The Silent Death

CHAPTER VIII. INTO THE TRAP

THE corridor outside of Apartment 636 in Langley Court was amply illuminated by ceiling lights. Yet the glow was not sufficient to reveal the living form that passed along that corridor.

The only token of a strange visitant was a blotched mass of darkness that moved silently beside the wall of the passage. Thus did The Shadow effect his mysterious approach as he advanced to the scene where crime was set.

Only when the moving darkness paused, did it reveal itself as the figure of a person. A tall shape, shoulders covered with a flowing cloak, head obscured beneath a black slouch hat, stood before the door of 636.

Burning eyes were focused upon the lock. Black-gloved hands produced a small steel instrument. Softly, easily, deft fingers worked at their appointed task. The lock yielded. The door opened inward.

Shrouded in the darkness of the room, The Shadow paused before he closed the door. A tiny spot of light glowed upon the lock which he had picked. The keen eyes observed tiny scratches. A low soft laugh resounded in the gloom. The door closed.

The Shadow was inside Barnsworth’s apartment.

It was not yet ten o’clock. A full hour remained before Slips Harbeck and his gangsters might arrive.

Barnsworth was not due back until midnight. A switch clicked, and the living room of the apartment was bathed in a glow from a floor lamp in the corner.

The Shadow began an inspection of the place. There was no mistaking his purpose. Tonight, according to accurate information gained from Cliff Marsland, Wesley Barnsworth would be allowed to enter here unharmed. Later, mobsmen would break in to slay him.

The living room afforded hiding places. One of these would serve The Shadow. From it, he could emerge to strike down the minions of crime.

If they entered before Barnsworth, the stroke could come then. If they entered later, they could be met before they had a chance to kill.

But murder was not the only purpose mentioned. The leader of the intended slayers — Slips Harbeck — had been instructed to pick up any documents that might be loose. Why had he been so ordered? That, The Shadow intended to learn.

The black-cloaked figure stopped by a table near the floor lamp. One finger touched the polished surface. It made a slight smudge in a fine, thin layer of dust. That fact did not escape The Shadow’s eye.

The cloak swished slightly as The Shadow swung across the room. He opened a door. The light showed a small room, evidently intended as a bedroom, but equipped with desk, table, and chairs. There was a lamp suspended above the desk in the corner. The Shadow pressed the switch.

THE illumination was thrown directly on the desk. There, beneath the lamp, rested an envelope, The hand of The Shadow reached forward. The black fingers carefully approached the envelope to lift it with exactitude.

They stopped suddenly, and one finger touched the surface of the desk. This time there was no smudge of dust.

Wheeling, The Shadow moved to the table in the corner of the room. His tiny flashlight threw its silver-dollar beam upon the wood. A finger touched the table and made a slight smudge.

The flashlight disappeared. The black gloves peeled away. Long, white hands, with tapering fingers, came in view. Upon a finger of the left hand glistened a strange gem that glittered with amazing hues as the hands came beneath the light above the desk.

The Shadow seated himself. He produced pen and paper from beneath his cloak. He rested the paper on the desk, away from the envelope beneath the lamp. The left hand was still. The jewel sparkled in mystic colors.

Deep crimson; then flashing purple; finally a dull, changing blue — these were the shades of light from the strange stone. This gem was The Shadow’s girasol, a variety of fire opal. It seemed to glow with the life of an undying ember, flashing forth sparks of light. Like the eyes that watched it, this talisman symbolized mystery.

The eyes of The Shadow studied the desk. They roved to the table. They glanced into the outer room.

Hidden lips laughed softly. That sound, despite its gentleness, was sinister. It seemed like the mirth of a being from another world — an uncanny, foreboding tone that human lips could not have uttered.

Sighing, whispered echoes made the laugh still live as they responded from the walls. A horde of invisible demons had seemingly responded to their master. The right hand of The Shadow moved, inscribing words that were written thoughts.

Scratches on the lock. Some one has entered.

Dust on the tables. The owner has been absent.

No dust on the desk. It does not correspond with other furniture. It has been inserted since the owner’s departure.

The writing was in bright-blue ink. It remained for several seconds; then, letter by letter, word by word, it disappeared. No traces remained upon the blank sheet of paper. Pen and paper disappeared. Once again, The Shadow laughed.

THERE was a telephone beside the desk. It was resting on a book. The Shadow picked up the directory, and found the number of J. Wesley Barnsworth.

The name was listed twice: a business address in Wall Street; the residence at Langley Court. The latter number corresponded with the one on the telephone itself.

In the front of the book, The Shadow found a list of names and telephone numbers evidently persons with whom Barnsworth had close acquaintance or business associations. The Shadow picked two names— one from the top of the list; the other from the bottom. The one at the top was Joseph Harrison; the one at the bottom was that of Graham Gorson.

Placing the phone at the extreme corner of the desk, The Shadow dialed the number of Joseph Harrison.

A voice responded. The hidden lips of The Shadow spoke in an ordinary tone, rather briskly and away from the mouthpiece.

