Murder Every Hour

CHAPTER XI HARRY REPORTS

NINE o’clock the next evening found Harry Vincent seated across the desk front Philo Dreblin. Harry had completed his first day of duty as the calthite magnate’s secretary. Dreblin seemed pleased with his new employee’s efficiency. Harry noted a smile on the magnate’s lips as the heavy man glanced at his watch.

“All right, Vincent,” decided Dreblin. “I have dictated enough letters for tonight. Type these off; let me see them in the morning.”

Harry nodded. He gathered up his notes and went from the study. But as he closed the door behind him, the new secretary felt the dawning of a definite suspicion. Dreblin had spoken in a manner that indicated a coming appointment.

Dreblin’s study was on the second floor of the magnate’s Manhattan mansion. Dreblin evidently liked the surroundings of this West Side brownstone house, for he apparently never went to the office of the Calthite Company. Harry had figured that, because of frequent telephone calls between Dreblin and the office. Such business had taken up a great portion of the day.

In leaving the door of Dreblin’s study, Harry crossed an outer room — a sort of parlor filled with heavy, squatty furniture. Harry reached a hall; he entered a little room that had been assigned to him. There he placed his notes beside a large typewriter.

Harry unlocked a box that looked like the case of a portable typewriter. It housed an odd-looking contrivance to which was attached a length of insulated wire with a plug on the end. Harry attached the plug to a floor socket. He pulled the switch.

Immediately, the device in the box began to click in the fashion of a typewriter. There were pauses in its sounds; tinkles of bells; noises that resembled the sliding of a typewriter carriage. The Shadow had supplied Harry with this machine; and the agent had found it useful on other occasions.

Anyone passing the room would suppose Harry to be hard at work behind a closed door. Because of that, Harry could be elsewhere. Peering out into the hall, he sneaked from the room and closed the door behind him. He tiptoed to the gloomy upstairs parlor.

Finding a hiding place behind a large chair, Harry waited, believing that a visitor would soon arrive. He could hear the faint clicks of his fake typewriter. He expected to see Alfred — taciturn servant in Dreblin’s employ — appear from the hall, bringing some stranger. But Alfred did not arrive.

Nor did any visitor appear alone. This puzzled Harry, for he was blocking the only entrance to Dreblin’s study.

At last impatience overruled caution. Harry crept from behind the chair and approached the door of the study. He peered through the keyhole; but saw nothing, for a key was in the lock.

As Harry listened, however, he caught the sound of mumbled voices.

It could not be Dreblin talking on the telephone, for the voices differed. One was the magnate’s basso; the other was a higher tone. Harry could not distinguish words; he decided that the speakers must be over by the desk.

Minutes passed. There were pauses in the discussion. A slight shuffling sound replaced words. Then Harry caught snatches of Dreblin’s rumble. He knew that the magnate must have risen from the desk; that he must be near the door.

One word was “secretary”; then came “tomorrow night”; an indistinguishable rumble; then finally the words: “Nine o’clock.” Upon that, Harry heard the other voice distinctly. The visitor was bidding Dreblin goodnight.

“Nine o’clock,” heard Harry. “Same as usual. Well, maybe we’ll have something more to talk about.”

Footsteps moved. Harry thought they were approaching the door. He sidled from the parlor, reached his own room and turned off the fake typewriter. Before he had closed and locked the box that held the odd device, Harry had already formulated a quick plan.

He knew that the visitor must have found some secret entry to Dreblin’s study. That room was at the rear of the house; it was likely that the stranger had come in by a rear door. With that thought, Harry strolled from his own room and descended the front stairs. He saw no sign of Alfred; so he kept out through the front door.

There was a passage between Dreblin’s house and the building next door. Harry stepped in that direction; then stopped. Far along the passage, he saw a figure beside a door near the rear of the house. Apparently, the man was locking the door behind him.

The fellow turned. He cut through to the rear street. As his form came into the glow of a street lamp, Harry saw that the visitor was tall and stoop-shouldered, wearing a light gray overcoat.

