Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 165 - Silver Skull

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SILVER SKULL
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," January 1, 1939.
Little silver tokens that meant death! Could The Shadow uncover the
wicked
scheme?
CHAPTER I
DOOM'S TOKEN
THERE was something in the night air that Mildred Wilbin did not like.
Perhaps it was the fog, a muggy mist not usual during this mild season. But
Mildred had driven through such fogs before, when she went to her uncle's home
on Long Island.
As she swung her trim canary-hued roadster along the road beside Long
Island Sound, Mildred brushed back the stray locks of light-brown hair that
had
settled toward her eyebrows. With the same sweep, she seemed to take the
troubled furrows from her forehead. Her attractive lips lost their solemn
droop
and favored her with a smile from the rear-view mirror.
She was worried about her uncle, that was all; and with very little
reason. The fog had suggested a danger, but the menace was too remote to be
given further consideration.
Tonight, Mildred's uncle, Herbert Wilbin, was taking a transport plane
for
Los Angeles. Within the past month, two such ships had crashed among the Rocky
Mountains. Therefore, Mildred had logically been worried when her uncle had
mentioned that he was going West by air.
Logic of a different sort had ended the girl's qualms. Herbert Wilbin had
argued that the planes were flying higher, taking more precautions, because of
the recent disasters. That had satisfied Mildred, until this fog had come
along. With it, her sense of an existing menace had returned.
But she was reasoning that menace out of mind. This fog was local,
confined to Long Island alone. It couldn't bother pilots of a westbound plane.
As if in answer to that bit of common sense, the fog began to clear before the
roadster's headlights.
Mildred had reached the rise of ground outside her uncle's estate. She
turned the car in between two stone gates and drove slowly along the curved
drive that led to the mansion.
There was a light beneath the portico that fronted the great stone house.
By the glow, Mildred saw a limousine parked there. A gray-haired man - Herbert
Wilbin - was standing beside the car, talking to someone within it. Rather
than
interrupt her uncle's conversation with a parting guest, Mildred cut through a
side drive that led to a circle in back of the huge house.
The fog was very slight where Mildred parked, but pitch-blackness settled
in the moment that she turned off the roadster's lights. The circular drive
was
flanked by cedar trees that hid the lower windows of the house. Mildred had to
grope past those screening trees, to sight the dim light from the house door
that opened onto the rear drive.
She had a key to that door, and while she used it, she felt nervous. She
was worried again, not by thought of the fog, but by something that she
couldn't explain. There was no breeze in the fog-stilled darkness, yet the
cedar trees seemed to whisper.
Mildred's lips were tight, when the door finally unlocked. She felt very
grateful for the lights in the rear hall. Grateful even when she saw Fortner,
although she didn't like the fellow.
Fortner was her uncle's secretary, a smug, middle-aged man whose hair was
prematurely gray.
Perhaps Herbert Wilbin found Fortner indispensable as a secretary; but
that, in Mildred's opinion, didn't make up for the man's sneakiness.
For once, she had noticed Fortner before the secretary spied her. He was
on his way to Wilbin's study, and it was almost laughable, the sudden jump
that
Fortner gave when he heard Mildred speak. A moment later, he was stammering -
something that Mildred had never known him to do before.
"Why... why, you startled me, Miss Wilbin!" the secretary wheezed. "I
thought... well, you said good-by to your uncle, awhile ago. But... but -"
"But I'm back again," interposed Mildred, with a smile. "I happened to
forget my suitcase. It's upstairs in my room. Would you get it for me,
Fortner?"
The secretary hesitated; he looked toward the study door, as though duty
called him there.
"It's very heavy," added Mildred, "and besides, I left some books in the
library. If you bring the suitcase while I'm getting the books, it will save
me
a lot of time."
Fortner nodded. He glanced toward the front of the house. Noting no signs
of Herbert Wilbin's immediate return, Fortner decided to get the suitcase. But
he spoke a reminder before he started upstairs.
"Mr. Wilbin has some important letters to dictate," said Fortner. "He
can't afford much time, or he will miss his plane. It's a long trip to the
airport."
"I've already said good-by to Uncle Herbert," smiled Mildred. "You won't
even have to tell him that I came back."
