Vincent poised himself upon the outer edge of the windowsill. His rescuer had left him. He was faint, and he held himself there, while he breathed the refreshing air.
The scene in the room commanded his attention. While it lasted, he was transfixed; unable to find strength to lower himself to safety.
Bright flashlights gleamed from the doorway. Before their glare came four more of Wang Foo’s men, each with an extended knife. In the center of the room crouched the squatty Chinaman - if Chinaman he were - waiting for the onrush of his opponents.
As the men moved forward with a weird cry of triumph, the little man grew large again, and it seemed that he strangely chuckled. His hand swung upward, holding the iron bar that he had wrested from the window. His shadow, passing over the floor and up the further wall, stood behind him like a huge, living monster.
Into the mass of Chinamen he sprang. His iron club swung right and left with mighty force. His enemies went sprawling to the floor. The men behind, who held the lights, were routed by the attack. Bodies fell tumbling through the doorway, and the lights went with them. In one valiant thrust, this amazing stranger had smashed his way to safety!
As Vincent’s hands grasped the rope, and he began his precarious trip to the ground, he heard an exultant sound come up the stairway.
It was a long, mocking laugh; a strange, unaccountable laugh; a laugh that would chill the heart of a man who had never known fear!
CHAPTER XI
A BAFFLING MYSTERY
Harry Vincent reclined comfortably once more in an armchair in his room at the Metrolite Hotel. Three days had elapsed since the thrilling episode at the house of Wang Foo, the Chinese tea merchant, and the memory of his close escape from destruction still brought chills to Vincent’s spine.
He could hardly remember what had happened after his escape to the alleyway behind Wang Foo’s domicile. He knew that he had somehow managed to stagger to the street; that the driver of the green taxi had helped him into the cab, and that he had been brought directly to the Metrolite Hotel, where he had managed to pull himself together sufficiently to reach his room.
But these were simple facts that came as recollections. As to the actual details of his return, his mind was blank.
He had visited Fellows, the insurance broker, at ten o’clock the following morning. He had said nothing of his adventures on the outskirts of Chinatown; he realized that the quiet, round-faced insurance man had probably already been informed of the facts. His conference with Fellows had been very brief.
In the quiet of the inner office, The Shadow’s agent had told him to enjoy himself until further notice, but to spend his idle moments to good use: namely, to read the front pages of the newspapers, and to absorb all details of any stories that pertained to murder.
This, in itself, had been a task. For three days, one specific crime had continued to dominate the headlines of the daily journals. That was the robbery and murder which had been committed at the home of Geoffrey Laidlow, in the fashionable suburb of Holmwood, Long Island. To date the police had found themselves checkmated.
The available facts of the case were definitely accepted. Geoffrey Laidlow had been living at home, although his family was away. It was his custom to go out nearly every evening, accompanied by his secretary. On the night of his death, he and the secretary had returned shortly before eleven o’clock.
Burgess, the secretary, had witnessed the actual murder. He explained that he and Mr. Laidlow had entered the house quietly, and had gone into the library, closing the door behind them. The millionaire had intended to sign some letters, so Burgess waited, wearing his hat, coat, and gloves, ready to take the mail to the post-office.
Before signing the letters, Mr. Laidlow had searched for a book on one of the shelves, and, finding it, had scarcely opened the volume before he stopped and listened.
Some one was moving in the study across the hall, where the safe was located.
Acting on the spur of the moment, the millionaire opened the library door and rushed across the hall. There he surprised a man rifling the safe. The burglar drew a gun and shot him at close range.
The secretary had reached the hall in time to hear the pistol’s report, and to see its flash from the dark study.
He grappled with the burglar as the man emerged into the dimly-lighted hall. He, too, was a victim of the murderer’s gunfire; a shot struck his arm and caused a flesh wound. Burgess had staggered for a moment; and had then followed the fleeing robber to the end of the hall, where the man had escaped through an open window.
The murderer was carrying the large box that contained the Laidlow jewels. In vaulting through the window, he had dropped his revolver, for it was found on the grass outside.
Burgess, weakened by his wound, had not followed the escaping man. Both the butler and the valet had heard the pistol shots. They had run down the stairs, half-dressed, and had arrived just after the murderer had disappeared.
A neighbor of the millionaire was Ezekiel Bingham, the celebrated criminal lawyer. Bingham had been passing the Laidlow home when the shots were fired. He had pulled his car to a stop at the first shot. Hence his testimony took up the story where the secretary had left off.
The window of the hall opened toward the street, but the house was set back among the trees. By the gleam of an arc-light, the lawyer had plainly witnessed the murderer’s flight. He stated that the man had almost fallen, but had caught himself and had dashed off across the lawn and through a hedge.
Bingham had observed that the man was carrying some sort of a box. Realizing that he could not take up the pursuit - the lawyer was an elderly man - Bingham had entered the Laidlow home.
It was he who had notified the police of the crime.
There were other witnesses: the cook, the house-maid, and the chauffeur. But their testimony was virtually without apparent value.
The police had quizzed the secretary, and found his story clear and acceptable. He had been in the employ of Geoffrey Laidlow for five years, and was a relative of the millionaire’s wife. He was Laidlow’s confidential man; he knew that the jewels were kept in the safe, but had never been given the combination. He was a man of known honesty; and Ezekiel Bingham’s statements substantiated those of Burgess.
The secretary had been treated for his wound, and was on hand when the millionaire’s family - Mrs. Laidlow and two sons - arrived at their home.
The description of the burglar indicated a man of medium height, wearing a dark suit and a black mask, who weighed between one hundred and forty and one hundred and fifty pounds. Burgess had given this information, and Bingham had coincided.
With such an excellent beginning, the police had expected many clews, particularly after the rapid flight of the murderer. But they were disappointed.
The grass on the front lawn was thick; the ground was quite dry, and not the trace of a footprint could be discovered.
There were no clews in the study. Some articles had been removed from the safe and scattered upon the floor of the room. There was nothing among the safe’s contents of great value - except the jewels, which were missing.
There were no traces of fingerprints upon the dials of the safe. The mechanism was an ancient one; the burglar had opened it without resort to tools. The indications were that he was probably a fair expert in the questionable science of safe-cracking.
The revolver gave no clew. It had belonged to the millionaire, and he had kept it within the safe.
The burglar had evidently found it there, and had killed Geoffrey Laidlow with the millionaire’s own weapon. The two bullets - the one that had pierced Laidlow’s brain and the one extracted from the secretary’s arm - were found to have been fired from the same pistol. There were no fingerprints upon the firearm.
The fact that the millionaire’s own gun had been used in committing the murder accounted for the burglar’s readiness to part with the weapon after he had dropped it.
All this information was no more enlightening to Harry Vincent, as he read the news accounts, than it had
