unknown benefactor. Fellows reasoned that the messengers, who were all uniformed delivery boys, had received the envelopes from some one on the street, and had been watched until they entered the Grandville Building. So they would know nothing of value.

  In brief, the insurance broker’s whole interest concerned his own welfare. Beyond that, he scented danger, and so avoided it. His present work was finished; new instructions might not arrive for some time to come. Yet the monthly payments would keep on.

  Fellows finished his coffee and smiled with satisfaction as he started back to his office. Why should he worry about The Shadow’s identity? The less he knew about it, the better.

  All that he had ever written to the mysterious stranger had been inscribed with the special ink that vanished permanently; a new bottle came by mail when it was needed. The typewritten statements would not disappear; but they merely put forth facts and carried no clew as to their origin.

  Whatever The Shadow’s purpose might be, Fellows could see no danger threatening himself so long as he continued discreet.

  CHAPTER XIX

  WOVEN FACTS

  A circle of light shone on a square table. It was like a spotlight that came from above, for it was focused by an opaque lamp shade.

  Beneath the light, a pair of hands were opening an envelope. All that showed in the ring of light were the hands, the envelope, and a watch that lay on the table. The watch indicated four minutes after six.

  The arms were clad in black, and they faded away into the darkness beyond. The hands were white; they were long, and the fingers tapered. Upon the third finger of the left hand a translucent gem glowed beneath the lamplight. It was a large blue girasol, or fire opal, and it shone with a strange red reflection.

  The hands removed a group of folded-papers and spread them on the table. They were the lists of data and reports that had been typewritten by Fellows, the insurance broker.

  The hands held up each paper in turn. Eyes above the lamp shade read the typed words. Eyes that were hidden in the darkness; eyes that were lost in gloomy, sinister shadows.

  The papers were spread upon the table, overlapping in the circle of light. A pair of scissors flashed suddenly beneath the illumination; scissors that came as though they were conjured out of nothingness.

  The hands handled the scissors deftly. The typed lists of facts were cut into tiny pieces, and arranged in little separate rows. The hands brushed the remaining scraps from the table.

  Then a large sheet of paper appeared in the light, and with it a jar of paste. The hands moved like living creatures. They passed from one row of paper slips to another, fingering the bits of typing, choosing first one and then another.

  The slips were laid at intervals upon the large sheet of paper. Occasionally the hands changed the order of the slips. Sometimes they rejected bits of information, substituting others in their place.

  The actions were uncanny. As the hands worked in silence, they seemed to be fingering real facts and actions, instead of mere slips of paper, forming new combinations of phrases that differed from those which Fellows had assembled.

  Minutes passed; but the hands kept on, untiring. They slipped here and there in rapid silence, and the quickness of their motions showed that they were controlled by a mind that thought with amazing speed. The circling second hand on the face of the watch seemed slow and sluggish in comparison.

  At last the hands ceased their movement. Many slips were lying upon the paper. The fingers touched one and pushed it to a new position. They took another, only later to be removed. Again the motion stopped.

  Then the hands dipped the paint brush in the jar. They worked rapidly again, applying paste to the backs of the chosen slips.

  The bits of paper were pasted in position, and the result was a series of lines, the disconnected items of information standing well apart.

  The assembled phrases read as follows:

  “Geoffrey Laidlow … millionaire … no enemies … house at

  Holmwood … 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 …

  Howard Burgess … Laidlow’s secretary … knew the combination? …

  wearing coat and gloves … was shot and killed … ran to the front

  window … shot in the arm … dropped the revolver on the lawn …

  opened the safe … jewels were there … removed papers … scattered

  them on the floor … Ezekiel Bingham … criminal lawyer … lived

  near Laidlow … passing the house … stopped his car … heard shots

  fired … entered the Laidlow home … found Burgess … called the

  police … saw a man cross the lawn … met a man named Joyce … in

  his automobile at night … gave Joyce a copy of the code … demanded

  quick translation … ordered silence … purpose of the code …

  unknown … collection of gems.”

  The hands reappeared above the patched paper. The right hand now held a pencil. The left steadied the paper, the fire opal on the third finger gleaming like a live coal. The pencil was poised for an instant, then it crossed out the single question mark that appeared among the statements.

  With easy, unhesitating motion, the hand used the pencil to print words in the blank spaces between the typed items. Its uniform speed indicated that the controlling mind was well ahead; as the new words were formed, the mixed phrases became coherent. The hands stopped. A complete, amazing story stood forth in bold relief. It was most emphatic because the words that had been added were printed in small, neat capital letters, as perfect as the typing. This was the finished result:

  “Geoffrey Laidlow, A RETIRED millionaire WHO HAD no enemies, LIVED IN A house at Holmwood. Laidlow returned home ONE EVENING accompanied by his secretary.

  “LAIDLOW went into the library ALONE, AND closed the door. LATER HE heard a sound in the house AND went to the study. THERE HE discovered a man at the open safe.

