The Four Signets

CHAPTER IX. DEATH DELIVERED

AT the very time when The Shadow was departing from the underworld, two figures were crouched by the rear door of a house on Eighty-eighth Street. Above them reared old-fashioned, brownstone walls.

Steel-shuttered windows jutted in the darkness. This was the East Side residence of which Dr. Ralder had spoken.

One man was holding a guarded flashlight; while the other worked upon the door itself. The lock had yielded, the problem now was to loosen a chainbolt on the inside of the door. The task was coming to a slow conclusion as the worker probed through an inch-wide space, using a jimmy. Each twist of his wrist brought the chainbolt closer to the dropping point.

“Take it easy,” whispered the man with the light. The voice was that of Hoot Shelling. “Any noise will queer the stunt. Got it, Greasy?”

“Yeah,” growled the worker. “There it goes.”

The chain swung free and clicked against the door frame. Shoving his hand through the space, Greasy caught the chain and steadied it. He pushed the door further inward; then closed it carefully and turned to Hoot.

“O.K.,” said Greasy.

“Come on, then,” urged the leader. “We’ll scram. You did a neat job, Greasy. That lock won’t show any signs of what you did to it.”

“Yeah, but what about the chainbolt? The chief won’t be able to shoot it when he comes out.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Hoot was leading a course away from the house. Flashlight out, he was pressing through the darkness. “The servant will think he forgot to lock the door — that’s all. Just so long as nobody can prove that we worked on the door, it’s all jake.”

“I don’t get it, though,” stated Greasy, as they sneaked across the street. “We blew the door at Lyken’s place. You had the gang along, too. But here—”

“You don’t have to get it,” whispered Hoot, harshly. “But I might as well give you the lay — as much as I know of it. Lyken had to be bumped with a gat. See? That’s why we made it look like a burglary. But this old gent that lives here — Elwood Phraytag — well, he’s on his last legs.

“If it looks like he just passed out, there’s going to be no trouble. So we needed a neat job, without the gang. That’s what the chief told me. Leave it to him, Greasy.”

Silence as the two slouched up to a spot where a touring car was parked. Hoot had picked a place in front of an abandoned house. He and Greasy entered the car. Hoot slouched at the wheel, waiting to make sure that no one was coming along the deserted sidewalk.

“What about a signal, Hoot,” questioned Greasy. “You blinked the light last night.”

“No need for it this trip,” responded Hoot. “The chief’s on the job. May have been watching us from the back of the house. Plenty of hiding places round there.”

“He must be a smart guy.”

“He is.” Hoot laughed shortly. “For one thing, he’s smart enough to keep himself covered. I’m the only guy who knows who he is, and I’m telling nobody.”

“That’s all right by me,” growled Greasy. “But what are you waiting for?”

“He said to stick around about five minutes,” informed Hoot. “Just in case we are needed. Going to make sure everything’s still quiet. Then we’ll scram.”

“Down to Ralder’s?”

“No. Over to Zemo’s. That Brooklyn hide-out is where we’re going to stay.”

“Suits me. If the bulls come looking for us, they won’t figure we’re laying upstairs over a hock shop.”

Conversation ended. The five minute period was up. Hoot let off the handbrake; the car coasted down a slight incline, then the crook leader let it into gear as they neared the corner. The touring car rolled out of sight.

A chuckle sounded from to steps of the abandoned house. Footsteps scuffled; a figure appeared and moved across the street. The dim light of the thoroughfare snowed the ungainly form of Ed Mallan. Then the private dick cut through toward the rear of Phraytag’s old house.

UPSTAIRS, in a second-story room, an elderly man was lying in bed. His face, like his frame, told its story of a vigorous past. The man— Elwood Phraytag — had been powerful and energetic until the passage of time had withered him.

Though his dried lips were firm, the hollows of his cheeks showed the ravages of old age. His eyes, though open, were unseeing. His arms were scrawny; his thin hands had become long claws that quivered occasionally as they plucked at the bed-spread.

