The Death Triangle

CHAPTER XIV THROUGH THE MANSION

A SHREWD, satisfied gleam was plain on Miles Vorber’s face. The servant seemed sure that he was free from discovery. As The Shadow had anticipated, Vorber was here to make a new search of the furniture.

Unlike The Shadow, however, Vorber was content to take much for granted. His observations of the other searchers had convinced him that it was unnecessary to look in certain places. He spent most of his time tapping the sides of the desk, the secretary, and other large pieces of furniture.

Occasionally, Vorber ceased his work to listen at the door. He always began where he had left off. Finally, he seemed dejected. He stood in the center of the room, looking all about him. His face was sour, his attitude was that of a man who was feeling the approach of nervousness.

Each time that Vorber’s gaze turned toward the spot where The Shadow stood, the watching eyes of the silent master seemed to fade from view. Not once did Vorber catch a glimpse of the sinister shape which occupied the library.

Stooping, Vorber walked with feline tread toward the end of the room where The Shadow was standing. He crossed the long, silhouetted patch of darkness that lay upon the floor. He did not notice it. Vorber’s eyes were upon the discarded items of furniture.

The servant reached the very place where The Shadow had performed his mysterious rappings in the darkness. He looked at tables, chairs, and bookrack. He shook his head.

Then, as an afterthought, Vorber extended both hands — one toward each table. With his thin knuckles he tapped the tops of the tables. They echoed solidly. Vorber turned away.

The test had been positive. Vorber had heard what Paul Marchelle had said regarding the size of a deed. Even if the document had been folded, it could not have been placed between the portions of a double table top without some token of the container being evident when Vorber rapped.

The servant was looking at the bookcases. He seemed to be weighing the risks attendant to the removal of the long rows of volumes. Again, he shook his head, without, however, looking beyond the end of the bookcase. A scowl appeared upon Vorber’s face.

Until the present moment, Vorber had been too intent in his search to worry further about matters outside of the library. With a lull in action, the servant apparently began to think of such subjects. The Shadow knew that Vorber had cause for apprehension.

In this room, entry effected with a duplicate key, Vorber was taking chances in his quest for the missing deed. Quick footsteps took him toward the door. The light went out as Vorber’s hand pressed the switch. A puff of air denoted that the door was opened. Vorber waited at the entrance to the room.

It was obvious that the servant intended to return if he heard nothing from upstairs. The Shadow, however, had no reason to remain. His tall form came forth from its hiding place. In the darkness, The Shadow was invisible. His footsteps, also, were soundless.

AN unseen hand raised the bar that held the shutters. Gloved fingers drew the double barrier inward. A draft went through the room as the sash beyond the inner shutters moved upward. An instant later, Vorber closed the door.

The Shadow was halfway through the window. By the time Vorber had placed his hand upon the light switch, The Shadow was outside; the shutters were closing. Vorber turned on the light. He stepped farther into the room.

Steadily, the shutters closed, without the slightest noise.

Then came the remarkable sequel. In closing the shutters, The Shadow delayed the final action. The iron bar, responding to a trifling jar, slipped downward from a poised position. As though controlled by a ghostly hand, it moved into its proper place, eased there soundlessly!

Vorber happened to glance toward the window. He had heard nothing. Only caution accounted for his sudden gaze.

The servant’s eyes did not observe the final imperceptible movement as the shutters locked; nor did his ears detect the lowering of the sash beyond the double barrier.

Vorber’s return was for a single purpose. He wanted to examine the bookcases. He did so, quickly, and with exactitude, removing batches of books and replacing them precisely as he had found them.

Confident that neither Howard Wycliff nor Paul Marchelle were worried about this locked room, Vorber proceeded with fruitless results.

OUTSIDE the mansion, The Shadow was moving through the darkness. For the second time this evening, he approached the wall and began a noiseless, invisible upward climb. The Shadow entered the room where Cyril Wycliff had died. He continued through to the gloomily lighted hall. He listened and heard snores from a room close by.

Two closed doors: these indicated the rooms occupied by Howard Wycliff and Paul Marchelle. The Shadow spied an obscure stairway leading to the third floor. He followed it upward. He came to a closed door. It was unlocked. The Shadow entered. His flashlight glimmered. The Shadow was in Miles Vorber’s room.

The room was large, but plainly furnished. Part of its space consisted of two long alcoves, which terminated in windows set in the side of the sloping roof. They were almost like passages.

A bed, two chairs, a bureau, and an old desk: these were the principal items of furniture in Vorber’s room. The Shadow went to the desk and found it locked. He opened it within a few seconds. With his flashlight glimmered, he studied pigeonholes; then picked a long, flat drawer which bore a lock. This opened under the persuasion of the blackened pick.

