The Third Skull

CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW ENTERS

“BURBANK speaking.”

“Report—”

The order came in a sinister whisper. The single word was uttered by hidden lips. The Shadow was in his sanctum, a strange room wherein the bluish rays of a shaded lamp glimmered upon the surface of a polished table.

Earphones clamped to head, The Shadow was hearing from Burbank, his contact man who kept in touch with active agents. Burbank’s call was bringing the details of Clyde Burke’s report.

The Shadow’s right hand, beneath the glow of the blue light, was tracing details as his ear received them.

“Report received.”

The left hand thrust the earphones across the table. The Shadow’s eyes, hidden in darkness, began to study the names and notations that his hand had inscribed. A whispered laugh sounded in the blackness beyond the sphere of the blue light.

Like Joe Cardona, The Shadow was considering possibilities. But he was studying the case from a perspective; in forming his conclusions, he was exacting where the detective had been spontaneous.

Upon a sheet of blank paper, The Shadow inscribed a single word; one that shone in letters of vivid blue:

Hildrew Parchell had been expecting death. A man of considerable consequence years ago, his illness had gained but passing mention in the newspapers. His critical condition could have been learned only by persons who were interested in his affairs.

Excluding Tristram, there were only two persons who had known of Parchell’s ailment for a long time.

One was Doctor Raymond Deseurre; the other was Weldon Wingate. Selwood Royce, presumably, had not heard of old Parchell’s condition before tonight.

Cardona had made a note to the effect that Deseurre, Wingate, and Royce were no more than acquaintances. He had added that their visits, as physician, lawyer, and friend, were to be expected, in view of the death that Parchell had anticipated.

Reasoning had caused Cardona to reject his hunch that there was some reason for the trio being summoned. Reasoning, in turn, was the very process whereby The Shadow picked up the conclusion that Cardona had dropped.

Hildrew Parchell had obviously made it a practice not to bring different associates together. The proof of that lay in the fact that his lawyer and his physician had only met by chance in the past.

Tonight, for the first time, Parchell had so arranged his appointments that Wingate and Deseurre could not have failed to meet in his presence.

Cardona had overlooked that point entirely. Viewed from The Shadow’s perspective, it was of great consequence. Then, to magnify the matter, came the question of Selwood Royce. Hildrew Parchell had made a deliberate effort to bring his friend’s son into the conference with Wingate and Deseurre.

Though ill almost to the point of helplessness, old Parchell had dispatched Tristram to call Royce. Unless the old man had wanted Royce present with the others, there would have been no reason for him to have taken the risk of Tristram’s absence. He could have ordered the servant to go out after Wingate had arrived, if Royce’s presence had not been urgent.

Tonight, as The Shadow viewed it, had been important in certain of Hildrew Parchell’s plans. Death had frustrated the old man’s wish for a meeting of the three men while he yet lived. Death had struck in the short time while old Parchell lay unprotected.

This was significant, in spite of the fact that Hildrew Parchell had not had long to live. Moreover, the strange circumstances of the old man’s death — his body on the floor; his bed in flames — were points that struck home with force.

The Shadow was capitalizing where Joe Cardona had failed. Logically, he was building the detective’s discarded hunch into a case that would have astounded Joe Cardona himself.

A click sounded in The Shadow’s sanctum. The bluish light went out. A swish came through the darkness; then the tones of a weird, sinister laugh. Ghoulish echoes responded; next came the hush of silence.

The Shadow had departed.

A CREATURE of darkness, The Shadow could travel invisible pathways in the night. Enshrouding gloom obscured his passage. From the moment that he had left his sanctum, he remained a being unseen, choosing routes that lay untraceable.

As token of The Shadow’s mysterious presence, a manifestation occurred some forty minutes after his departure from the sanctum. This took place on the street where Hildrew Parchell’s residence stood morose.

