The Shadow - The Shadow Laughs Part 4

The head of the figure turned downward. This master of the darkness was looking at a splotch of blood upon the floor.

The Shadow moved away, and with uncanny precision took the very spot that Griffith had held; then moved to the place from which the murderer had delivered the knife thrust.

Stooping, The Shadow raised the truck upon which the detective's body had been placed-a truck that still bore marks of blood. Then the flashlight glowed from beneath, upon a black smudge which had been made by the tip of the murderer's shoe when he had so calmly drawn the truck toward him.

The tape measure came into play. Doubled between two slender, tapering fingers, it was used to indicate the details of the smudge. The marks on the measure included the tiniest fractions of an inch; and they were noted with unerring accuracy.

The truck was replaced. The being in black moved silently across the room to a crude table in the corner.

Here he sat, and made notations on a paper.

The Shadow's left hand, with its fire opal gleaming, spread a sheet of typewritten memoranda-the report which Claude Fellows had supplied that morning.

The pencil crossed out the statement: "Conclusion. There is no possible connection between the two murders." Then Fellows's carefully prepared report was crumpled, and the hand thrust it beneath the cloak.The right hand was at work, writing words that seemed to form from clear, active thoughts; words which covered some of the lost clues gathered by the late Detective Griffith; words that added new information, including items from Fellows's condensation of the newspaper accounts.

Jarnow came to Philadelphia from Springfield. Probably from Blair Windsor's summer home. He called Henry Windsor by telephone from New York. Urgent appointment. Jarnow feared pursuit.

Jarnow was restless while waiting. Tore up Pullman check. Locked door, and probably window.

Admitted Henry Windsor. While they were talking, the pursuer entered the room-with skeleton key.

Slid his body around side of doorway. Closed door. Fired fatal shots. Turned out light.

Murderer acted quickly. Wiped light switch with handkerchief-mark of cloth in dust on shade. Wiped revolver. Wiped lock of window-mark in dust on top of window.

Did not lift shade; pushed it back with arm. Tiny cloth mark on edge of shade. Used handkerchief on sill when hands were left there.

Murderer feared all clues were not destroyed. Returned to vicinity. Observed Detective Griffith.

Followed him to morgue. Stabbed him. Took articles that had belonged to Jarnow.

The hand stopped its writing. Then came these words: The murderer is five feet nine inches tall. Weighs approximately one hundred and sixty pounds. Wore black shoes, and a blue suit of rough cloth. Is right-handed. A crook of experience who can use a gun or a knife with equal facility.

Then these notations were added: In appearance, the man is striking. Jarnow must have recognized him immediately. Yet he does not appear to be a crook; he is smooth, and convincing. Griffith did not suspect him.

Sounds came down the stairs. The outside door of the morgue clanged shut. Yet the figure at the desk still wrote.

Immediate danger threatened Henry Windsor. Something transpired in Ma.s.sachusetts. Vincent to visit Blair Windsor. Radio communication must be established. Ident.i.ty of murderer may be learned in New York.

HEAVY footsteps were clanging from the stone stairs. The Shadow crumpled the paper as he rose. He moved toward a corner of the room, and his form became still. It merged with the darkness in the corner.

Any one suspecting it might have distinguished its presence; to the casual observer it could mean nothing more than natural blackness.

Two policemen entered the chamber, carrying a body on a stretcher. They were followed by the morgue attendant, who indicated one of the trucks. The body was deposited there.

"There's another one for you, Bill," observed one of the policemen, removing his cap, and wiping his forehead. "You and Mike get a regular collection here, don't you?"

"Yeah," replied the attendant.

"Does the place ever give you the creeps?" asked the officer.

"No," answered the attendant. "Why should it? They're all dead ones here. There ain't no chill evercomes over me."

The men were facing the far end of the room. The shadow in the nearer corner came suddenly to life. It moved, like a black spectre, across the room to the steps. There, hidden in the darkness of the stairs, it paused.

Then to the ears of the three men who stood beside the body came a most terrifying sound.

A deep-whispered laugh swept through that stone-walled room-a chilling laugh that echoed from the low ceiling. The men gasped, and their eyes stared at the body on the truck; it seemed that the hollow mockery had come from the lips of the dead man!

The boastful morgue keeper shook as his quavering hands sought support from his companions. Here, in this familiar place, he had felt the stroke of terror.

He had heard the laugh of The Shadow!

CHAPTER VII. LAMONT CRANSTON TALKS TO HIMSELF.

FOUR o'clock in the morning.

That was the time indicated by the luminous dial of the wrist watch, as Lamont Cranston studied it in the darkness.

He had awakened suddenly, and he could not account for it. Usually a sound sleeper, he had been strangely aroused from a fantastic dream. The room was pitch-dark.

Slumber seemed gone from the millionaire's mind. He listened intently. He fancied that he had heard a soft, whispering voice calling his name. Yet it must have been a dream.

Then his muscles tightened.

"Lamont Cranston!"

The summons came in an almost inaudible tone from the foot of the bed. It was a whisper-a strange, incredible whisper.

This was no dream. It was reality.

The millionaire slipped his right hand under his pillow, and grasped his automatic. Quietly, he pointed it toward the foot of the bed. Then he pushed his body upward; and with his free hand, he pulled the cord of the reading lamp.

A figure was standing at the foot of the bed. A black figure, that seemed like a huge shadow.

