Treasures of Death

CHAPTER III FROM THE SANCTUM

BRIGHT lights cast a strange glow throughout a remarkable room. Glistening reflections came from polished walls. The place was a laboratory, yet it differed from any other in existence.

Instead of white-tiled fittings, this room was furnished entirely in black. Walls, ceiling, and floor, like tables, benches and other equipment, were all of sable hue. It was a fitting atmosphere for the strange being who occupied it.

The Shadow was in his laboratory. Clad in his cloak and hat of somber black, he was practically invisible as he worked. His garb did not reflect the light as did the walls. Hence The Shadow formed a weird, incongruous shape as he moved about.

Black against black: absorbing surface against that which reflected. Such was The Shadow’s presence. Long arms and gloved hands were like shadows of The Shadow!

One spot of whiteness was present. It was no more than a tiny speck. The capsule that The Shadow had brought from a dead man’s bedroom showed between gloved thumb and forefinger.

With test tubes and bottles, The Shadow began his analysis. The capsule opened; its whitish powder poured upon a small black patch of paper. The test continued. Its completion brought a soft murmur of mockery from the hidden lips of The Shadow.

The laboratory lights went out. A cloak swished in darkness. A short while later, another light appeared in a second somber room. A switch clicked; a bluish glare was focused downward upon the polished surface of a table.

White hands appeared beneath the lights. On a finger of the left glittered a shimmering gem. This was The Shadow’s girasol — the rare fire opal that was The Shadow’s single gem. Its hue was black at times; yet always, from its depths, gleamed sparks of fire that shone with the intensity of a Promethean eye.

The Shadow was in his sanctum. Here, enshrouded in total darkness, he was invisible — all except his hands, which moved like living creatures detached from the body beyond them. The Shadow was about to summarize the findings of his visit to the home of Shattuck Barliss and the analysis that had succeeded that visit.

FINGERS clutched a pen. They inscribed brief notations upon a sheet of paper which the other hand produced:

The written words began to vanish. They faded from the sheet of paper like passing thoughts. Yet their purport remained. The Shadow had made an important discovery.

Some one had substituted harmless capsules for the prescribed pills. No jury could ever convict the culprit for homicidal intent. Nevertheless, the placing of such capsules had been a death warrant for Shattuck Barliss.

Thirty-two capsules had been used from the box. For at least four days, Shattuck Barliss had been living without the necessary medicinal stimulus that the physician had prescribed. The old man’s ability to stand a sudden shock had been steadily diminishing ever since the substitution had been made!

The purpose? The Shadow’s soft laugh indicated it. Some one had wanted Shattuck Barliss to die before his nephew arrived in New York. The capsules had evidently been changed about the time when Rodney Glasgow had summoned Terry Barliss East.

Had Shattuck Barliss succumbed to a sudden shock before the arrival of Terry, no one would have learned the story of the famous Villon manuscript. Had it been uncovered after the old man’s death, there could have been no speculation concerning it.

Artful murder — murder that relied upon natural reaction — such had been the cause of death to Shattuck Barliss. The motive of the subtle deed had been to cover previous theft!

New notations were coming from The Shadow’s pen. Nothing had escaped The Shadow’s notice; no words that he had heard passed unremembered:

These written remarks faded. They had brought out important points. The only indication that any one could have recently been located in the old house was found in the new decorations of the library off the bedroom. The condition of the wall safe proved that no one had made forcible entry there. Terry’s remark to Cardona — the statement that some expert had pronounced the Villon manuscript spurious — was the final point of value:

This single word was the last that The Shadow wrote. It remained after the others had faded: then it, too, passed to oblivion.

The Shadow knew that Terry Barliss, even though his cause might be futile, would at least make some effort to find out what had happened in his uncle’s home prior to his own arrival from California.

It was unnecessary for The Shadow to write the obvious: that the old brownstone house would be the starting point for any investigation that might lead to the missing manuscript. It was unnecessary also for The Shadow to speculate upon where the trail might lead until after it had begun.

THE SHADOW had discovered important indications. He wanted specific facts. He was considering the way to gain them. Well did The Shadow know that hidden crime was invariably of greater consequence than that which appeared in full view.

In his ceaseless warfare against the hordes of evil, The Shadow went beneath unruffled surfaces. The discovery of one subtle crime was usually the prelude to the detection of a chain of evil circumstances. Those crude at crime belonged to the police. It was The Shadow’s self-appointed task to ferret out the wiles of superminds.

The Shadow was one who dealt in terms of powerful action, yet there were times when he played a masterful game of deliberation. He was facing a perfect crime — a theft of a valuable manuscript that could not be identified even if discovered; a murder that had required purely negative work on the part of the man who had performed it.

Somewhere behind lay the master mind. The villain’s position was impregnable. Even The Shadow could accomplish nothing at this hour. The game was in its preliminary stage. The first encounter between right and wrong lay purely in the future.

The laugh that rippled through the sanctum was a hollow burst of mockery that denoted The Shadow’s mood. It was the sign that The Shadow, alone, knew what the future might hold; that he, master though he was, realized that the only present strategy lay in lack of immediate action.

The Shadow was depending upon Terry Barliss. He knew that the disappointed heir would seek facts. He knew also that such facts would mean nothing to Terry. But the young man’s findings might prove of value to The Shadow. To make them gain their full worth, direct contact between The Shadow and Terry Barliss was essential.

Paper and pen appeared. The Shadow wrote again. This time, however, he was not inscribing mental comments. His rapid writing took the form of a coded message. When completed, The Shadow folded the sheet of paper before the drying ink had opportunity to disappear.

The message went within an envelope. With another pen, The Shadow wrote an address: the name of Rutledge Mann, the address a suite of offices in the Badger Building, New York City. The inscription on the envelope was in ordinary ink. It remained after it had dried.

A hand drew the envelope from the table. The bluish light flicked off. The sanctum was in darkness. Within enshrouding gloom, a weird laugh sounded. Echoes came as a ghoulish response. When the sounds had died, complete silence remained.

In his sanctum, The Shadow had planned the first step in his endeavor to learn the source of hidden crime. He was counting on the lapse of time to pave the way to successful combat. With his coded letter as the first step, The Shadow had departed from his sanctum.