The valet listened as though hearing some unusual noise from the floor above.
'What's that?' he exclaimed.
'I don't hear anything,' answered Chalmers.
The valet hurried to the steps that led to the living room. Stewart Barton was still seated there. The butler was also in the room.
'We must go upstairs!' exclaimed the valet. 'I'm afraid something has happened to Mr. Banks!'
He started rapidly across the hall. The others, alarmed by his action, followed at his heels.
Hubert Banks, in the meanwhile, was listening in amazement to a strange, convincing voice that was talking over the telephone. He had been surprised to find that neither Harry Vincent nor Clifford Gage was on the wire.
Even in his state of semidrunkenness, he could recognize a voice. But the man who spoke to him had captured his instant attention.
'One million dollars!' came the voice. 'You will lose one million dollars! You will always remember June the first, Hubert Banks!'
'June the first!' shouted the millionaire.
'June the first!' repeated the voice. 'You have not forgotten that date! Lift that paper from the telephone table. Tell me what you find there.'
Instinctively, Banks obeyed. As he drew the paper away, a hoarse cry escaped his lips. There lay a large, color-tinted picture of his first wife, Rachel. Across the blank space above the portrait were written
- in the millionaire's own hand - the words 'June the first.'
A wild frenzy gripped Hubert Banks. He staggered and seized the side of the telephone table. To his distorted gaze, the portrait seemed a living image.
The pathetic, accusing eyes of the picture; the date inscribed in his own hand - these were too much for his burdened mind to withstand. He still held the small desk telephone in his left hand. He pressed the receiver to his ear and uttered unintelligible articulations into the mouthpiece. Then his words became plain.
'Who put that here!' he shouted. 'Tell me! I'll kill him! I'll kill him!'
The monotone of the voice became persuasive as it responded to the man's insane outburst.
'Open the drawer of the telephone table,' it said. 'You will find the revolver there.
'You ask the name of the man who has caused all this. I shall tell you! He is in your employ. He is the man who calls himself Jenkins, your valet.
'He is outside your door this very moment, gloating. He is the one who has caused your ruin. Kill him!'
Hubert Banks had yanked open the drawer of the telephone table. He was drawing forth the loaded revolver as he heard the final words.
He did not pause to wonder who had placed the gun where he could find it. He flung the telephone against the wall. He stared at the picture on the table. He seized it in his left hand and rushed to the door of his room, brandishing his revolver.
As he jerked the door inward, he came face to face with the valet. Behind the man stood the other men.
A wild, maddened laugh came from the millionaire's lips. As Howard Jennings, the pretended valet, leaped back in sudden fear, Banks swung the revolver directly toward the man whose death he now desired.
Three times the millionaire's finger pressed the trigger. Jenkins staggered at the first report. He fell lifeless, the useless tool of the plotter who no longer needed him - of The Master who had cunningly contrived his doom!
Hubert Banks had drawn himself to his full height. Now he relaxed and leaned against the doorway, mumbling vague epithets. Even his befuddled mind grasped the seriousness of the action which he had taken.
The monotonous words that had persuaded him over the telephone were clouded in his memory. He realized that he had killed a man; that this greatest fit of fury had caused him to commit a murder.
The men in the hallway were stupefied. They formed a silent, immobile group, each one shuddering in horror at the deed which they had witnessed.
Hubert Banks stared toward them with unseeing eyes. He became conscious of the picture which he held in his hand. His gaze softened and he laughed gently, as his demented mind brought back old recollections.
His eyes turned. He saw the revolver that he held. Slowly, deliberately, he raised the muzzle of the gun to his temple.
The watchers stood, fear-stricken. A man came rushing up the stairs. He burst through the group. It was Clifford Gage. He called to Banks in warning; but the millionaire did not heed the cry.
Before his friend could reach his side, Hubert Banks again pressed the finger of his revolver. The report sounded. The millionaire collapsed upon the body of Jennings, just as Gage made a futile effort to pluck the revolver from him.
The three men who had witnessed the tragedy stood still in silent horror. It was Clifford Gage who leaned over the bodies and learned that both men were dead.
Upon the floor, close by the body of Howard Jennings, lay a small object. It was an oval disk, the token of The Black Master. It had fallen from the dead man's pocket.
Gage picked it up, unnoticed. He stood up and faced the silent three. They saw his firm lips murmur the words, 'Too late.' Then, with bowed head, he walked by them and descended the stairs.
His sudden arrival and departure restored their self-control. Headed by Chalmers, the chauffeur, they moved forward to examine the bodies of the dead men.
Clifford Gage stood in the hall below. He was like a statue, lost in perplexity. Once again, he had witnessed the power of The Black Master; that strange, unknown monster, whose unseen hand dealt sudden, violent death and did not spare those who performed his bidding.
Mechanically, Gage reached to the table beside the door and lifted a large hat and a long flowing cloak that he had cast there when he had burst into the house at the sound of the first shots.
Slowly, methodically, he donned the cloak and wrapped its collar about his face. He placed the hat upon his head. Its wide, turned-down brim totally obscured his features. Then his manner changed.
In one brief instant, the identity of Clifford Gage had been absorbed by the unknown character of The Shadow. The door opened silently and closed again. The man in the cloak was gone - gone into the stormy night!
CHAPTER XVII. DOCTOR ZERNDORFF IS AMAZED
A SMILE of satisfaction spread over the features of Doctor Heinrich Zerndorff as he read the evening newspaper. Clad in his dressing gown and reclining in his easy-chair, the great criminologist was enjoying the greatest triumph of his long career in behalf of justice.
The news that brought him such pleasure was the conviction of the five men implicated in the great New York explosions. The police had enmeshed these men in a web of evidence that was indisputable. All had been found guilty of murder, and had been sentenced to the electric chair.
Never had the wheels of justice moved so rapidly. The date of the executions had been set.
There had been little difficulty in convicting the three who had placed the bombs. The evidence was too strong against them. Witnesses, at first uncertain, had eventually given sworn testimony that was damning.
The men themselves had admitted their crimes, although they claimed that they had placed the bombs at the order of a superior who had not told them the work that they were doing. They disclaimed all knowledge of what the packages had contained. Such protests had made no effect upon the juries.
With Sforza and Pecherkin, the case had been different. They were radicals who had made threats against the government. They had known, and had dealt with, the three who planted the bombs.
But they disclaimed all connection with the tragedies, and their names were not mentioned directly by any of the three who were convicted for the placing of the bombs.
The fact was established, however, that both Sforza and Pecherkin had been seen in the vicinity of the house on the East Side where the three bomb-planters had gone for their instructions.
It was proven that Sforza and Pecherkin had known Vervick, the man who had made the bombs, although that finding was based chiefly upon their acquaintanceship when all had lived in Europe.
Sforza and Pecherkin were unfortunate enough to possess bad records. Popular antagonism had added to their plight. The absence of bomb killings since their imprisonment was unspoken testimony against them.