Promptly, Harry approached the door that the man had left. Trying it, he found it locked.

An unused door; not a formidable barrier. Dreblin had doubtless supplied his friend with a key. Harry knew it would be too late to trail the vanished visitor. It was also wise for him to return to his own room. So he went to the front of the house and entered.

Again, Alfred was absent. Harry went up to the second floor.

Tiptoeing into his own room, he listened. He heard footsteps coming down from the third story. Harry went to the typewriter. Soon a knock came at the door. Harry stopped typing and opened it. Alfred, dull-faced and obsequious, was standing outside.

“If you’d like coffee, sir,” said the servant, “let me know at any time. I forgot to tell you that, sir, when I went up to my quarters on the third floor.”

“Shall I call to you up there?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Hastings always did so. You may do the same, Mr. Vincent.”

“Good. I’d like some coffee after I finish work. Right now, Alfred, I think that I’ll go out for some fresh air. All right if I leave the front door unlocked for about fifteen minutes?”

“Better ring, sir. I shall post myself downstairs to await your return.”

Harry left the house and went to a corner drug store. There he put in a call to Burbank. He reported what he had learned at Dreblin’s. Burbank told Harry to stand by; to call again in five minutes.

When he made his second call, Harry gained instructions. He was to return to Dreblin’s, there to continue with his duties as secretary. That was all. Harry, however, knew that Burbank must have held converse with The Shadow during that five minute interval between calls.

SUCH had been the case. The Shadow was in his sanctum. A blue globe was burning above a polished table. White hands lay beneath the light. Upon one sparkled a resplendent gem, a rare girasol, the only jewel that The Shadow wore.

The right hand inscribed inked notations. Like written expressions of fleeting thought were these comments of The Shadow. A soft laugh sounded from the near side of the lamp. Prompt results had favored the campaign in which The Shadow had employed Harry Vincent.

Philo Dreblin had received a secret visitor. The man had entered and left by a private passage to the magnate’s house. That same person would be back tomorrow night at nine. He answered the description that The Shadow wanted.

The man in gray! Not dark gray — the color of Donald Powlden’s overcoat — but light gray. The man who had been seen at the places where crime had struck. The one whose identity The Shadow considered essential to a clearing of the atmosphere that shrouded crime.

The Shadow inscribed these words with spaces between them. The man in gray might be any one of the three. Possibly, he was the actual killer of three victims. Again, he might have followed his path merely to complete the trail that had led to Donald Powlden.

That second point left two possibilities, which The Shadow indicated by two words:

If an accomplice, the man in gray had gone to three scenes of crime with the deliberate intention of passing himself as Powlden. If a dupe, he had been sent to those spots by the real murderer; yet he himself had not known that crime was in the making.

The third possibility still existed: that the man was a chance visitor. Weighing possibilities, The Shadow knew that he could form no definite conclusion until later. Once the identity of the unknown man was discovered; once the fellow was encountered face to face, it would be possible to learn what his actual part had been.

Three possibilities. Contemplation of them produced a whispered laugh from The Shadow. The situation had become intriguing. Should the man in gray prove to be the murderer, The Shadow would be at the end of his trail. Should he prove to have been a trail maker or a chance visitor, The Shadow would be ready for further steps.

One fact was certain. All of the three possibilities pointed to definite action and The Shadow had plans that he had withheld until this moment. Reaching across the table, he obtained a set of earphones. A tiny light glimmered. A voice responded:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Instructions to Burke,” informed The Shadow. “Occupy Apartment 8 A at the Belgaria tomorrow.”

“Instructions received.”

“Instructions to Marsland. Contact with Burke.”

“Instructions received.”

“Further instructions to agents tomorrow.”

The Shadow replaced the earphones. The tiny bulb went out. The glare of the bluish light ended with a click. A laugh rippled through the sanctum — pronouncement of The Shadow’s departure.

The mysterious investigator was faring forth; but he would remain inactive until the morrow. Nine o’clock in the evening would be the zero hour. Then would The Shadow aim for swift and conclusive results.