At intervals, Phraytag’s lips opened to emit a sighing sound. There was a rattle to that wheeze; and it signified the hopelessness of the old man’s existence. Elwood Phraytag, the blind philanthropist, was one whose days were numbered. Yet he was holding tightly to life, striving by sheer force of will to hold himself from the grave that yawned before him.

Beside the bed was a table stacked with bottles. A pitcher of water stood beside a tumbler. Here were the medicines and prescriptions that had aided Phraytag to stave off approaching death. With skilled physicians at his beck, Phraytag might live for months before he succumbed.

A footstep sounded from the doorway. Elwood Phraytag turned his sightless eyes in that direction. He spoke — and his voice was a strange whir like the mechanism of a striking clock.

“Who is it?” demanded the old philanthropist.

“The doctor,” came in a low, half-whispered voice.

“Not Doctor MacCallert,” whirred Phraytag, sharply. “I have never heard your voice before.”

“I am Doctor Torrig.” The voice seemed to be feigning a professional tone. “Doctor MacCallert was detained at the hospital. He asked me to come here, with the new prescription.”

Phraytag’s lips were compressed suspiciously. He felt a hand stretch forward to feel his pulse. The philanthropist shifted uneasily.

“The new prescription?” he questioned.

“Yes.” The tone, though still low, had steadied. “Doctor MacCallert is coming later. He wants to see what effect the medicine will have. Rest quietly, Mr. Phraytag.”

The hand moved from the blind man’s pulse. Phraytag heard the soft pop of a cork. A liquid trickled into a glass; then came the splash of water from the pitcher. After that the stirring of a spoon.

“Here.” The voice, though still artificial, carried a brusque order. “Drink this, Mr. Phraytag. All of it, please.”

Phraytag’s claws touched the tumbler. The philanthropist gulped the liquid. He made a wry face as a hand removed the glass from his talons. He did not like the taste. He sank back upon the pillows and gasped in whirring fashion.

“Good night, Mr. Phraytag.”

CAUTIOUS footsteps stalked toward the door. The barrier closed softly. After that, Elwood Phraytag’s ears could hear no sound. The philanthropist remained motionless; then, of a sudden, he pressed his clawlike hands against his breast.

“Worthington!” The philanthropist whirred. “Worthington!”

No response. A spasm shook Phraytag’s frame. Sweeping one withered arm, the old man sent glasses and bottles scattering from the table. The clatter was loud as glassware broke upon the floor beside the rug.

“Worthington!”

Pounding footsteps from the stairway. The door burst open and an old, stooped servant stopped upon the threshold. Worthington’s startled eyes saw the wreckage on the floor. Then they observed Phraytag, writhing in the bed.

“What is the matter, sir?” questioned the servant.

“The doctor!” whirred Phraytag. “Where did he go? Bring him back — bring him back—”

“Doctor MacCallert has not yet arrived, sir.”

“I mean the other doctor — the one who—”

The whir ended. In a final convulsion, Phraytag came half out of bed; then fell back with outstretched arms. His form became motionless. His lips ceased quivering. Whirring gasps ended as sightless eyes stared straight up to the ceiling.

Worthington stood gazing in a frightened manner. Then, with maddened impulse, he turned and hurried crablike from the room, leaving the door open behind him. His footsteps clattered on the stairway.

There was a back passage to the second-floor hall. That space was dark. From it stepped Ed Mallan.

The dick paused at the door of Phraytag’s room; then entered. He approached the bed and placed his finger tips upon Phraytag’s forehead. He could feel the coldness of death upon the philanthropist’s brow.

Gold teeth glistened in the light. The detective turned and moved from the room. He reached the front stairs; the flight that Worthington had taken. He descended cautiously into the dimly lighted hall below.

Worthington was talking over the telephone; Mallan could hear the servant’s voice from a little room beyond the hall. As he edged toward a door that led to the kitchen, Mallan listened to the servant’s words.

“Yes…” Worthington’s tone was a gasp… “At Mr. Phraytag’s… Right away… What’s that? Doctor MacCallert has left? On his way here… I understand… Any minute…. Yes, I shall expect him…”

Mallan had opened the kitchen door. The portal closed. Softly, the dick crossed the kitchen, opened the back door and stepped out into the night.

