Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 007 - The Silent Seven

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THE SILENT SEVEN
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DEATH AT MIDNIGHT
? CHAPTER II. THE HOLLOW NEEDLE
? CHAPTER III. KLEIN'S SOLUTION
? CHAPTER IV. A STRANGE VISITOR
? CHAPTER V. MURDER REVEALED!
? CHAPTER VI. THE SCARAB RING
? CHAPTER VII. A MURDERER ESCAPES
? CHAPTER VIII. CARDONA CHECKS
? CHAPTER IX. PAGET BECOMES ACTIVE
? CHAPTER X. THE SILENT SEVEN
? CHAPTER XI. PAGET SEES A SHADOW
? CHAPTER XII. BLAKE TAKES A RIDE
? CHAPTER XIII. VISITOR AT NIGHT
? CHAPTER XIV. THROUGH NUMBER ONE
? CHAPTER XV. THE TRAP
? CHAPTER XVI. THE VERDICT
? CHAPTER XVII. BLAKE'S VISITOR
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW ACTS
? CHAPTER XIX. OVER THE WIRES
? CHAPTER XX. THE EIGHTH MAN
? CHAPTER XXI. DEATH IS DELIVERED
? CHAPTER XXII. THE POWER OF THE SEVEN
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE RETURN
CHAPTER I. DEATH AT MIDNIGHT
A CHILLING night drizzle swilled through Eighty-first Street. It enshrouded the wizened figure of an
aged man, pausing before a brownstone house. He leaned on a silver-headed cane and pulled the collar
of his heavy coat closer about his ears. His thin, parched lips moved soundlessly in a continuous
muttering.
The house, a relic of other times, even as the figure that stood in the darkness before it, loomed gloomily,
like a mammoth mausoleum. The old man seemed to dread entering it. Fear shown on his mummified
face.
Then, with sudden effort, he climbed the steps with a crablike, sidewise gait. His trembling finger pressed
on the polished doorbell.
Presently the door opened onto a darkened vestibule. The old man entered a dimly-lit hallway without a
word. The person who had answered the door was, judging from his manner of deference, evidently a
servant.
Silently he took the old man's coat and hat. Then he pushed aside a sliding door at the side of the hallway
and stood in a respectful attitude as his master entered.
There were two men waiting in the room.
One, a quietly-dressed young man, had a worried expression on his pale face. The other was perhaps
forty years of age, a tall, debonair type of man, dressed immaculately in evening clothes. He was smoking
a cigarette in the end of a long holder. His ease of manner contrasted with the nervousness of his younger
companion.
Both men arose to greet the new arrival. The young man spoke quickly.
"I am glad you are here, Mister Marchand," he said. His tone indicated anxiety.
"I thought it best to return, Willis," said the old man, in a peculiar, peevish voice.
He looked sharply at the young man. Then he turned to the one in evening clothes and stared at him,
questioningly.
"What brings you here, Paget?" he demanded.
The man removed his cigarette holder from his lips.
"I learned that you were returning, Mister Marchand," he said, with quiet deliberation. "I thought that you
might wish to see me to-night."
"Willis," said the old man abruptly, "I told you to say nothing to any one."
"But Mister Paget knew of the attempted burglary," explained the young man. "He came here that night;
happened to be passing at the time. I thought that he -"
"Very well," interrupted Marchand. "Who else knows about it?"
"Only Oscar."
The old man turned toward the door. The silent servant had entered. Marchand looked toward him, but
did not speak.
Something in Marchand's eyes indicated that he was questioning the truth of Willis's statement. Oscar
detected the look and nodded in corroboration.
Satisfied, the old man sat down in an easy-chair. Willis and Paget also took seats. Oscar remained
standing by the door.
"Tell me about it," said Marchand, in a querulous tone.
"A WEEK ago," began Willis, in a hesitating tone, "something occurred that -"
"A week ago?" demanded Marchand sharply.
"Er—yes, a week ago," replied Willis, uneasily. "That was the first time. But then we suspected nothing -"
"Hm-m-m!" interrupted the old man. "Go on."
Marchand turned in his chair and stared at Oscar, the serving man. In this way he was gaining the
testimony of two men, for he was observing every expression on Oscar's face as well as listening to
Willis.
Willis knew this. It increased his anxiety. He chose his words carefully to make every detail in his story
accurate.