Quite relieved, Fortner headed for the stairway, while Mildred went into
the library. She was picking out the books, when she heard the smooth purr of
the departing limousine out front. She glimpsed her uncle when he came in from
the portico, but she did not call to him as he went past the library door.
HERBERT WILBIN was smiling as he strolled into the study. He was
remembering some quip that he had exchanged with the visitor who had just
left.
They had chatted previously in the study, for on Wilbin's desk was an ash tray
containing cigar stumps, and tall glasses empty except for remaining fragments
of ice.
Sitting down at his desk, Wilbin stiffened suddenly, with a slight
instinctive recoil. His eyes had encountered a strange object that glimmered
dully from the desk: a thing that seemed alive, although it symbolized death.
The object was a silver skull remarkably like an actual death's-head,
though it was small enough to have rested within the palm of Wilbin's hand.
Ostensibly, the skull was nothing more than a paper weight, for it rested
upon some papers that were on the desk. Nevertheless, Wilbin reached for the
skull as though he feared it would burn his fingers. Laying it gingerly aside,
he began to paw through the papers beneath.
A chill gripped Herbert Wilbin; his breath hissed between his gritted
teeth. There should have been an envelope among. that bundle; one containing a
paper more important than any in the stack.
The envelope was gone, its contents with it.
Hands clamped upon the desk edge, Wilbin eyed the silver skull. This
time,
his lips hissed words that he spoke as though they were a name:
"Silver Skull!"
The title fitted a certain person, for a reason that Herbert Wilbin knew.
A man who should be trustworthy, yet who, by this token on the desk, was
otherwise. A flood of thoughts rushed through Wilbin's brain, began to link
themselves into connected ideas.
So intent was Wilbin upon his theories, that he did not hear the sound of
a motor in the rear drive. It was Mildred, departing in her roadster; but
Wilbin knew nothing of his niece's brief return.
In the stillness of the study, he was sliding open a desk drawer; his
eyes
fixed upon the door of the room, he reached for a revolver. Herbert Wilbin was
quite sure that he could solve the riddle of the silver skull. Not once did
his
eyes waver from the door that he so grimly watched.
Soon, the door opened. Into the room stepped Fortner. The smug secretary
closed the door behind him and turned toward the desk. The look that he gave
was as startled as the one that Mildred had previously witnessed.
Herbert Wilbin spoke in a tone as level as the steady aim of his
revolver.
"Tonight, I received a guest," he told Fortner. "A man who presumably
knew
nothing of my affairs. A man, therefore, who could be left alone in this room,
where a most important document was within his reach.
"He found that paper, Fortner, and took it. In its place" - Wilbin
gestured with his free hand - "he left this skull! A curious token, because it
fits with his identity."
Fortner said nothing. His eyes were gazing at the skull, his lips giving
a
twitch that tried to express ignorance, but failed.
"As I analyze it, Fortner," added Wilbin, "my visitor - let us call him
Silver Skull - could have left this token for one purpose only: to notify
someone that his task was done. Since you and I are alone in the house; you
are
the person for whom the information was meant!"
"NO, no!" Fortner was advancing, shaking his head, raising his hands
pitifully. "I know nothing!"
"You know everything," corrected Wilbin. "Halt where you are, Fortner,
and
tell me what Silver Skull expects to gain. Tell me what you were supposed to
do,
after you found his token; what measures you were to take to cover the theft
of
the envelope.
"Unless you speak, Fortner, your plight will be as bad as that of the man
who hired you. I shall call the police" - Wilbin's free hand was moving toward
the telephone - "and denounce you, too, when I tell them that Silver Skull is
-"
Wilbin failed to add the name. He had something else to occupy him.
Fortner was leaping for the desk. The man's pretense of innocence was gone;
hence, Wilbin did not hesitate.
Coolly, Wilbin aimed point-blank and pressed the gun trigger.
The click did nothing to halt Fortner. The gun was empty. Fortner,
himself, had seen to that earlier; it explained why he was willing to take a
chance. Viciously, he sprang across the desk and locked with Wilbin before the
latter could recover from his surprise.
