“Yeah,” agreed Spark. He nudged a thumb toward the newspaper: “But the bulls didn’t let the bladders in on why they thought it was murder. They didn’t want nobody to wise up that there was too much of the croak-juice in the pitcher. All they said was that the bottle they found didn’t prove that Hessup bumped himself.”

“I have read the newspapers,” announced Malfort, coldly. “All that I wanted was your version of the matter. This occurrence alters our future plans.”

“About knocking off this next guy, George Furbish?”

“Yes. I shall relieve you of that task, Spark. Simply keep your men on duty. Inform me when Furbish arrives at his new apartment.”

“Then who’ll croak Furbish?”

“I shall delegate that work to Ku-Nuan.”

Spark grinned when he heard Malfort’s utterance. Evidently the name of Ku-Nuan was one that specified crime of a most insidious sort.

“Meanwhile,” added Malfort, “you can visit your druggist friend. Talk to Durlew, Spark; be tactful when you sound out his opinions. If his views are reasonable, see to his welfare. If they are not -”

Malfort paused, to study the eagerness that showed upon Spark’s ugly face. In significant purr, he added:

“If Durlew is unreasonable, follow your own impulse.”

Spark nodded. Malfort delivered a wide, sweeping gesture that ended with his hand pointing toward the door. The interview was concluded. Spark arose and went from the sumptuous living room.

SILENCE followed the thuggish lieutenant’s departure. Malfort, the master of murder, sat studying the fire. Dying embers brought a ruddy glow to satanic features. Malfort spoke, in low-toned pur:

“A fresh log, Wardlock.”

Again, the soft-footed secretary had entered; and Malfort had sensed his silent arrival. Wardlock approached and drew back the screen to place a log upon the fire. In indulgent fashion, Malfort spoke confidentially to the moon-faced man.

“All goes well, Wardlock,” purred the master murderer. “I expected Spark Ganza to have more trouble with Hessup than with Blessingdale. It would be unwise, however, to continue with Spark when we deal with Furbish.”

An expectant look appeared upon Wardlock’s moonish face.

“Therefore,” concluded Malfort, “I have chosen another instrument. You will summon Ku-Nuan.”

Wardlock’s lips spread in a pleased leer. Like Spark Ganza, the secretary seemed to hold a high opinion of Ku-Nuan. So, for that matter, did Malfort. The master of crime was already gloating as he foresaw new evil triumph.

“Spark will cover his trail,” stated Malfort. “The next move will rest with Ku-Nuan. The last stroke, like the first, will be my own. I began crime, Wardlock; I shall end it. I have left to others the episodes that lay between.

“My methods are unique. As a man of reputed wealth and standing, I am above suspicion. No one can suspect my part in crime. No one can find a trail that leads to me. No one can cope against my efforts -”

Malfort paused abruptly, as he saw a flicker of worry upon Wardlock’s face. With a grating laugh, Malfort added final words of emphasis:

“No one. Not even The Shadow!”

THE tone restored confidence to Wardlock. In his moonish manner, the secretary matched his master’s satanic facial twist. As long as Malfort recognized the existence of The Shadow; as long as he considered that master foe of crime as a possible adversary, there could be no danger from the hidden source. So Wardlock reasoned; for Malfort, himself, had once voiced that opinion.

Rising firelight sent long streaks across the floor. They were ominous, those shadows; but Kenneth Malfort thought them meaningless. He purred, in convinced tone:

“Blessingdale – Hessup – Furbish – two are dead; the third will soon be the same. No dead man can provide The Shadow with a trail.”

Sound statements, those; but ones that Malfort might find to be untrue. This murderer had been swift in moves of crime. That, more than he thought, could account for the security that he still enjoyed.

Moreover, in his mention of names, Malfort had forgotten one. He had not included Durlew, the druggist. Small wonder, for, to Malfort, Durlew was not even a pawn. Durlew was a side issue; one whom Spark Ganza could handle. He could be forgotten.

Forgotten people, like forgotten facts, were often the ones whom The Shadow found. Those flickers from the firelight, with their streaks of shadowy darkness on the hearth, were to prove more ominous than Malfort supposed.

Chance though they were, those wavering patches of black presaged The Shadow’s entry into the affairs of Kenneth Malfort.

THOUGH Kenneth Malfort had forgotten Durlew, Spark Ganza had not. There was good reason why Spark should remember the obscure druggist. Spark had been delegated to the task of using tact with Durlew. He was, therefore, on his way to talk to the man who had provided the poison.

From Malfort’s, Spark had traveled by taxicab to an elevated station. There, he had boarded an East Side train. Riding southward, Spark wore a contemptuous grin as he looked about the lighted car and surveyed the few passengers.

All were buried deep in the final editions of the evening newspapers. They were gobbling news of murder – the law’s version concerning the death of William Hessup, prominent Buffalo banker, member of New York ’s swanky Merrimac Club, where he had been found poisoned.

Theories were absent from the newspapers. The police had progressed only to the point where they rejected suicide as the explanation, but had no other.

Spark’s evil recollections went back to yesterday. Then, the newspapers had screamed the name of Jerome Blessingdale, prominent mining promoter, who had come North from Florida. Blessingdale’s death had been murder, out and out; but it had provided no clues.

The “el” train rumbled to a stop. This was Spark’s station. As he stepped off to the platform, Spark was chuckling over thoughts of the future. Tomorrow, the newspapers would have something new to shout about. Another murder, this time a prominent Wall Street financier. One whose name Spark could predict: George Furbish.

Spark Ganza, in his own crude way, was quite as confident as Kenneth Malfort. The lieutenant shared Wardlock’s belief in the master murderer’s prowess. Moreover, Spark had not forgotten the mention of the mysterious Ku-Nuan.

Spark’s reveries ended as he reached the bottom of the elevated steps. Darkness was thick along the gloomy avenue where the elevated loomed. Only at the cross street was there any sign of bright lights. There, a newsboy was hawking his last few copies of the final editions.

“Uxtry! Uxtry! Read about de new moider!”

Spark paused to listen to the gamin’s shout. He saw the newsboy sell a newspaper; then raise the cry:

“Anudder big moider! Police link de killers!”

Spark spat an oath, as he turned and strode along the avenue. He had expected this sort of thing from the newspapers. Blessingdale and Hessup were both from out of town. It was only logical that the police should see a tie-up between the two cases of sudden death. Malfort’s reason for wanting Hessup to appear a suicide struck itself home to Spark.

Nevertheless, the thuggish lieutenant displayed no worry as he paced past the dingy store windows that lined the avenue. Let the law think what it wanted. Trails were covered. Another death would strike while the police stood baffled.

MUSING thus, Spark came to the building that he was seeking. He slowed his pace, craned his neck forward and studied a grimy store window that bore scratchy gold letters upon its lighted pane:

H. DURLEW

Apothecary