"When you went away, Mister Marchand," said Willis, "Oscar and I obeyed all your instructions. I
performed my duties as your secretary. Oscar attended to his duties as servant. One of us was always in
the house.
"One week ago to-night"—the young man glanced at an old-fashioned clock on the
mantelpiece—"almost at this very time, just before midnight, Oscar tapped at the door of my room,
where I was working.
"He whispered to me, sir, and said that he had heard a noise downstairs. We went down together and
searched the house thoroughly. There was no one here.
"I believed that Oscar had been deceived by a noise outside. He finally was inclined to believe same as I
did."
Oscar nodded slightly as Willis paused.
"Two nights ago," continued the secretary, "Oscar again knocked at my door, after I had retired. He
seized my arm when I came into the hallway.
"We listened. Both of us heard slight sounds from the front of the house -"
"From my room?" questioned Marchand.
"From your room, sir. Before we could act, the door of your room opened. The ray of a flashlight swept
down the hall, then disappeared.
"But, as chance would have it, the man who held the light must have seen us. We dashed forward. He
gained the stairs ahead of us. I switched on the lights when we reached the first floor.
"The man had disappeared; but a few moments later, we heard a noise in the back hallway. We ran there
and found the little window open. The man had escaped!"
"What did you do then?"
"I ran out through the front door. I saw a policeman passing. He went through the house with Oscar, after
ordering me to call the police station. The patrol came and several policemen joined us. We could find no
trace of the man."
Willis finished his discourse and waited for comment from Marchand. The old man still stared at Oscar.
Then, suddenly, his gaze turned to Paget.
The man in evening clothes appeared to be indifferent to the conversation. When Marchand looked at
him, he was inserting a new cigarette in the end of the fancy holder.
"What do you know about the burglary, Paget?" questioned Marchand.
"Not very much, Mister Marchand," replied the man. He paused to light his cigarette. "I was driving by
that evening. I often come down Eighty-first Street on my way home.
"I saw the patrol wagon. I came in and joined Willis and Oscar. There wasn't a clew to the chap who
escaped.
"I suppose that he ran away before he had an opportunity to steal anything."
"The door of your room was open, sir," said Willis, earnestly. "Under the circumstances, I took the
liberty to enter. Oscar watched me from the door. The burglar had done nothing to the safe or the closet.
Your desk appeared to be undisturbed.
"I believe that Mister Paget is right. Nevertheless, when we discussed the matter, we considered it
advisable to telegraph you immediately."
"That's explained, Willis," said Marchand, tersely. "Tell me this: how did the burglar enter my room? Did
he destroy the lock?"
"No, sir. He must have opened it with a special type of key. After I inspected the room, I closed the
door. The spring lock closed automatically.
"No one has entered the room since."
THE doorbell rang. Oscar left the room. He returned to announce a visitor.
"Doctor George Lukens, sir," said the serving man, in a hollow voice. These were the first words he had
uttered since his master's return.
"Usher him in," ordered the old man.
Doctor Lukens entered.
He was a man with bushy gray hair, and keen, quick-moving eyes. He was more alert than Marchand,
yet he bore an appearance that placed him at approximately the same age as the master of the house.
Marchand did not rise to greet Lukens; but the physician approached with eagerness. It was obvious that
he was a life-long friend of Marchand.
"Henry!" exclaimed Lukens.
He grasped Marchand's hand; then his gleam of friendship changed to a professional expression of
concern.
"You are in good hearth?" asked Lukens.
"Passably," replied Marchand, with a sour smile. "I had a long trip to-day. That weak heart you have
warned about is none too good. I wired you to come here, in case I might need you.
"You might remain a little while; but I doubt that I shall require any medical treatment."
The old man raised himself from his chair and walked to the door with his limping step. He rested on the
cane when he reached the hallway.
"I am going upstairs," he announced. "I shall be in my room for a short while. You may all wait here until I
return."
He drew a key from his pocket and went up the stairway.
THERE was a strained silence after Henry Marchand had gone.
Willis was obviously ill at ease. His face expressed the concern of his conscientious nature. He was
hoping that Marchand would find nothing wrong in the room which the old man valued as a sanctuary.
Oscar was as impassive as ever. Paget seemed indifferent.