In the tussle that followed, Fortner fought with the frantic instinct of
a
cornered rat. He managed to twist away from a choking clutch Wilbin got on his
neck, and with each spell of freedom, he supplied wild measures to beat off
the
next attack. At last, luck served the secretary.
Half across the desk, Fortner wriggled free from Wilbin and tried to grab
for the swivel chair. He landed in it at an angle and the chair levered
backward. Fortner's feet went up into the air, straight toward Wilbin.
Partly through sheer inability to halt his backward plunge, partly
through
his ability to grasp quick opportunities, Fortner let his left foot fly high
in
a sideward kick that took Wilbin underneath the chin.
The stroke had more power than Fortner could possibly have put into a
punch. Its chance accuracy gave it a knockout force. When Fortner crawled from
the chair, he saw Herbert Wilbin lying stunned beside him.
Panting, the secretary went to a window, raised the shade, then the sash.
Reaching back to the desk, he picked up the silver skull and showed it at the
window. There was a stir from the cedars; hard-looking men came through the
open window, and grinned their understanding when they viewed Wilbin's
prostrate form.
They took the unconscious victim out through the window. Locking the sash
and drawing the shade, Fortner picked up the telephone and ordered a taxicab.
He was tidying the room, when the telephone bell rang. Answering it, Fortner
heard a chuckle, as his tone was recognized.
The voice at the other end spoke a single word:
"Silver -"
"Skull," replied Fortner. Then, in panting tone: "It's done! Everything
worked out -"
A drop of the distant receiver cut off any further report. Silver Skull
was satisfied with the news. Fortner gave a shrug, then grinned. There was
more
work for him to do, but it would be easy; very easy.
When the taxi arrived at the Wilbin mansion, Fortner was standing beneath
the darkened portico, a heavy suitcase resting beside him. When he and his
luggage were inside the cab, Fortner gave the brisk order:
"Newark Airport!"
CHAPTER II
LINKS FROM THE PAST
ON the day following the stroke against Herbert Wilbin, rumors of another
air tragedy swept suddenly upon the public. A cross-country plane had vanished
somewhere in the Rockies, exactly like the two that had been lost before.
Among the passengers listed was Herbert Wilbin, millionaire manufacturer
from Long Island.
There was little doubt as to the plane's fate. By this time, the public
had learned what to expect when such ships were last reported over the
mountains. A few days would bring the discovery of scattered wreckage, in
which
no person would be found alive.
Until that time, searchers were expressing the usual hopes that they
themselves invariably ended.
Midafternoon found two men discussing the missing ship in surroundings
quite remote from the Rocky Mountains. The two were in a sumptuous hotel suite
in New York City, and though they presented a marked contrast in appearance,
both were experienced in the same subject - aviation.
One was Kent Allard, an aviator with a singular career. Years ago, he had
had a forced landing in Guatemala, where he had become the white god of a
tribe
of Xinca Indians. Returned to New York, Allard lived at this hotel, with two
faithful Xincas as his servants.
Allard's appearance was as remarkable as his career. His face was
hawklike
in expression, as solemn and as firm-molded as the features of an Aztec idol.
His speech, calm and even-toned, was as lacking in emotion as his countenance.
The only expression that might have betrayed his thoughts, came from his keen
eyes. But there was something in that gaze that left all viewers baffled.
The other man was Norwood Parridge, a wealthy sportsman whose chief hobby
was flying. He was tall, like Allard; but his shoulders had a forward tilt, as
though they carried some constant burden. Parridge's face was handsome but
haggard, and the lines that creased his forehead had the look of grooves.
"It can't happen again," Parridge was saying, as he paced the floor.
Then,
bitterly: "That's what I said before, Allard. But it has happened!"
Allard's eyes had a sympathetic gaze. Parridge noted it; his shoulders
straightened as he stroked a hand through his rumpled dark hair.
"It's not the money in it," he declared. "I'm not worrying about the cash
that I've invested in Federated Airways. It's aviation that counts, and that
applies to both of us."
"Quite," agreed Allard.
"I'm going to join the search again," asserted Parridge, grimly. "Like I
did when they hunted for those other ships. Thanks for your offer to pinch-hit
for me, but I've got to go through with it myself.
