Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 044 - Treasures of Death

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Treasures Of Death
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE VILLON MANUSCRIPT
? CHAPTER II. THE UNSEEN VISITOR
? CHAPTER III. FROM THE SANCTUM
? CHAPTER IV. THE FIRST STEP
? CHAPTER V. UNSEEN STRATEGY
? CHAPTER VI. OLD ELI GALBAN
? CHAPTER VII. GALBAN'S CLEW
? CHAPTER VIII. THE SECOND MANUSCRIPT
? CHAPTER IX. THE INTERIOR DECORATOR
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW RETURNS
? CHAPTER XI. FORCES FROM WITHOUT
? CHAPTER XII. DEATH IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XIII. CARDONA'S TURN
? CHAPTER XIV. TERRY'S THEORY
? CHAPTER XV. AT HARGATE'S
? CHAPTER XVI. THE STROKE OF CHANCE
? CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW'S FLIGHT
? CHAPTER XVIII. HARRY'S TURN
? CHAPTER XIX. IN THE OLD HOUSE
? CHAPTER XX. THE SHADOW LEAVES
? CHAPTER XXI. THE CLUB OF DEATH
? CHAPTER XXII. MEN FROM THE DEPTHS
? CHAPTER XXIII. TRAPPERS TRAPPED
? CHAPTER XXIV. THE FINAL TRIUMPH
CHAPTER I. THE VILLON MANUSCRIPT
GLEAMING lights formed an endless streak as the taxicab whirled uptown on Fifth Avenue. Terry
Barliss experienced a keen zest as he viewed the thoroughfare that he had not seen for a dozen years.
This feeling, however, was tempered as the cab swung to the right and roared through the darkness of an
uncrowded side street.
In an instant, Terry forgot the interesting glamour of Manhattan. His thoughts became sober. This street
marked the end of the glittering ride. His destination lay only a few blocks ahead; there he was to face the
sadness of an interview with his aged uncle.
One definite purpose had brought Terry Barliss East from California. He had been summoned here by
telegram. He had received the definite statement that his uncle, Shattuck Barliss, had not long to live.
Terry Barliss, though not yet thirty, had seen many years elapse since he had met his only living relative.
The grinding of the taxi brakes brought a quick response from Terry Barliss. The cab was stopping in
front of a gloomy brownstone house, the front of which was rendered old and decadent by the glare of a
street lamp. Terry recognized this as his uncle's home. He alighted from the cab and paid the driver.
Cars were parked at intervals along this street. Terry Barliss paid no attention to them as he stood in
open view. He did not realize that eyes were watching him from an automobile less than thirty feet away.
Without even glancing at the cab that had brought him here, Terry ascended the brownstone steps, and
rang the bell. A melancholy dingle sounded from the depths of the house.
The cab was starting away as the house door opened. As soon as Terry had stepped inside and the door
had closed behind him, a low word was given in the automobile by the curb. The motor purred easily.
The car rolled slowly past the house and followed the direction that the taxicab had taken.
TERRY BARLISS knew nothing of this. His thoughts were busied solely with what lay ahead. He was in
the hallway of his uncle's home, a solemn, quiet place where dark-papered walls and massive pieces of
furniture were revealed only by the feeble light of heavily shaded wall lamps.
The servant who had admitted the visitor was a quiet, colorless individual who bowed as Terry gave his
name. He turned and led the way directly to a flight of stairs. Terry followed.
They reached a lighted hallway on the second floor. There the servant knocked. A woman's voice gave
the word to enter. The servant stepped aside. Terry opened the door and went into the room beyond.
There were three persons in the room. One was a middle-aged man, seated in an armchair. Another was
a trained nurse, in uniform; she had given the order to enter. Terry Barliss noticed neither of these; the
third person was the one who commanded his attention.
A withered old man lay prone in bed. His visage was as pale as the fleckless pillow slips beneath his
head. His arms, pitifully white, were stretched upon the coverlets. Only his eyes seemed living. They
turned sharply in Terry's direction. A feeble smile came on the old man's lips.
Terry Barliss was face to face with his uncle Shattuck.
