The man's eyes were glassy as they opened to stare at the shape in black. A low, whispered question
came from hidden lips. Powell tried to nod in response. Another question; a second attempt at a nod.
Powell's lips quivered, but no sound came from them. The investigator was trying to speak. The
Shadow's left hand peeled the black glove from the right. A slender, pointed fingertip rested upon those
trembling lips.
With keen, sensitive touch, The Shadow felt the words that Martin Powell attempted to say. The effort
ended with a single sentence.
Gently, The Shadow rested the body on the floor. Martin Powell was dead. In his last moments, he had
managed to convey a message that was understood.
A new pounding began at the outer door. The Shadow ignored it. He replaced his glove on his right
hand. He went to the desk and noted the papers which lay there.
With calm deliberation, he studied the documents. They disappeared beneath the folds of the black robe.
These links between John Hendrix and Alvarez Legira would not remain as evidence.
Crash!
The outer door was breaking under the power of terrific crashes. The rescuers, returned to their work,
were smashing their way into the apartment. Still, The Shadow was indifferent.
His eyes spied the revolver that lay against the wall. The Shadow looked toward the body of Jermyn.
Visualizing the scene, he realized that this must be the murderer's gun.
Advancing to the wall, The Shadow carefully raised the weapon by the barrel and held it in the light. A
soft laugh came from his concealed lips as he replaced the revolver where it had lain.
Now he was looking for something else, searching in the vicinity of the spot where Martin Powell lay.
The Shadow was hunting for the investigator's gun. His search ended abruptly. Again, The Shadow
laughed.
The driving blows were louder, now. Men were pounding their way through the outer bulwark. The
Shadow, ever calm, leaned close to the body of Jermyn and noted the marks upon the dead servant's
throat. Now, he was at the door of the room, picturing the scene from its beginning.
WITH rapid strides, the man in black crossed the room and looked at the raised sash of the window. His
keen eyes were close to the woodwork. There he spied new marks.
Back at the desk, The Shadow paused to make a final inspection. While there, he noted a tiny edge of a
sheet of paper projecting from beneath a blotting pad. The Shadow drew out the sheet. It consisted of
memoranda made by John Hendrix.
Legira—Cody—nine o'clock—these words stood out among the others. The Shadow glanced at the
clock on the desk. It registered twenty-two minutes after nine.
Now came a bursting crash from the distant end of the hall. It was followed by a terrific thud and the
excited shouts of half a dozen men.
Swiftly, The Shadow reached the wall and extinguished the light. Scarcely had the room been plunged in
darkness before footsteps came pounding down the hall.
The black cloak swished as The Shadow strode to the window. The light of a bull's-eye lantern threw its
beams upon the floor as the first of the rescuers entered. The light turned toward the wall. Had its sweep
continued, it would have shown The Shadow at the window.
But at that instant, a shot rang out. From beneath his cloak, The Shadow had drawn an automatic. The
position of the man who held the lantern was such that the light extended before him. The Shadow, firing,