Blackness came from out of blackness. It glided momentarily beneath the glow of a street lamp; then merged with blackness again directly in front of the Parchell home. After that came slow motion at the doorway of the residence. The front door opened slowly inward.

The Shadow had picked the lock. Closing the door behind him, he advanced through the dully lighted lower hall, following the same course that Tristram had taken so hurriedly when coming to his master’s rescue.

The Shadow reached the second floor. A light was burning in a room beyond. Tristram, in accordance with instructions given him by Cardona, had done nothing to disturb the arrangements of Hildrew Parchell’s bedroom. The servant had even left the wall brackets burning.

Stepping in from the darkness of the hall, The Shadow formed a weird figure. Tall, cloaked in black, he surveyed the death room with burning eyes that peered from beneath the brim of a black slouch hat.

Hildrew Parchell’s body had been removed. Yet, to The Shadow, the spot where the corpse had lain was as plain as if it had been marked in outline. The overturned table was a pointer to the spot where the body had sprawled. Scattered objects from the table had escaped the fire.

Even the candle and its stick had dropped free after the bedclothes had ignited. Ravaging flames had gone upward, licking at the bed itself. Tristram’s valiant efforts with the fire extinguisher had saved all objects about the spot where his master had lain.

Stooping, The Shadow stretched forth a black-gloved hand and picked up the fountain pen. Brief examination indicated that it had been recently used. The pad of paper lay on the floor.

The Shadow lifted it and noticed that the top sheet was absent. It had been torn away in ragged fashion.

Producing a tiny flashlight, The Shadow threw its glare upon the pad. He brought forth a tiny box that contained a blackish powder: graphite. Removing a glove, The Shadow spread the powder on the pad with his finger tips. It formed a smudge; that was all.

This was The Shadow’s method of tracing messages, by impressions on a lower sheet. It failed on this occasion; yet The Shadow, as he tore off the smudged paper, still held to his theory that something could have been written on that pad.

Looking toward the floor, he spied the book. A whispered laugh came from The Shadow’s lips. Though the message was lost to him, he was satisfied that it could have been written. The Shadow knew that Hildrew Parchell had used the book as a rest for the paper.

No impression could be gained from the book cover. It was too hard to take the pressure of the pen. But as The Shadow’s keen gaze steadied on the floor, they made another discovery. Near the bed, The Shadow saw crumpled ashes.

These traces of burned substance were in an isolated spot. They were different from the remains of the burned bedclothes. Picking up a fragment of ash, The Shadow immediately discerned its composition.

These ashes were the residue of burned paper.

Some one — Tristram, perhaps, or Cardona — had stepped upon the paper ashes. Though he used his flashlight steadily, The Shadow could not find more trace than that of a few brownish letters. There was no chance of deciphering the burned message.

This new discovery, however, was the wedge that The Shadow needed to form a reconstruction of the scene. His keen mind pictured the events that had preceded Hildrew Parchell’s death.

HILDREW PARCHELL had been well enough to summon certain persons to conference. He had prepared a document for their consideration. He had replaced articles upon the table beside his bed. He had kept the paper that he had written.

The segregated clump of ashes were proof that the paper had been burned independently. Parchell must have destroyed it himself; any one else would have carried it away intact, if possible.

Viewing the burned bed, The Shadow built a mental image of the fray that had taken place here. He could picture Parchell propped up in bed, facing a challenger who had entered the room. He could see the old man’s frantic efforts to destroy the paper; he visualized the effort of the intruder who had tried to prevent the deed.

An overturned table, flames from the candle, a killer in flight — all these made clear sequence to The Shadow.

With a soft laugh, the cloaked investigator struck a match and set fire to the sheet of smudged paper that he himself had removed from the pad.

Flames died. Ashes went fluttering to the floor beside those that The Shadow had first noted. Stooping, The Shadow compared one lot with the other. The ashes told their story. The old remnants were less, by half, than the new.