Gloom surrounded the mansion of death. Upstairs, Elwood Phraytag lay pitifully upon the bed, his last gasp ended. Below, Worthington was pacing back and forth in the hallway. The servant was wondering whether he should return upstairs or whether he should wait here to give Doctor MacCallert prompt admittance. The latter course held him.

FIVE minutes passed. Out on the front street, a swift, fleeting figure stopped by the opposite sidewalk.

Keen eyes looked upward. They spied the shuttered windows of the tomblike mansion. A soft laugh — the whisper of The Shadow. The figure crossed the street and merged with the darkness that surrounded the house.

A soft swish by the back door. A gloved hand opened the unlocked barrier. Motion within the darkened kitchen; then soft, almost inaudible footsteps upon the back stairway. Out of the darkened passage on the second floor came the ghostly, shrouded figure of The Shadow.

Into the room of death. There, like a spectral being, The Shadow stood above the bed where Elwood Phraytag lay. Keen eyes saw that the old philanthropist was dead. The Shadow’s gaze turned toward the little table.

The water pitcher had not fallen from Phraytag’s puny sweep. The Shadow noted that the lip of the pitcher was wet. Water had been poured from that pitcher. Into what?

The Shadow stooped. He found the broken portions of a drinking tumbler. The fragments of glass were entirely dry. There was but one answer. Some one had poured water into a different glass and had taken the other tumbler from the room.

A bell rang from below. The Shadow turned. He stopped at the doorway and listened. Worthington’s excited voice was being followed by the rumble of a visitor. Then came footsteps on the stairway. The Shadow moved toward the darkness of the passage.

Worthington arrived followed by a portly, middle-aged man — Doctor MacCallert. The servant conducted the physician into the room. MacCallert made a prompt examination. Then, with a shake of his head, he spoke to Worthington, who was standing with staring eyes.

“This,” declared MacCallert, in a sober tone, “was to be expected. Human aid could go no further, Worthington. Your master is dead.”

Worthington dropped beside the bed. He choked as he tried to speak. The physician could understand the servant’s sorrow. Reaching out, MacCallert lifted a coverlet and drew it over the features of Elwood Phraytag.

Eyes from the doorway saw the action. The Shadow had come from the passage. The raising of the coverlet revealed Phraytag’s left hand, which had been thrust out of sight. From the third finger, The Shadow caught the sparkle of a gold signet ring. Then MacCallert’s body intervened.

SILENTLY, The Shadow moved into the passage. He descended the rear stairway and reached the outer door. A tiny flashlight blinked, to show the dangling chainbolt; then the lock. There, The Shadow paused. A small lens appeared in his right hand; through it, he studied the lock.

Tiny scratches were seen — not noticeable to the naked eye, but plain when beneath the magnifying lens.

The Shadow knew that this door had not been left open. Some one — a craftsman at this work — had made an entry to the house.

The flashlight went out. The Shadow swished into darkness. His form stalked silently along the street.

Only the grim echo of a laugh announced his passage. Again, crime had preceded The Shadow.

For The Shadow knew — by testimony of drinking glass and lock— that subtle murder had been performed tonight. Doctor MacCallert, expecting Phraytag’s death, might well attribute the philanthropist’s demise to natural causes.

To The Shadow, that verdict was merely new proof of the murderer’s skill. A killer had changed tactics.

Burglary, the blast that rocked a neighborhood, a bullet fired into a victim’s heart — those had been the features of Philip Lyken’s death.

But with Elwood Phraytag’s finish had come silence. Cold, brutal craft had replaced strenuous attack.

The hidden hand of crime was versatile. Its work was a challenge to The Shadow.

Twice, crime had won the verdict, while The Shadow, fighting underlings, had been diverted from the master of evil. Yet, tonight, The Shadow had scored a stroke that his enemy would not suspect.

Some fiend was chortling over the death of Elwood Phraytag — a murder that the law would never suspect. While the monster chuckled, The Shadow laughed. For he — The Shadow — was still upon the trail of crime.