  “THE MAN WAS Howard Burgess, Laidlow’s secretary, WHO knew the combination OF THE SAFE. BURGESS was wearing coat and gloves. LAIDLOW was shot and killed BY BURGESS, WHO THEN ran to the front window, WHERE HE WAS shot in the arm BY HIMSELF.

  “BURGESS dropped the revolver on the lawn. BURGESS HAD opened the safe, BUT NO jewels were there. BURGESS HAD removed papers AND HAD scattered them on the floor.

  “FROM THEM HE TOOK ONE THAT BORE A CODE. Ezekiel Bingham, THE criminal lawyer WHO lived near Laidlow, WAS NOT passing the house. ACTUALLY, HE HAD stopped his car OUT FRONT. WHEN HE heard shots fired, HE IMMEDIATELY entered the Laidlow home, WHERE HE found Burgess, WHO GAVE HIM THE CODE.

  “BINGHAM called the police AND TOLD THEM THAT HE saw a man cross the lawn, THUS SUPPORTING THE SECRETARY’S STORY.

  “SOME TIME LATER BINGHAM met a man named Joyce in his automobile at night AND gave Joyce a copy of the code. BINGHAM demanded quick translation AND ORDERED silence.

  “THE purpose of the code IS NOT unknown. It tells where Laidlow kept his COLLECTION OF GEMS.”

  The hand used the pencil to check over the entire story, carefully touching each word. Then it moved to the bottom of the sheet and wrote in script. Words appeared. Those words were thoughts, expressed in rapid writing. They were sound, accurate thoughts - clear deductions supported by the facts in Fellows’s reports on the persons involved, and based upon the finished story that stood above. The writing was as follows:

  “Howard Burgess had no questionable past; but he knew more about the affairs of Geoffrey Laidlow than any other man. His control of expenditures, under the lenient millionaire, might have caused him to steal, and he may have feared discovery.

  “It is
probable that he made contact with Ezekiel Bingham by secretly visiting the lawyer to ask advice. Bingham - a man who holds control over crooks and who admits his own crookedness - must surely dominate Burgess.

  “We may assume that he arranged the robbery, and was ready to receive whatever was stolen. When Burgess was surprised by Laidlow, his only chance of safety depended upon the murder of the millionaire.

  “These facts support the case:

  “First: Burgess must have known the combination to the safe. He handled ordinary affairs in the household. Many trivial papers were in the safe. Yet he disclaimed knowledge of the combination.

  “Second: Burgess was wearing gloves. He wanted to be sure that no finger prints remained.

  “Third: The use of the gun that was in the safe. A safe robber would have had his own revolver. He would not have trusted a strange gun, especially as there is no likelihood that he would have taken the time to examine it to see if it were loaded.

  “Fourth: The safe at Laidlow’s home was antiquated and poorly protected. The millionaire kept all valuable papers in safe-deposit vaults. It is certain that the jewels were not in the safe. Yet both Burgess and Bingham stressed the fact that the imaginary burglar carried a box. They went so far as they dared to convince every one that the jewels were taken from the safe.

  “Conclusion: Burgess knew that the code was in the safe. He either planned to steal the code, along with other papers, or he was merely looking for the code to copy it. He expected no interference from Laidlow, who was accustomed to read for hours before retiring. Laidlow, confident that the code could not be deciphered and believing that Burgess was trustworthy, had not concealed from Burgess the fact that the code existed. But he would tell no man where the jewels were kept for he did not even entrust them to the security of a safe-deposit vault.

  “Upon the deciphering of the code hinges the fate of Laidlow’s jewels. If Bingham obtains a translation from Joyce, there will be a second robbery at the Laidlow home - a robbery that may never be brought to light. But it will not take place until the dead man’s secret has been discovered.”

  The paper, with its double story, lay between the unmoving hands while the fire opal glistened and its crimson depths held their strange glow. Unseen eyes were reading from the page, and the invisible mind behind them was remembering every word.

  The hands folded the paper once, and then again. The pencil wrote on the outside of the packet:

  “This report would be a great help to Detective Joe Cardona. It would also interest Inspector John Malone.”

  Pencil, paste and scissors disappeared, carried away by the hands. Then the long fingers gripped the folded paper and tore it once, then again and again, until it became tiny fragments which lay in a heap on the center of the table. The typed sheets met the same fate.

  The hands gathered the torn paper bits until the left hand clutched them all. Not one scrap remained. The right hand picked up the watch, which registered half past six. The hands moved from the light. Only the blank top of the table remained in view.

  A sharp click and the room was in absolute darkness. All was silent for a moment; then from the midst of that Stygian gloom came a soft, weird, mocking laugh - a laugh no louder than a whisper; yet a laugh that echoed and reechoed from the walls.

  CHAPTER XX

  A LETTER FOR HARRY

  “Mr. Vincent?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is the clerk at the desk. There’s a letter here for you. Shall I send it up to your room?”

  “Right away.”

  Harry Vincent opened the door of his room and awaited the arrival of the bell boy. This was quick action.

  He had visited Fellows shortly before five o’clock, and had been instructed to return to his room at the Metrolite Hotel to await orders. It was now only half past seven.