Doctor Lukens, knowing nothing of the matter which had been discussed, sat in a chair and lighted a
cigar, content to await Marchand's return.
Willis glanced at Paget. The man in evening clothes shrugged his shoulders. The action reassured the
young secretary.
Paget had belittled the matter of the attempted burglary. He knew, as did Willis, that Henry Marchand
kept very little of value in the house.
The safe in the old man's room harbored only a miscellaneous cluster of papers. Willis had arranged
these under his employer's direction before Marchand had gone away. Hence Paget's attitude expressed
the thought, "Why worry?"
Minutes moved by. There was no attempt at conversation. Each man in the downstairs room seemed
content with his own thoughts. They appeared to have imbibed the spirit of gloom which hung throughout
the antiquated house.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve.
"Midnight!" exclaimed Doctor Lukens. "I had no idea it was so late. I intended to be here shortly after
eleven. Well, well! I am expecting an important phone call. I must be going home very shortly."
The physician became restless. He glanced at the clock, then beckoned to Oscar.
"I must leave soon," said Doctor Lukens. "Oscar, would you go upstairs and tell Mister Marchand that I
cannot wait much longer? Perhaps he can come down immediately."
The serving man nodded. He left the room. Doctor Lukens followed him and watched him as he
ascended the stairs. The sound of knocking was heard below. A pause; then another knocking.
Oscar came down the stairs. Willis, suddenly apprehensive, joined Doctor Lukens in the hall. Paget rose
leisurely and followed.
"He does not answer, sir," said Oscar.
WILLIS went up the stairway, two steps at a time. The others followed and found the secretary listening
at the closed door of the room.
Willis knocked twice. There was no response.
"You're sure he's in there, Oscar?"
The serving man nodded.
"Something has happened, then. What shall we do?"
Doctor. Lukens settled the question.
"Break through the door," he ordered. Paget sprang to action. With surprising strength, he flung his body
against the door but it did not yield. Oscar hurried away and returned with a heavy hammer.
Paget seized the tool and directed a series of well-aimed blows upon the lock. He battered the metal with
no result. Then, changing his tactics, he drove the hammer through the wooden panel above the lock.
Reaching through the opening that he had made, Paget released the lock from the inside and the door
swung open.
Willis, unable to restrain himself, pushed the others aside as he dashed into the room.
Henry Marchand was seated in a chair before his desk. His head and shoulders rested on the top of the
desk. His left hand was outstretched, with widespread fingers. His right arm lay limp at his side.
A shallow drawer was opened in the desk, just beneath the top. In it lay a sealed envelope.
Doctor Lukens bent over the huddled form of Henry Marchand. The others stepped back.
Willis, with wild, staring eyes, gazed about the room, as though inspecting the heavily-shuttered windows.
Paget stood silently by, his cigarette holder in his hand.
The physician raised his head and turned to the waiting group. He scarcely seemed to see them or to
observe their apprehension. His lips quivered as though he wished to speak but could not utter words.
Then, suddenly, he regained his voice and spoke. Slowly uttered, his words carried the grief of a friend
mingled with the announcement of the professional physician.
"Henry Marchand is dead!"
CHAPTER II. THE HOLLOW NEEDLE
THE body of Henry Marchand had been removed, otherwise the room was the same. Its antiquated
lights still cast their ghoulish gleam upon the scene.
Beyond the door through which the four men had forced their way, a dim hall light revealed a short,
dark-visaged man who seemed to be awaiting some one. This was Detective Joe Cardona, of the New
York police.
Footsteps came from the stairway. The detective became alert. He raised his hand in greeting to a tall,
broad-shouldered individual who arrived at the top of the stairs.
The newcomer was Cardona's superior, Inspector Timothy Klein.
The two men entered the room. In brief, matter-of-fact tones, Cardona gave the circumstances of Henry
Marchand's death. Then he pointed to the open drawer in the top of the desk. He removed the envelope
from the drawer, and extracted a folded paper.
"The envelope was sealed," explained the detective. "I opened it. Here's what I found inside."
Inspector Klein studied the paper. It was thickly inscribed with a series of curious, unintelligible marks.
"A code," remarked the inspector.
Cardona nodded. "But I can't make anything out of it."
The inspector handed the paper to Cardona, who pocketed it, with the envelope.