“Hello… Is this Mr. Harrison?… Mr. Joseph Harrison?… I am Graham Gorson — friend of Wesley Barnsworth…”

The receiver crackled as the man at the other end made his reply:

“Hello, Mr. Gorson… Yes, I remember you. Wesley introduced us at the Raffle Club… Surely. What can I do for you?”

“I am anxious to get in touch with Mr. Barnsworth,” came The Shadow’s assumed tones. “I have not been able to reach him…”

“Don’t you know that he went to Florida?” inquired Harrison, over the wire. “He’s been gone ten days now.”

“I knew he intended to go,” answered The Shadow, “but I was not sure when he planned to leave. I shall have to wait until he returns.”

“That will be nearly a month,” informed Harrison. “Sorry I don’t have his address, Mr. Gorson. If you call his office…”

With call concluded, and book and telephone replaced upon the floor, The Shadow arose and stood beside the desk. His keen eyes had detected scarcely noticeable factors that had warned him of hidden danger. The telephone call had assured him that this apartment had no occupant at present.

Some mystery lay here; and The Shadow knew that it centered about the envelope upon the desk which did not belong to this room.

Moving into the living room, The Shadow plucked a thin book from a trough beneath a side table. He carried it into the small room, and set it upon the envelope.

Holding the book with one hand, The Shadow raised it imperceptibly; with his other hand, he whisked the envelope out from beneath the book, which he left upon the desk.

The deft fingers carefully peeled open the flap, so neatly that the envelope remained intact. From within, they drew a heavy folded paper. Spread out, the paper revealed nothing. It was blank.

The Shadow replaced the paper and put it in the envelope. He did not seal the wrapper. He merely inserted the envelope beneath the book, and worked it neatly back into place. Carrying the book to the place where it belonged The Shadow returned to the desk.

THE black gloves slipped over the white hands. A tiny reel came from beneath The Shadow’s cloak. The gloved hands stretched out a length of thread from within the reel. The fingers dabbed the end of the thread upon the envelope. It remained there, thanks to a tiny button coated with a sticky wax.

The Shadow moved across the room, paying out thread as he drew away. He reached the living room and closed the door behind him. The reel was close to the floor; the thread passed beneath the door. A draw upon that thread would pull the envelope from the desk.

Holding the reel and standing close beside the wall, The Shadow pressed a knob in the center. The thread responded, drawing rapidly inward as a spring was released within the reel. This action caused a startling effect in the closed room beyond the door.

Simultaneously with the withdrawal of the envelope, a mighty, sighing puff sounded on the other side of the barrier. It was a gigantic, muffled gasp that made the door quiver and shift outward; then inward. The sound of tinkling glass followed.

That was all.

The Shadow opened the door. The little room was no longer illuminated, but its interior was vaguely plain in the light from the living room.

The place was a mass of wreckage. The desk was completely collapsed. The table and the chairs were broken. The light above the table, shade as well as incandescent, was shattered. Only the telephone rested on the floor; the envelope that had come from the desk lay near the door.

The withdrawal of that envelope had caused a weird, silent explosion. A filmy haze of smoke was settling to the floor of the room. As it cleared away, The Shadow entered, and his flashlight ran about the room.

It rested upon a broken metal object that lay on the floor.

The Shadow laughed. That article was a photoelectric cell. Beside it was a fragment of flat glass. It did not come from the window, although the panes had broken there, adding to the tinkling which The Shadow had heard. This bit of glass had come from the desk itself.

The Shadow knew the answer. That desk had been a death device. Loaded with a chemical bomb, it had awaited the unwary action which would spring the detonator.

That had depended upon the photoelectric cell, set in the top of the desk. Covered with a layer of glass, the envelope resting above it, a shaft of light had alone been needed to make the cell respond.

The hanging light — the tempting envelope. To remove the envelope meant that the light would strike the cell planted in the desk. The Shadow had sensed the danger. He had gone to a place of safety before letting the death trap operate.

The book upon the envelope had enabled him to withdraw the latter with impunity; to learn what he had so cunningly suspected — that the envelope was there to bring death to whoever might take it away.

THIS was no plot of an ordinary gang leader. The intended death of Alfred Sartain had shown the working of a scientific brain; this discharged trap brought more intensive proof of the same fact.

The photoelectric cell was in itself ingenious. The use of a new and remarkable explosive showed still greater craft. Silent death — by a sighing, puffing combustible had awaited The Shadow here tonight.

The instructions which Cliff Marsland had heard Slips Harbeck repeat had been carefully arranged. Their subtle point was the mention of documents. That envelope had rested as a sure temptation that would lead any ordinary investigator to his doom.

The Shadow had divined the danger. He had opened the envelope to find it messageless. He had avoided the menace; he had let the almost noiseless explosive wreak its damage upon furnishings alone.

Professor Urlich’s snare had failed. The Shadow, the master who had spoiled the scientist’s scheme of death for Alfred Sartain, had himself avoided the subtle doom set here tonight.

It had been defensive action. Nothing concerning the enemy’s identity had been revealed. But it placed The Shadow one step nearer his goal — a meeting with the perpetrator of crime whose hand The Shadow had previously discovered.

A few minutes later, the apartment in Langley Court was empty. The secret visitor had departed. The Shadow had met the challenge of silent death!