"Yet what will it bring? Nothing, except the finding of twisted metal;
human bodies charred beyond all recognition. There will be talk of further
safety measures, but nothing can come of it. Federated Airways already have
every possible safety device upon their planes.
"It's the human element, Allard; the mental hazard that hits every pilot,
no matter how experienced he is. That's why these crack-ups always come in
cycles. All we can hope is that this particular one is ended."
AFTER Parridge had gone, Kent Allard stood at the window of the spacious
living room watching the millionaire's car drive from the hotel. Fixed lips
moved; from them came the tone of a whispered laugh. Mirthless, it was a grim
echo to the matters that Allard and Parridge had discussed.
Though Norwood Parridge did not know it, his fellow aviator, Kent Allard,
had more than an airman's interest in those tragedies among the Rockies. For
behind the calm personality of Kent Allard lay a strange identity.
Kent Allard was The Shadow.
Master fighter who battled crime, The Shadow had come face to face with a
chain of mystery that carried him into the field of aviation which he, as
Allard, knew so well.
To date, The Shadow had accepted these air tragedies as the accidents
that
they appeared to be; but the third crash, only a few hours old, had produced
features that linked with the past.
Stepping to a writing desk, Allard drew typewritten sheets from a drawer
and studied them intently.
The first was a report on a man named Carter Gurry, a wealthy Californian
who had died in the first crash. Gurry had been planning to place most of his
fortune in a motion-picture enterprise, when death had intervened. His wealth
had gone to a cousin in California, who had promptly set out for Australia.
Next on the list was Roy Breck, a victim in the second crash. Breck, it
seemed, had been traveling West to marry a girl in Arizona. His death had
placed his entire fortune, the Breck lumber millions, in the hands of a
brother
who had already squandered his own inheritance
Breck's brother, like Gurry's cousin, had promptly faded from the public
eye.
Today, close upon the third plane disaster, agents of The Shadow had
supplied prompt data regarding a new victim - Herbert Wilbin. There were two
possible heirs to Wilbin's wealth: one, a niece, Mildred; the other a nephew,
Roger. They were brother and sister.
The two presented an absolute contrast. Mildred's affection for her uncle
was marked; and from all reports, Wilbin had cared for his niece. But Roger
had
shown no regard whatever for his uncle. In fact, Roger Wilbin was at present
in
South America, for a reason known to The Shadow, although it had not been
revealed to the law.
The reason was that Roger had forged his uncle's name to checks totaling
some twenty thousand dollars, and Herbert Wilbin had stood the loss.
Nevertheless, The Shadow's report sheets showed that Wilbin's lawyers,
believing his death a certainty, had searched among their client's papers and
had learned that two thirds of the fortune was to go to the renegade nephew,
with only one third to the faithful niece.
As yet, The Shadow had not learned the date of the will in question; but
he was sure upon one point - namely, that the will must have been made prior
to
Roger's crooked work. Likewise, The Shadow was positive that a later will, as
yet unfound, must have been extracted from among Wilbin's papers.
Those two points added up to one conclusion: that last night's plane
crash
had been something other than an accident. Tracing back, the same could
properly
apply to the previous disasters that had harried Federated Airways.
The Shadow folded the report sheets. His hand was reaching for a
telephone, when the bell rang. Answering it in Allard's tone, The Shadow
learned that a visitor had arrived to see him. A moment later, the visitor's
name was announced across the wire:
"Miss Mildred Wilbin."
THERE was no smile on Allard s lips as he gravely received the caller.
Nothing told Mildred that she, of all persons, was the one that Kent Allard
had
been most anxious to meet at this particular moment. She was conscious,
though,
of a keen gaze that seemed to sweep her.
In Mildred Wilbin, The Shadow observed a girl of rare charm. Her face had
a beauty that strain could not mar.
The girl was not wearing mourning clothes. Until she learned the positive
news that the lost plane had crashed, Mildred Wilbin would refuse to believe
that her uncle was dead.
Within a few minutes, Mildred was talking of the very subject that she
had
come to discuss: her uncle. More than that, she was telling Kent Allard why
she
had chosen to confide in him, although she had never before met him.
"You are a famous aviator," said Mildred, her tone as sincere as her
gaze.