Though years and health placed them far apart, the young man and the old bore a resemblance that was
amazing. In every detail, their faces were identical. Both had high cheeks, a firm chin, set lips, and
well-shaped forehead. Terry Barliss, the counterpart of his uncle Shattuck, felt that he was seeing himself
as he might some day be.
The old man motioned weakly to a chair beside the bed. Terry sat down and gripped the feeble hand that
was extended to him. His uncle began to speak, as calmly as though their last meeting had been but
yesterday.
"Terry, I am glad that you are here." The rhythm of the old man's tone was almost musical. "I knew that I
would live until you arrived-that I would live, although my days are numbered.
"This house, Terry, is your home. It belongs to you as long as I am alive. After I am dead, it still belongs
to you-my brother's son. You may keep it or dispose of it. In addition, I have left you a legacy."
Shattuck Barliss had closed his eyes while he was speaking. His ending was quiet and unabrupt. It left the
impression that it was no more than a mere pause. When, however, the old man still remained with
closed eyes and quiet expression, Terry Barliss looked about him in a questioning manner.
Terry saw the middle-aged man in the chair. This individual seemed to realize that it was up to him to
continue. He arose and extended his hand to Terry.
"I am Rodney Glasgow," he explained. "I am attorney for Shattuck Barliss. He called me here because he
expected you to-night."
"You sent me the telegram," reminded Terry.
"Yes," said Glasgow. "It was urgent. Your uncle has told you an unfortunate fact-but one that is very
definite. He has not long to live.
"In fact, he is living now, only by virtue of a special prescription prepared by Doctor Fullis, the specialist
who is handling the case. That reminds me, Miss Wasson"-Glasgow turned to the attending nurse-"that it
is nearly ten o'clock"
The nurse nodded and indicated a cardboard box and glass of water that lay in readiness on a table
beside the bed. Glasgow glanced at Shattuck Barliss; when he saw that the old man was still resting, the
lawyer again turned to Terry.
"Your uncle's estate," declared Glasgow, "comprises this house, its furnishings, his personal belongings,
and securities amounting to approximately thirty thousand dollars. The larger proportion of the estate will
be yours. The collection of books owned by Shattuck Barliss-Glasgow indicated an inner room with a
wave of his hand-"will go to the New York Public Library. These books, while they have not been
appraised, are of considerable value-"
"I understand," interposed Terry. "My father was a great collector of rare books. He gave his volumes to
a library in California. He told me that Uncle Shattuck was a collector also."
As he spoke, Terry had arisen and strolled to the door of the inner room. It was a small, well-furnished
library, with a towering row of short shelves set in a niche. These shelves were well stocked with books.
Terry noted a freshness about the place. Oak-paneled walls and other decorations made the room a
contrast to the other portions of the house.
WHEN Terry turned back toward the bed, he was surprised to see his uncle sitting bolt upright. Shattuck
Barliss was pointing to the clock. The nurse, understanding his gesture, produced two capsules from the
cardboard box and gave the feeble old man a drink of water to wash down the pills.
Shattuck Barliss managed to set the glass upon the table. The old man seemed to be relaxing for an effort
which was to come. Rodney Glasgow spoke to Terry in an undertone.
"Effort excites your uncle," explained the attorney. "Strain or excitement would kill him. After each taking
of the capsules, however, effort is allowable for a limited period, due to the stimulus of heart action. He
can exert himself now, if he chooses."
A change was coming over Shattuck Barliss while Glasgow spoke. The old man seemed to have aroused
himself from total inertia. His actions were no longer nervous and shaky. He had keyed himself to a point
of steadiness. His eyes were bright as the old man looked toward his nephew.
"Terry," asserted the ailing man, "you have heard the provisions of my will. I have been listening to Mr.
Glasgow's statements. You have not, however, heard all. There is something which Glasgow has omitted
because he knows nothing concerning it."
Terry was tense. So was Rodney Glasgow. Shattuck Barliss had adopted a strong tone that revealed the
power of his personality. Years dropped as he spoke. He had the fervor of youth and virility.