There were papers within; items of trivial importance. Under them, however, The Shadow discovered rows of bank books, neatly concealed beneath a sheet of brown paper which filled the entire bottom of the drawer. All these books bore the name of Miles Vorber. The Shadow examined them.

The books showed deposits — in banks and savings funds — to the total of twelve thousand dollars. With the exception of straggling amounts which covered a period of years, a full ten thousand had been deposited within the past few months.

The Shadow laughed softly as he replaced the books. His mirth indicated a supposition that was more than mere conjecture. He understood the source of Vorber’s suddenly accumulated wealth. The Shadow’s light went out. His gliding form stole from the room, along the hallway to the stairs, then down to the second floor.

But for The Shadow’s keen hearing, approaching figures would have met in the gloom of the second-story hallway. Miles Vorber was coming softly up the stairs, quietly enough to avoid detection by those who were sleeping on the second floor, but not with a stride too stealthy for The Shadow to hear.

For two full seconds, the figure of The Shadow was revealed. It was a moving form in black, cloaked and topped with a slouch hat. The cloak swished; a flash of its crimson lining came in view. Before Miles Vorber had arrived, however, The Shadow had swept into the darkness of Cyril Wycliff’s old room.

Miles Vorber passed through the hall and went up the stairs to the third floor. He did not even suspect the presence of a living being watching his progress from the door of the room where his master had died. When Vorber’s final softened treads had died, The Shadow turned and crossed to the window. He left silently, wedging the lock shut by the means of a thin instrument pried between the portions of the sash.

From the time that his form descended the wall, none could have traced the passage of The Shadow. The next manifestation of his awesome presence came in the silent house across the street from the old mansion.

BURBANK, his back toward the door of a dimly lighted room, was seated before a small table, with a pair of ear phones on his head.

Of all The Shadow’s agents, Burbank was the most enduring. His duties were passive as a rule, but there seemed to be no limit to the length of time that he could remain awake and ready.

Tonight, there would be no more reports from The Shadow’s agents. Clyde Burke had given his final call from detective headquarters. None of the other agents were at present engaged in duty. Burbank was awaiting only the final word from The Shadow.

The door of the room opened softly. Into this carefully arranged spot of habitation in a supposedly deserted house stepped The Shadow. His tall form remained just within the door. The Shadow spoke in a hushed whisper.

“Off duty,” was his brief command.

Burbank did not turn. He simply removed the ear phones from his head. Burbank had received other visits from The Shadow. He accepted them as regular events. Burbank pressed the switch of a lamp beside him. The light went out. In darkness, Burbank arose from his chair. An army cot creaked as The Shadow’s agent sat down upon it.

There was no sound of the door closing; no sound, indeed, to indicate that any person had moved in that direction. Yet Burbank knew, from experience, that his master, The Shadow, had departed, after giving him the sign that his vigil was ended.

Such word usually came from The Shadow’s sanctum. Tonight, being in the vicinity of Burbank’s present station, The Shadow had preferred to give his faithful agent fifteen or twenty minutes of extra respite by visiting him in person.

Such was the way of The Shadow. Though none of his trusted operatives had ever seen his undisguised face; though his ways and actions were secret and mysterious to them; they received constant signs of The Shadow’s appreciation of their reliable cooperation.

THE Wycliff mansion was silent. So was the house across the street. No one in the vicinity heard the departure of a trim coupe that slipped easily from its parking spot upon a street not far away.

There had been no evidence at Howard Wycliff’s home that could have given anyone an inkling of The Shadow’s visit. The ways of the mysterious investigator had been dark and baffling. Nevertheless, The Shadow had accomplished much. A sibilant laugh from the downtown-bound coupe betokened that fact.

Tonight, The Shadow had learned facts that he required. He had seen the search for the missing deed begin. He had made his own search; he had seen Miles Vorber’s clever efforts afterward. The Shadow, in his departure, had gained definite results.

He had left Howard Wycliff’s house with the positive knowledge that the missing deed was safely hidden; that until he, The Shadow, should so will, its place of concealment would pass undetected!

The crafty method which dead Cyril Wycliff had used to preserve his most important document had been discovered by the subtle understanding of The Shadow!

Should The Shadow so decide, the search for the missing deed would end. At any time, Howard Wycliff could be privileged to receive the valuable paper which his father had sought to give to him. For the present, however, that time would be delayed.

The Shadow knew, by keen deduction, that the missing deed was the lure which had caused the crime of murder.

While villains lurked, the time of restitution could wait.

Such was the decision of The Shadow.