"More than that, you have undergone hardships. They say that you are wealthy,
yet care little for wealth. That is why I believe that you will do what I
request, and understand fully why I ask it.
"My uncle may be dead. If he is dead, his death was designed. Therefore
you, in the interest of aviation, should investigate the cause."
Allard's nod showed interest. Then:
"What proof can you offer?" he asked. "There must be some reason -"
"There is a reason," interposed Mildred. "I have heard from my uncle's
lawyers. His will leaves two thirds of his estate to my brother. I assure you,
Mr. Allard, that my uncle must have made a later will.
"He intended to leave everything to me. But my feeling in the matter is
not selfish. I would give every cent" - her eyes were flashing - "to charity,
rather than have the slightest share go to Roger!"
"Then you believe that your uncle's wish -"
"Was precisely the same as mine. There are reasons, Mr. Allard, that I
cannot reveal, because my uncle, himself, chose to keep them secret."
It was plain that Mildred was holding back any statement of Roger's
forgeries, which proved the sincerity of her story. Sensing that Allard was
impressed, the girl pressed her cause with facts that she felt she could
properly reveal.
"Fortner could be the man responsible," she declared. "He was my uncle's
secretary."
"Tell me about him."
Mildred described the smug secretary, and detailed her impression of
Fortner's soft-footed ways. Though Allard listened placidly, his eyes almost
shut, Mildred thought she detected a flicker of interest on his part when she
mentioned the grayness of Fortner's hair.
"What you have told me may be quite important," decided Allard. "However"
- his lips showed the semblance of a smile - "it is a problem for a detective,
rather than an aviator. You will pardon my absence for a few minutes, Miss
Wilbin?"
Mildred nodded. Allard strolled from the living room; when he returned, a
few minutes later, he again displayed his slight smile.
"The matter is in competent hands," he told Mildred, "and I can promise
my
own cooperation, so far as the aviation angle is concerned. Meanwhile, I must
ask one question. Has anyone followed you since last night?"
Mildred shook her head. She was emphatic on that point. From the window,
she pointed out the yellow roadster parked near the hotel. From his own
scrutiny, Allard seemed assured that the car was unwatched.
"I have some excellent advice for you," he told Mildred. "You are to take
a vacation. Forget everything, until you hear from me. Everything, including
your uncle."
"Do you mean" - Mildred's eyes were wide with hope - "that Uncle Herbert
may still be alive?"
"Anything may be possible," assured Allard. He was watching a taxicab
park
across the street from Mildred's car.
"But where am I to go?"
ALLARD gave Mildred the name of a lodge on a Connecticut lake, with
instructions how to reach it. He added that she was to use another name while
there, so that she could be reached only by persons who were supposed to know
that she was at the lodge.
Such precautions, instead of dismaying Mildred, served to intrigue her.
She felt sure that the person contacted by Kent Allard must be an investigator
of high repute. Confidence gripped her, as she walked with Allard to the door.
"Do not worry about followers," remarked Allard, in parting. "Your trail
will be protected."
From his window, Kent Allard watched Mildred leave the hotel. The girl's
white attire, with its trimming of brown, made her quite conspicuous as she
entered the canary-yellow roadster. The car, too, was easy to observe, as it
rolled away through traffic. Those points, as affairs stood, were in Mildred's
favor.
A soft laugh came from the lips of Kent Allard. Again, the sibilant tone
was the mirth of The Shadow. This time, it carried a note of satisfaction.
With
Mildred Wilbin safe, available if needed for future information, The Shadow
was
ready to take up a trail of crime. For he was the investigator whose advice
Kent Allard had seemingly sought by telephone.
There were times, however, when chance could mar even The Shadow's plans.
In the case of Mildred Wilbin, The Shadow had laughed too soon!
CHAPTER III
SERVERS OF THE SKULL
WHEN Mildred Wilbin drove away from Allard's hotel, a taxi took up her
trail. It was the same cab that had parked across the street and it was driven
by one of The Shadow's agents, summoned by that telephone call.
After a dozen blocks, Mildred turned into a side street and made a stop
at
a jewelry store, where she had left her watch to be repaired. The cab was
waiting there when she came out; behind it was a coupe, driven by another of
The Shadow's agents.