"Glasgow has spoken of my library," continued the old man. "It is valuable, yet not exceedingly so. There
was but one item in my collection that could be highly prized. Until a few weeks ago, it rested with the
other books. When this illness seized me, I removed it to a place of absolute security."
The old man raised his withered right hand and pointed with scrawny finger to a panel on the opposite
wall. Terry, understanding his uncle's indication, went to the spot.
"Press," ordered Shattuck Barliss. "To the left-down-to the left-up-to the right-"
His voice became a chuckle as the panel sprang open. A small wall safe showed beneath the spot where
the woodwork had formed a covering. Terry grasped the knob of the safe with his fingers.
"Left, three"-Shattuck Barliss, keen and staring, was giving the combination in chiming tones-"right
five-left two-right six-"
The door yielded as Terry completed the action. The door of the safe opened. The young man found but
one object within-a leather-bound volume, that he removed with care. He brought it to the bedside.
Shattuck Barliss received it and turned back the cover.
The book was very thin. Its pages were of parchment. They were not permanently bound; the cover
merely served as container for what appeared to be a precious manuscript.
Terry stared at the title page. It was embellished with quaintly formed characters. Terry recognized that
the language must be French, yet it seemed strangely obscure.
"This," announced Shattuck Barliss, as he placed his long forefinger upon the title page, "is the only
existing copy of a work which is virtually unknown. There are other such manuscripts, but all are
incomplete with the exception of this one.
"This manuscript is called 'Les Rondeaux de Paris'. It contains five ballads written by Francois Villon, the
first and greatest of the French lyric poets. The verses were apparently produced by Villon in the year
1455.
"This manuscript is priceless. It belonged to your father, Terry. He gave it to me to reserve for you. Let
me explain why its value may be regarded as fabulous-why you could sell it for many, many thousands.
"The first four ballads are found in other manuscripts. The calligraphy-or penmanship-is identical.
Evidently all were inscribed at the same time. It is possible that some of those manuscripts were copies,
or forgeries. Their value is doubtful.
"This manuscript, however, is unique. It, alone, is complete. It contains the Fifth Ballad-the lost rondeau
of Francois Villon!"
THE gleam of enthusiasm showed on the old man's countenance. His right hand rested on the title page.
Terry Barliss-Rodney Glasgow as well-caught the spirit. They stared in awe as Shattuck Barliss turned
the title page to exhibit inscribed lines of verse upon the next sheet of parchment.
"This manuscript is genuine," exclaimed Shattuck Barliss. "All who have seen it have remarked upon that
fact. All except one"-the old man's face soured at the recollection-"and his opinion was outweighed. That
one was Eli Galban.
"He holds a reputation for detecting forgeries. He maintained that there could be no Fifth Ballad of
Francois Villon; that the added verses which give this manuscript its value-are no more than a spurious
interpolation.
"But Galban's examination was superficial!" The old man's voice was rising. "Galban made no test! He
called the entire work a forgery. That shows where he was wrong"-Shattuck Barliss was chuckling-"for I
had already proven through other experts that the first four ballads were genuine; and they agreed that the
fifth must have been inscribed by the same calligrapher."
Shattuck Barliss was turning pages slowly as he spoke. He pointed with his fingers; the other men stared
and nodded They could see the quaint style of the letters on the parchment pages. They were waiting for
the climax.
"See these lines?" questioned Shattuck Barliss sharply. "They comprise the first four ballads. They are
valuable only because they prove the genuiness of the fifth. Mark these verses well, for I am coming to
the final pages, where the fifth ballad appears. You will see them-for yourselves-the lost verses of
Francois Villon!"
As he spoke, the old man rested his hand upon the page, in readiness to turn it. Both Terry Barliss and
Rodney Glasgow could see that the book had not been opened for a long while. They knew that
Shattuck Barliss had kept this treasured manuscript untouched; that the present exhibition had probably
been given but seldom in the past few months.
The page turned slowly as Shattuck Barliss raised it. The old man was staring-the others with
him-looking for the lines that would commence the Fifth Ballad.
A cry of terrible consternation shrieked from the old man's throat. Withered hands clawed at the
parchment pages; finger nails slipped as they scratched the Villon manuscript. Shattuck Barliss was
wild-eyed. His nephew and his lawyer saw the reason.