"What else have you found out?" asked Klein.
Cardona referred to a written report.
"Four men were here when Marchand died," he said. "They all entered the room together. We have gone
over the place thoroughly. It seems impossible that any one else could have been in the house.
"Marchand died here, alone. I have quizzed all the witnesses, separately and together. I have also learned
facts regarding each of them. They all appear reliable."
CARDONA paused and laid four separate sheets of paper upon the desk. He took a chair and
proceeded with more detailed information:
"Oscar Schultz," he read. "Servant of Henry Marchand for more than twenty years. Considered faithful
and honest. Says very little and answers questions readily, though briefly."
The detective read from references on the second sheet.
"Harvey Willis," he said. "Age twenty-eight. Secretary to Henry Marchand for two years. Seems
genuinely broken up by his employer's death. A weak type, but very conscientious. Has always followed
Marchand's instructions to the letter."
Klein raised his eyebrows as Cardona read the third name.
"Rodney Paget," said the detective. "A friend of Henry Marchand -"
"You mean the young clubman?" interrupted Klein. "The polo player?"
Cardona nodded. "He's not so young, though. About forty."
"I'm going back a few years," returned the inspector, with a smile. "Young Paget comes from a good
family. I knew his father thirty years back. Always well liked.
"This is Rodney, Junior, eh? He has good connections, but I don't think he inherited much wealth. What's
his connection with Marchand?"
"Paget is connected with a brokerage house. He handled stocks and bonds for Marchand. He came here
to-night to see the old man."
"All right. Who's the fourth?"
"Doctor George Lukens."
"Of the Telman Hospital," grunted the inspector.
"He was Marchand's physician," explained the detective. "He came here to-night after receiving a
telegram from Marchand. The old man was not well. He wanted the doctor to be here when he arrived."
"A good group of witnesses," commented Klein.
"More than that," declared Cardona. "They were instrumental in bringing the police immediately upon
Marchand's death.
"This case puzzles them as much as it does me. If there are clews to Marchand's death—whatever may
have caused it—they have supplied important items of information that will prove valuable."
"For instance?"
"Lukens, to begin with."
"Marchand had a weak heart. He had returned from a long trip. Lukens, as his physician, thought at first
that heart failure was the cause of Marchand's death.
"With another doctor, that would probably have ended the matter. But Lukens is so thorough that he
looked for something else.
"He conferred with the police surgeon. They brought in a toxicologist. They are convinced that
Marchand's death was caused by some unusual poison. They have not yet discovered the mode of
application."
INSPECTOR KLEIN looked around the room as though seeking some spot in which a concealed
person might be present. The detective smiled.
"We've searched this place thoroughly," he said. "Willis and Oscar helped us. It's lucky that they did. See
that closet door?"
The inspector nodded.
"Unless you turn the knob twice before you pull the door," said Cardona, "you will get a face full of tear
gas. Just a little idea of Marchand's. He has an alarm wired to the knob of the safe."
"This desk?"
"Unprotected. But look at the clever construction of this drawer."
Cardona pressed the drawer inward. There was a sharp click. The detective jumped back instinctively.
Then he looked closely at the desk.
"Look at that!" he exclaimed. "It's cleverer than I thought! What happened to the drawer, anyway?"
The compartment had closed so perfectly that neither the inspector nor the detective could find its outline
in the woodwork.
"Neither Oscar nor Willis knew about this drawer," said Cardona. "I pushed it in before, but not all the
way.
"Now I've locked it. How in blazes are we going to open it?"
"We'll try later," said the inspector, dryly. "Anything more?"
"Yes," returned Cardona, turning away from the desk. "It was Willis who called the police. He and Oscar
believe that the house was entered twice during Marchand's absence.
"The first time, Oscar heard a noise downstairs. The second time, they discovered a man in this room.
The burglar escaped through an open window on the first floor. They gained no description of him.
"The second attempt caused them to summon Marchand home."
"Why?"
"Because the old man was very particular that no one should enter this room."
"Why?"
"We do not know, unless the answer is in the code message which we found in the drawer. I have traced
Marchand's career. It is above reproach. He had no enemies.
"He retired from the woolen business twenty years ago. Since then he had increased his wealth by
profitable investments.
"Willis is familiar with all of his financial affairs, and they were very simple."