The coupe took over the trail. Mildred was being watched by Harry
Vincent,
most capable of The Shadow's aids. With his coupe, it was Harry's task to
convoy
the girl beyond the limits of Manhattan.
Mildred made another stop, at a drug-store. From his coupe, Harry watched
the doorway and satisfied himself that no one had trailed the girl. In fact,
at
that moment, Mildred Wilbin was entirely safe, forgotten even by the hidden
criminal who had plotted against her uncle. There was no way for Harry Vincent
to guess the part that chance was about to play.
Making a purchase, Mildred opened her handbag and drew out a change
purse.
Among the coins, she saw a folded slip of paper and opened it. She recognized
the slip as a shopping list that she had used a few days before. About to tear
the paper, she saw a notation on the back.
It was a telephone number, Hyacinth 4-9328, and it was written in a
meticulous hand that Mildred identified as Fortner's. She remembered instantly
that she had found the slip of paper on the telephone table in the hallway of
her uncle's home, but not until this moment had she noted the writing on the
under side.
Prompted by an immediate impulse, Mildred entered a phone booth in the
drugstore. For a moment, she thought of calling Allard first; but she had
forgotten the number of his hotel. Dropping a nickel in the pay box, she
dialed
the Hyacinth number.
A voice answered promptly; a voice that said "Hello!" in a great hurry.
Mildred repeated the greeting; the voice evidently expected a woman's call.
Across the wire, Mildred heard a smooth-voiced statement:
"John Lenville will be next. All is arranged; but be ready, in case you
are needed."
There was something insidious in that smooth tone, that made Mildred's
thoughts flash to her uncle's fate. Her fears of crime were not idle; nor was
crime ended. She stood at the telephone, too stunned to speak. The voice was
repeating the name of John Lenville. Finding her own voice, Mildred asked
coolly:
"And after Lenville - will there be others?"
The question was not immediately answered. Mildred found time to scrawl
the name of John Lenville on the envelope on which she had written the address
of the Connecticut lodge. Then came the voice across the wire, speaking a
single word:
"Silver -"
The word meant nothing to Mildred. She supposed that her question had
been
misunderstood. Calmly as before, she asked if there would be others after
Lenville. This time, after a moment of hesitation, the voice replied:
"Yes," it said, briskly. "There will be another. Dr. George Sleed!"
THERE was a click of a receiver. Hanging up, Mildred hurriedly consulted
a
telephone directory. She couldn't find the name of John Lenville, but she
discovered a listing for Dr. George Sleed. His address was in the Eighties,
the
very direction in which Mildred intended to drive.
Going out to her car, Mildred drove north. Remembering her interview with
Kent Allard, she decided that before she called him, it would be best to
gather
all the information available. That could best be acquired by calling upon Dr.
Sleed, a man who, like the unknown John Lenville, was living under some
threat.
Reaching Sleed's address, Mildred found it to be a pretentious brownstone
house that had been converted into a store and apartments. Leaving her car,
she
ascended the high steps; in the lobby, she found a bell button that bore the
name of Dr. George Sleed, with the listing 2B. She rang the bell; there was a
prompt buzz from the automatic door. Mildred entered.
At the top of the stairs, a door had opened; in the waning afternoon
light, Mildred saw a uniformed nurse, who greeted her with a slight bow. She
inquired Mildred's name; receiving it, the nurse ushered the visitor into a
tiny waiting room, then asked:
"Does Dr. Sleed expect you?"
"No," replied Mildred. "But it is very important that I see him."
"Very well, Miss Wilbin. I shall inform him that you are here."
Mildred began wondering what to say to Dr. Sleed, when she met him.
Wrapped in thought, she scarcely noticed that the little waiting room was very
stuffy. She was roused suddenly by the opening of an inner door. Against the
light from an office, she saw a bearded man standing on the threshold.
"Dr. Sleed?" Mildred was rising as she spoke. "I've come to see you
because -"
The room was whirling suddenly. Mildred would have fallen, except for
Sleed's quickness in catching her arm. He helped her into the office, calling
excitedly for Miss Royce. The nurse arrived to find Mildred sagged in a chair,
laughing hysterically.
"This patient is very ill, Miss Royce," announced Sleed, reprovingly.