The page which should have marked the beginning of the Fifth Ballad was a blank. It was merely a sheet
of parchment that served as a final leaf to the priceless book!
"Stolen!" cried Shattuck Barliss. "Stolen!"
Those were the last words the old collector uttered. Choking gasps coughed from dried lips. Shattuck
Barliss dropped back upon his pillows. A broken spasm of sound was his final outburst.
Staring eyes lost their gleam; withered hands fell useless. A rejuvenated frame became a pitiable human
form. The shock had proven too great. In spite of the stimulating dose, the old man had yielded to the
strain.
Shattuck Barliss lay dead, the false manuscript of Francois Villon spread-with its blank pages-before
him. The priceless treasure that he had cherished for so many years had gone from his possession.
Some crafty, unknown hand had wrested away the true Villon manuscript that Shattuck Barliss had so
closely guarded!
CHAPTER II. THE UNSEEN VISITOR
A TELEPHONE was jingling. The city editor of the New York Classic reached for the receiver. His
voice sounded above the eternal hubbub of the news room.
"What's that, Tewkson?... Yes... Yes... All right, I'll send a man out on it."
The editor hung up the receiver and looked about him for a reporter. The first one whom he spied was a
frail fellow who was idly puffing a pipe. The city editor beckoned. The reporter hastened to the desk.
"Good story here, Burke," informed the editor. "Tewkson just phoned in about an old fellow named
Shattuck Barliss who died from heart failure. Seems that he was killed by the shock when he learned that
a valuable manuscript had been stolen."
"Is Tewkson at detective headquarters?" questioned Burke.
"Yes," replied the city editor. "He says that a man is going out to investigate the robbery. You'd better
hop up to the house where that old fellow Barliss lived."
"Right."
Burke left the desk. He went from the city room, descended in an elevator and reached the street. He
turned directly into a cigar store and entered a telephone booth. He put in a call. The response came in a
quick voice.
"Burbank speaking."
"Report from Burke."
"Report."
Briefly, the reporter gave the information that he had received from the city editor. He added the address
of the old house that had belonged to Shattuck Barliss.
There was purpose in this report. No one, watching the telephone booths in the cigar store, would have
attached significance to the fact that Clyde Burke, reporter on the staff of the New York Classic, had
made a brief telephone call. Yet Clyde Burke had performed a most unusual function.
Somewhere in New York, his very sanctuary a place of unknown location, dwelt a mysterious being
called The Shadow. A master of detection, a lone wolf who battled crime, this strange personage had a
penchant for solving cases which baffled the police.
None knew the identity of The Shadow. He was a master of disguise, a phantom who moved with the
silence and stealth of night. His stalwart hand had spelled doom to hosts of supercrooks; yet none had
managed to defeat the purposes of The Shadow.
IN his ceaseless hunt for crime, The Shadow depended upon information which he received from trusted
subordinates who were always on the lookout for new developments. One of his most capable agents
was Clyde Burke, the Classic reporter now assigned to the Barliss case.
It was Clyde Burke's duty to send in facts concerning unusual crime as quickly as he encountered it. The
brief data that involved the theft of a valuable manuscript was all that Clyde Burke needed. He had sent
word to The Shadow.
Clyde had not spoken directly to his hidden chief. Instead, he had called Burbank, The Shadow's contact
agent. Whatever news came to Burbank went to The Shadow. Burbank served as a relay worker; he
was only one who passed the word along.
Thus Clyde Burke, as he traveled uptown, knew that The Shadow was informed regarding the sudden
death of Shattuck Barliss. Whether or not this demise of an old book collector was of sufficient interest
for the Shadow did not concern Clyde Burke. The reporter had done his accustomed duty; the rest lay
with The Shadow's judgment.
Clyde found a police car outside the Barliss home. He rang the doorbell of the old house. The servant
opened it; Clyde announced himself as a reporter from the Classic.
Ushered into a downstairs living room, Clyde faced several persons. Among them was a swarthy, stocky
individual whom the reporter recognized as Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the New York force.
"Hello, Joe." greeted the reporter.