"If there was nothing here," observed Klein, "why did the burglar enter?"
"Marchand is known to own some valuable jewelry'" said Cardona. "The gems were owned by his
deceased wife. They are not kept here. They are in a safe-deposit vault.
"My theory is that the burglar thought they were somewhere in this room, yet he didn't try the safe."
"Hm-m-m!" observed the inspector. "Maybe both times he was discovered before he had an opportunity
to make a thorough search."
"Still, I can see no connection between his attempts and the death of Marchand," said Cardona. "Willis
thought there might be a connection; but he has no theory. Nevertheless, he called in the police."
"Very good," said the inspector. "Now you've brought us back to the starting point—Marchand's death.
All else is superficial, for the present.
"How was Marchand poisoned? That's what we'll have to find out."
THE inspector arose and paced around the room. Detective Cardona looked at him in admiration.
Joe Cardona was looked upon as the smartest detective in New York; but he knew that his real ability
could not approach that of Inspector Timothy Klein. Cardona's superior was a man who dealt in simple
facts; who reached to the heart of crime. He reduced all information to the lowest quantity before he
acted.
The inspector stopped pacing. He pointed to the desk.
"Open that secret drawer again," he said.
Cardona inspected the desk. He moved his hands down the side, seeking some spot that would yield.
His efforts brought no result. He opened an ordinary drawer in the center of the desk.
"Maybe there's some kind of a key here," he said.
Among other objects, he found a pair of dice.
"Look at these," he said. "Lying seven up."
"Seven," commented the inspector, taking the dice. "There's been a lot of crimes in which the number
seven has figured. Remember that bank robbery, where they left seven pennies in the safe?"
"Maybe the same gang has something to do with this."
"Let's keep away from vague theories, Joe," said the inspector. "Get that secret drawer open. Any sign of
a key yet?"
"Here's a thimble," said Cardona.
The inspector took the object. It was a silver-plated thimble that had been lying amidst a pile of paper
clips.
"Hm-m-m!" grunted the inspector. "Funny thing to find in an old man's desk."
The detective made no comment in return. He closed the drawer. He moved his hand along the side of
the desk, following a line where he knew the shallow secret compartment must lie.
He paused near the back of the desk. His fingers were upon an ornamental molding that was divided into
sections. Cardona tapped and detected a movement in the woodwork.
As he pressed upward, the tiny segment of molding slid into the top of the desk, showing a hole beneath.
Cardona removed his hand; the segment dropped.
"Look here!" exclaimed the detective.
The inspector leaned over the side of the desk.
"Watch this," said Cardona. "I slide this piece of molding up like this. See? Then it drops back again.
Now I push it up with one finger; then insert another finger in the opening beneath."
INSPECTOR KLEIN'S brawny fist descended upon the detective's wrist. Cardona's arm dropped
away from the desk. The tiny bit of molding slipped back into place.
The detective looked at the inspector in amazement, as one would stare at a man who had gone suddenly
insane.
"What's the idea?" he blurted, unable to restrain his anger.
The inspector handed him the thimble.
"Put that on your finger," he said. "Then push your finger in the hole when you raise the molding."
The detective obeyed, wondering. When he pressed with the finger that wore the thimble, the secret
compartment suddenly appeared at the front of the desk.
"Did you notice anything?" asked Klein.
"Yes," replied the detective, still puzzled. He looked at the thimble. "It seemed as though I struck metal."
"Pliers?" demanded the inspector.
Cardona felt in his pocket and produced a pair of tweezers.
"Those will do," said Klein.
He leaned over the desk and raised the sliding molding with the thumb of his left hand. Holding the
tweezers in his right, he probed the hole beneath the molding.
Slight clicks followed; then the inspector twisted his hand and drew out the tweezers.
Raising the instrument to the light, he revealed a short, slender point of metal, clipped between the ends
of the tweezers.
摘要：

THESILENTSEVENMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DEATHATMIDNIGHT?CHAPTERII.THEHOLLOWNEEDLE?CHAPTERIII.KLEIN'SSOLUTION?CHAPTERIV.ASTRANGEVISITOR?CHAPTERV.MURDERREVEALED!?CHAPTERVI.THESCARABRING?CHAPTERVII.AMURDERERESCAPES?CHAPTERVIII.CARDONACHECKS?CHAP...

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