  The letter arrived. It was in a long envelope which bore no return address. Harry opened it at the writing table, and saw that it was in the simple code he knew. The figure “1” appeared at the bottom.

  He read the message with ease, for only a few letters had been substituted. Yet they were enough to make the note unintelligible to anyone other than Vincent.

  His reading was accomplished with care.

  “Report to the Excelsior Garage,” the message read. “You will find a taxicab there in your name. Put on the uniform that is in the back seat. You will find another note in the pocket. Lose no time.”

  Harry stared at the message and read it a second time. Then he blinked his eyes. The writing was slowly disappearing. In a few seconds it had gone.

  He held the paper close to the light.

  Not the slightest trace of any ink remained.

  Harry dropped the sheet of paper in the wastebasket. Now he knew what had happened to the letter that Fellows had been reading in the insurance office. He also appreciated what Fellows had meant when he had remarked that it would be unnecessary to destroy any messages that he might receive.

  Harry had not yet eaten dinner, but he did not wait for that. He looked up the Excelsior Garage in the phone book, found that it was located on Tenth Avenue, and took a taxi in that direction.

  He dismissed the vehicle some distance from the garage. It was obvious that he was to pose as a cab driver, and he did not know whether or not taxi-men hired the cabs of others during their leisure hours. Probably they did. Nevertheless, he could avoid any complications by arriving on foot.

  He entered the garage and mentioned his name.

  “So you’re the fellow that has the cab,” said the attendant. “It’s been waiting for you a couple of days. All fixed up and ready to go.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Over in the corner.”

  Harry found the cab and looked in the back seat. He saw the uniform and felt in the pocket. The note was there.

  He turned on the light in the cab, opened the envelope, and read another message with substituted letters:

  “Come to Wang Foo’s before ten o’clock. Drive past. Circle the block and drive by a second time. Then park around the corner at the end of the street. Keep the cab out of sight, but loaf near the corner and watch down the block.

  “When you see a Chinaman come from the tea shop, hurry back to the cab and be ready to pick up a man who will be coming from Wang Foo’s. If he does not arrive within one minute, drive down the street and watch for a passenger at the other end. The man may go the opposite way. Take him where he desires and remember his destination. Watch the meter. Collect.”

  A notation following the message gave Wang Foo’s address. This was important. Harry had been to Wang Foo’s - he remembered the visit all too well - but he had been taken by a roundabout way, and until now he had no idea as to the exact location of the place.

  He was due before ten o’clock. That would give him time to get some dinner. He dressed in the cab.

  The driver’s uniform fitted him well. He noted a picture that looked something like himself, and bore the name Harry Patman. That would be well to remember. The first name was his own.

  Evidently the person whom he was to pick up would be a stranger who might suspect something wrong if the card were not in its place.

  Harry picked up the note, which was lying on the seat, and observed that the writing had disappeared. This reminded him that it had borne the number “2”, so he took a blank diary from his suit and crossed out the first and second days of January. That seemed a good way to keep a record. Then he folded the suit and put it under the back seat.

  It was his first experience at the wheel of a taxicab. He knew the streets of New York well, and did not worry about the traffic; but he felt strange in his disguise.

  He saw a lunch room on Tenth Avenue. He parked his cab and had dinner.

  There was plenty of time before he was due at the corner above Wang Foo’s. Harry did not particularly relish the thought of loitering too long in that section on the border of Chinatown. Neither did he care to drive about in the cab. He
might have to argue with prospective passengers who would not be satisfied with his statement that the empty cab was engaged. So he lingered in the lunch room after he had finished eating.

  Gauging his time for the trip to Chinatown, Harry set forth in the cab. He kept to the streets and avenues where traffic was not heavy and drove rather slowly. He passed several persons who shouted and whistled for his services, but paid no attention and kept on his way.

  It was eight minutes of ten when he reached his destination. He rolled slowly down the street in front of Wang Foo’s and felt his nerves tingle as he passed the front of that grim, foreboding building where he had so narrowly escaped death.

  He circled the block in accordance with the instructions of the message and rode by the tea shop a second time. Then he came back to the corner above the building and parked the cab in a convenient space.

  There were not many persons on the street. The district was dismal and forlorn. But the few who passed - among them some Chinese - paid no attention to the man in the cab driver’s uniform.

  The night was a trifle chilly. Harry walked up and down the street beside the cab, swinging his arms. His action was natural, and, as he reached the corner, he swung around in a casual way so that he could catch a view of Wang Foo’s tea shop.

  He continued his patrol for half an hour. It became monotonous. He expected some sign of the mysterious Chinaman each time he reached the corner. But he was constantly disappointed.

  Harry began to count the number of turns he made in his short walk. Ten - twenty - thirty - and still the same monotonous patrol. But he kept on, back and forth.

  Eleven o’clock went by. Then half past eleven. It was approaching midnight, and the patient taxi driver still continued to pace the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER XXI

  WANG FOO RECEIVES A VISITOR

  While Harry Vincent had been undergoing his experiences as an amateur hackman, other events had been slowly unfolding within the tea shop of Wang Foo.