Cranston's eyes made out a form clad in black, its face hidden by a hat with a turned-down brim. The millionaire covered the figure with his revolver. Then he spoke, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Who are you? Raise your hands-or I shall fire."

A soft, low laugh came from the foot of the bed.

"Press the trigger," came the whispered voice.

The millionaire obeyed. A click answered. The gun had been loaded when he had placed it beneath his pillow. Now it was empty."Do not be alarmed," came the whispered voice. Its tone was sinister, despite its a.s.surance. "You need not fear. I shall not harm you. I unloaded your automatic. I thought you might become excited."

"Who are you?" demanded Lamont Cranston.

The figure ignored his question.

"I have come to advise you," came the whisper. "You must leave here for a while. For a month at least. I recommend a trip to Europe. Sea air is very healthy at this season. You will go to-morrow."

"Who are you?"

Again the question was ignored.

"Will you obey my orders?" asked the voice from the foot of the bed.

"No!" exclaimed the millionaire.

THE figure laughed mirthlessly, and Lamont Cranston shuddered. His eyes gazed in fascination as the man in black moved from his position, and came to the side of the bed, until he stood but a few feet away.

The millionaire changed his position, in readiness for an attack.

"You ask me who I am," said the strange being. "Tell me first who you are."

"You know my name," replied the millionaire. "You called it-Lamont Cranston."

A mocking laugh was the response.

"I called your name?" was the figure's question. "I must disagree with you. I called my own name."

The black form moved slightly. The cloak and hat dropped backward, and disappeared. A man was revealed in the light, and a startled cry escaped Lamont Cranston's lips.

The person who stood before him was the very double of himself.

"I am Lamont Cranston," announced the stranger.

The millionaire shuddered as he heard his own voice uttered by those lips!

The situation was uncanny. The man in the bed could not believe his senses. He knew that he was wide awake; yet this was the most incredible experience that the human mind could imagine.

"Let me explain," said the standing man, in those same tones that seemed the actual voice of the millionaire. "Some people call me The Shadow.

"That is but one ident.i.ty. I have other personalities that I a.s.sume, as easily as I don my black cloak and hat.

"One of my personalities is that of Lamont Cranston. In the past, I have used it while you were away. At present, I choose to use it now. It would be embarra.s.sing for both of us to be here. So you must go."

Sudden enlightenment came to the amazed millionaire.

"So that is why Richards acted so strangely!" he exclaimed. "You have deceived him while I was away!You were here, masquerading as myself. You were injured."

"That is correct," replied the personage who so perfectly resembled Lamont Cranston. "I told Richards never to mention the incident. I am surprised that he slipped. He is usually so very careful."

The real Lamont Cranston became suddenly indignant. His fear had dwindled since his visitor had ceased that weird whisper. Now he was becoming angry.

"You are an impostor," he exclaimed.

"You think so?"

"I know it."

"That does not alter the circ.u.mstances," said The Shadow. "There are reasons why I choose to be here-as Lamont Cranston.

"There is an excellent wireless station upstairs. You installed it -for which I thank you-but you have neglected it. I find it useful in experiments."

Lamont Cranston was too amazed to reply. The calm a.s.surance of his mysterious visitor completely bewildered him.

"So you must leave to-morrow," announced The Shadow. "Go before noon. Tell no one of your plans.

Leave no address. Say nothing about my visit. It would not be wise for you to mention it."

"You threaten me?" demanded the millionaire. "You have chosen the wrong person. I shall tell you my plans. I shall remain here. I shall denounce you as an impostor."

THE SHADOW smiled, in perfect imitation of the millionaire. From his pocket he drew a small pad, and pencil. He wrote upon the paper, and turned it toward Lamont Cranston.

"My signature!" gasped the millionaire.

"Yes," was the reply, "and that is not all. You have been very lax in handling the affairs of Lamont Cranston.

"There are many matters which you have forgotten. There are many securities, in safe-deposit vaults.

You do not know the exact amounts. I do.

"You have some knowledge of Lamont Cranston's family history. I doubt that you could recall the maiden names of both his grandmothers. I know them.

"Stay if you wish. Try to denounce me. But remember that I have established the personality of Lamont Cranston. a.s.suming that you are Lamont Cranston, I know more about you than you know about yourself!

"So use your own judgment. But I warn you in advance. If you are here when I come to-morrow, there will be but one result.

"You will be arrested as the impersonator of Lamont Cranston. I shall be the injured party. It will mean an inconvenience for me; but it will mean real difficulties for you."

The millionaire smiled grimly. He was not yet ready to accept the dictates of this bold visitor."Before I last went away," said Cranston, "I wrote a letter to a friend of mine, mentioning some very personal matters. There is one man who will know that I am really Lamont Cranston."

The false Lamont Cranston reproduced the smile.

"I know the contents of that letter," he said quietly. "It was mailed to Cleveland. Moreover, there was a reply to the letter. I received the reply. I wrote a second letter, answering some questions that were asked.

"Produce your friend from Cleveland. He will choose the real Lamont Cranston; and I shall be his choice."

The man in the bed rubbed his forehead in perplexity. Then he looked at his visitor, and laughed. The humor of the situation began to appeal to him.

"Well," he said, "a trip to Europe might not be so bad. I usually spend too much time making my own plans. It is rather pleasing to have some one do the work for me. But there is the matter of reservations-"