"She
must be kept quiet. Put her to bed at once!"
Mildred tried to protest, but her voice only choked. The nurse helped her
to her feet; instantly, Mildred felt a return of dizziness. She let Miss Royce
help her along a hallway, into a white-walled room furnished with a hospital
bed and a few chairs. From a chair beside the bed, Mildred watched the nurse
close the door, then bring a nightgown from a closet. Placing the garment on
the bed, the nurse methodically turned down the covers.
"I'm all right," began Mildred. "Really -"
She gasped, hysterically. She realized that she wasn't all right. Then
the
nurse was beside her, helping her remove her clothes.
The soft nightie felt very comfortable when it slid over Mildred's
shoulders. The bed was comfortable, too. Mildred gave a sigh; nestling her
cheek against the deep pillow, she watched Miss Royce gather scattered clothes
from the floor and pile the discarded garments neatly on the chair.
"You must rest," advised the nurse, soothingly. "Close your eyes. The
dizziness will pass."
MILDRED closed her eyes. Comfortable moments passed until she heard a
sharp sound, like the closing of a door; next, a subdued, persistent hiss.
Coming upright in bed, Mildred was puzzled by the sight of daylight through
clear panes above a frosted window. Her fingers plucking the nightgown, she
wondered why she was wearing it instead of her own clothes.
It struck her that she should be in her car driving to Connecticut,
instead of in this room. Springing from the bed, she hurried to the window.
Through the clear panes above the frosted ones, Mildred looked out on the
front street and saw her yellow roadster parked there. She must get to it.
Going to the room door, Mildred found that the knob would not turn. She
pounded for a few moments, then decided that she could save time by getting
dressed, while she waited for the nurse. Mildred was slipping the nightgown
from her shoulders, when she turned toward the chair beside the bed. A surge
of
complete hopelessness rendered her immobile.
Her clothes were gone from the chair. Miss Royce had taken them.
Mildred's
face went pale with despair; a chill seemed to sweep her, as she understood
how
capably her plight had been planned.
She had walked into a trap the moment that she entered that outer office.
Her hysteria had come from laughing gas, piped into the waiting room. She
could
have been overpowered then and there; but these crooks, Dr. Sleed and the
nurse,
Miss Royce, would have had a more difficult charge on their hands. They hadn't
wanted a chance visitor unconscious in the waiting room, where someone else
might arrive.
Instead, they had let Mildred add to her own dilemma. She had become a
patient, and had willingly let Miss Royce put her to bed. As she now stood,
Mildred hadn't a single possession by which she could identify herself, for
her
handbag, with all its contents, had gone with her clothes.
Out of a blur of thoughts, Mildred caught the reason why she had thought
of laughing gas. The hissing sound, still persistent in this room, had given
her the explanation. More gas; but this dose was not of the same variety.
Before Mildred could start a frantic dash toward the window, a blackness swept
over her.
With a sudden sigh, the girl sank softly to the floor.
In the hallway outside, the bearded man who called himself Dr. George
Sleed was watching a dial attached to the wall. The indicator had reached the
required point; with a smile that parted his beard, Sleed turned off the gas.
Going back into his office, Sleed picked up Mildred's handbag from the
desk. He was interested in the large amount of money that it contained; also
in
the automobile keys and the licenses that went with them. But he widened his
overlarge grin when he found the slip of paper that stated Mildred's
destination and the name she was to use in Connecticut.
Sleed rapped on a door, gave the quick admonition: "Hurry, Thelma!"
The door opened. Out stepped the Royce woman, attired as a nurse no
longer. From tan-trimmed shoes to brown-ribboned white hat, her clothes were
those that had belonged to Mildred Wilbin.
"How do you like me, doc?" asked Thelma, her voice no longer modulated.
"Do I look as classy as the Wilbin dame did, when she walked in here? I ought
摘要：

SILVERSKULLbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"January1,1939.Littlesilvertokensthatmeantdeath!CouldTheShadowuncoverthewickedscheme?CHAPTERIDOOM'STOKENTHEREwassomethinginthenightairthatMildredWilbindidnotlike.Perhapsitwasthefog,amuggymistnotusualduringthismildseason.ButMildredhad...

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