"Hello, Burke," came the reply. "This is Terry Barliss, nephew of the dead man. This is Rodney Glasgow,
attorney. Sit down; it's all right for you to hear the story."
"It certainly is," agreed Terry Barliss. "I'm glad you arrived, Mr. Burke. I am just reporting the theft of a
rare manuscript. The discovery of the theft caused my uncle to fall dead of heart failure."
It was plain to see that Terry Barliss had been stunned by the death of his uncle. Nevertheless, the young
man plunged into his story, while Rodney Glasgow nodded corroboration. As he talked, Terry held forth
the bound copy of the Villon manuscript-the spurious collection of parchment pages that had come from
the safe behind the paneled wall.
As Joe Cardona took the volume to examine it, footsteps sounded on the stairs. The trained nurse
appeared, accompanied by a middle-aged man who was evidently a physician.
"This is Doctor Davenport," explained Terry. "He is an associate of Doctor Fullis, my uncle's physician.
We summoned him immediately."
"Doctor Fullis is out of town," added Doctor Davenport, addressing Cardona. "He prescribed special
capsules for Shattuck Barliss. I find that they have been administered in the appointed doses. They
produced the required stimulus that enabled Shattuck Barliss to live until to-night."
"The cause of death?"
"Heart failure. It was to be expected."
ALL eyes were upon the physician as he spoke. The doctor had entered the living room. The nurse had
come with him. No one was observant of what was occurring in the hall beyond. Neither Clyde Burke
nor Joe Cardona saw the slight flicker upon the hall wall-the indication that the front door was opening.
"You say," remarked Cardona, "that you expected Shattuck Barliss to die?"
"Doctor Fullis warned me of that fact," nodded Davenport. "He permitted his patient to indulge in some
activity following each prescribed dose of medicine. He left strict orders, however, that all shocks should
be avoided.
"I am somewhat surprised, however, that death should have come so close after the taking of the
capsules. They formed a very powerful stimulant. It merely proves that the shock must have been a
tremendous one."
"It was," asserted Terry. "My uncle valued his manuscript above all else in-"
"You say this is not the manuscript?" quizzed Cardona suddenly.
"Apparently not," interposed Rodney Glasgow. "Yet the missing manuscript must have been very similar
to this one. It was not until Shattuck Barliss had opened it to the final pages that he discovered it to be
spurious."
To illustrate, Glasgow advanced and took the volume from Joe Cardona's hands. The lawyer turned the
parchment pages. The others gathered close to hear his story. They did not notice the strange
phenomenon which occurred in the hallway beyond the open arch that led from the living room.
The dimness of the hallway seemed to move. Out of blackness came a living shape. A tall, spectral figure
appeared-a form that was clad entirely in black. Its shape showed the outline of a sable-hued cloak;
above it, the spread formation of a broad-brimmed slouch hat.
No countenance showed within that mass of darkness. The only token of the presence that wore the
spectral garb lay in the glow that appeared beneath the hat brim. Brilliant, burning eyes shone with
penetrating power. They were centered upon the group within the living room. They were the eyes of The
Shadow!
The black cloak swished, its sound scarcely audible. The figure of The Shadow disappeared from the
arch. With silent tread, the spectral visitant stalked up the stairway. His tall form blended with darkness at
the landing.
No one was on the second floor. The Shadow seemed a ghostly creature as he moved toward the
half-opened door of the bedroom where the body of Shattuck Barliss lay. A moment later, the fantastic
master of the darkness was viewing the pitiful body that lay beneath the coverlets.
THE SHADOW'S gaze was penetrating. His amazing eyes seemed to visualize all that had happened.
The cloak swished; The Shadow crossed the room and entered the little library. He viewed the freshness
of the panels, the newness of this room, when compared to the remainder of the house.
Back in the bedroom, The Shadow examined the opened safe. He studied the panel that Terry Barliss
had removed at his uncle's order. The Shadow went to the bed. He stared at the dead form of Shattuck
Barliss.
The box of capsules caught The Shadow's eye. Its label bore the name and address of a well-known
pharmacist. The written statement added that the dosage should be two capsules four times a day. The
number of pills was marked as fifty.