Hildrew Parchell’s message had been but partially burned. The killer had escaped with a portion of the old man’s document. He must have recognized that paper as containing information that he had come here to obtain.

Perhaps he had gained all that he wanted. Perhaps he had not. In either event, flight could have been the murderer’s only choice. That much was obvious. What The Shadow needed was some trace to the murderer’s purpose and identity.

Crossing the room, The Shadow stopped by the filing cabinet. He opened the drawers and found them empty. Papers and other belongings had evidently been removed since Cardona’s investigation here.

The Shadow stepped to the wall safe. He found it unlocked; its interior was empty. While The Shadow’s eyes took in this fact, his ears caught a sound from below. Someone had entered the front door. Faltering footsteps were coming up the stairs.

The Shadow moved to the darkness behind a half-opened closet door. He waited while a gray-haired man came into the room. He knew this must be Tristram; he could see the saddened expression upon the servant’s face.

There was a choking sob. With bowed head, Tristram turned and went from the room. The servant’s grief was genuine. Moreover, The Shadow immediately understood the reason for Tristram’s absence from the house. The servant must have received an order from Weldon Wingate, telling him to bring old Parchell’s papers to the lawyer.

Silently, The Shadow glided from the room of death. His tall form descended the stairs. Crossing the lower hall, The Shadow opened the front door and made an immediate departure. His figure blurred with the night.

LATER, a light clicked in The Shadow’s sanctum. Beneath a bluish glare, The Shadow again surveyed the list of persons concerned with the affairs of Hildrew Parchell. One by one, he considered their parts and their importance.

Tristram had been a loyal servant. So faithful that he would have named any one and every one whom he might have suspected as having a part in his master’s death. Nothing more could be gained from Tristram.

Weldon Wingate was an important man to see. He could be reached openly; from him, by proper persuasion or strategy, The Shadow could gain real facts concerning Hildrew Parchell’s affairs. The Shadow checked Wingate’s name.

Doctor Raymond Deseurre. This was a name upon which The Shadow pondered. The physician, apparently, had met old Parchell only in the role of medical practitioner. It was possible that Deseurre knew more about Hildrew Parchell. That possibility must be investigated. The Shadow made another check mark.

The name of Selwood Royce came next. The Shadow knew the millionaire by repute. No difficulty would be encountered in learning more about him. The Shadow checked again. He studied the next name on the list.

Roger Parchell. Nephew of Hildrew Parchell and the old man’s sole heir. At present in San Francisco, Roger Parchell would certainly come East when he had learned of his uncle’s death. The Shadow left the name unchecked, as indication that he would await the young man’s arrival.

The last name on the list was that of Homer Hothan. The Shadow noted the name of the ex-secretary’s home town — Chalwood, Ohio — which Cardona had written down and Clyde Burke had copied. The Shadow considered the case of Homer Hothan.

This man had been in Hildrew Parchell’s employ. He had lived in the house with the old man. He could have known certain facts regarding Hildrew Parchell’s private business. Moreover, there was another factor that concerned Hothan.

The Shadow was positive that some one had entered the Parchell house, there to deal death to the old man. Some lurker who had watched Tristram’s departure. A person who must have been familiar with the interior of the house; one who could enter, act, and leave with no lost time.

Homer Hothan, the only man whom Tristram had named as doubtful, was one who possessed the knowledge that the murderer must have had.

With a whispered laugh, The Shadow marked Hothan’s name. He reached for the earphones.

The Shadow spoke. Burbank’s voice answered across the wire. The Shadow gave brief instructions; then terminated the call. Earphones were replaced. The blue light clicked out. The Shadow was ready to leave his sanctum.

In that call to Burbank, he had given orders to be forwarded to Harry Vincent, one of The Shadow’s trusted aids. Harry was to leave New York tonight; his destination would be Chalwood, Ohio. Through his agent, The Shadow intended to learn the whereabouts and recent activities of Homer Hothan.