The Shadow's arm extended. A hand, gloved in thin black, reached toward the box. A slender, nimble
finger counted the capsules. There were eighteen in the box. The finger and thumb removed a single
capsule.
Some one was coming up the stairs. The Shadow whirled as he heard the thudding footsteps. He
reached the hallway and melted from view against a deep-set door. Joe Cardona was coming with Terry
Barliss.
Neither arrival saw The Shadow. The two entered the room. They went toward the little library, then
returned. The Shadow, from his post, could hear their discussion, which was evidently a continuation of a
conversation held downstairs.
"There is no evidence of any robbery," Cardona was declaring. "You say your uncle cried out that his
manuscript had been stolen. Yet neither you nor Glasgow had seen the book before to-night."
"We are working on a dead man's word," replied Terry Barliss solemnly. "I can see your viewpoint, Mr.
Cardona. It's a very flimsy case. Especially since my uncle admitted that an expert pronounced his
manuscript a forgery."
"It's hard to convince collectors regarding fakes."
"I know it. Yet I feel certain that my uncle was right in his belief that he possessed the genuine Villon
manuscript."
Cardona had reached the hallway. He was in sight of The Shadow. Watching eyes saw a shrug of the
detective's shoulders.
"As the evidence stands," decided Cardona, "there is no indication whatever of crime. Shattuck Barliss
died a natural death. He may have been completely mistaken about his manuscript. This is not a case for
the police."
"Then you advise-"
"I suggest that you make further inquiries of your own. Unless you can produce some proof that
something could have been stolen from this house, there is nothing that any one can do."
Terry Barliss had joined Joe Cardona in the hallway. The young man clearly saw the logic of the
detective's statement. Together, the two passed the doorway where The Shadow lurked. They
descended the stairs.
WHEN footsteps had dwindled, The Shadow moved. He did not return to the room where Shattuck
Barliss lay dead. Instead, he, too, descended the stairs. He reached the ground floor silently. No more
than a moving phantom shape, he passed the arch to the living room.
People were talking there. Rodney Glasgow was agreeing with Joe Cardona. The Shadow did not linger.
He passed to the front door. His gloved hand turned the knob.
Like a vanishing specter, The Shadow moved into the outer darkness. Only the closing of the door
betokened his departure.
A few minutes later, Joe Cardona and Clyde Burke came from the house. They descended the
brownstone steps and entered the area of light beneath the street lamp. They did not see the lingering
form that watched them from a spot beside the obscure steps.
"Then there's no story," remarked Clyde sourly. "No homicide-no proven theft-nothing but a sudden but
expected death of an old man who had not long to live."
"You've guessed it," returned Cardona.
"I came out for a front-page story," added Clyde. "Instead, I found an item for the obit column."
The two moved away. Silence followed their departure. Nothing stirred along this street where hidden
watchers had seen Terry Barliss arrive at his uncle's home. Then came motion. A portion of blackness
seemed to detach itself from the wall beside the steps.
A vague creature of the night, The Shadow flitted from the scene. Patches of moving darkness on the
sidewalk were the only tokens of his presence, until the eerie master of the night neared the end of the
street.
Then, through blackness, came a strange, whispered cry. A sinister laugh shuddered forth a sardonic
message. Its weird sound broke and was followed by gibing echoes. There was significance in that
amazing mockery.
The Shadow had come as an unseen visitor. Where Joe Cardona and Clyde Burke had found no trace of
either homicide or theft, The Shadow had detected possibilities of both.
The Shadow knew!
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:
Capsule-harmless powder-drug absent.
Number remaining-eighteen.
Lacking-thirty-two.
Four days.
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.
摘要：

TreasuresOfDeathMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEVILLONMANUSCRIPT?CHAPTERII.THEUNSEENVISITOR?CHAPTERIII.FROMTHESANCTUM?CHAPTERIV.THEFIRSTSTEP?CHAPTERV.UNSEENSTRATEGY?CHAPTERVI.OLDELIGALBAN?CHAPTERVII.GALBAN'SCLEW?CHAPTERVIII.THESECONDMANUSCRIPT?C...

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