it.
Again, a light flashed from the doorway. Turning, Nevlin saw the reason.
Among the guests was a society reporter, who was taking flashlight pictures.
No one objecting, the photographer made another shot directly into the
room, then walked toward Aldriff's body, turned around and took a flash of the
doorway where the witnesses were clustered.
Noting annoyed looks on the faces of the guests, the photographer
shouldered through them and waved goodbye. Some persons wanted to call him back,
but Nevlin shook his head. Pictures were a good idea; they proved that the room
was empty, and that the searchers had probed into every possible hiding place.
Behind the group in the doorway, the hall looked gloomy, as well it might.
A shape had emerged from the nearby vestibule, to block off the hallway light.
Peering past heads and shoulders, The Shadow studied the room.
BOTH Nevlin and Joan had been ardent in their search - the secretary
anxious to prove there was a hidden murderer; the girl desirous of establishing
that there was none.
Near the trophy case, Joan sat in a chair that matched the flimsy ones in
the nook, and suggested that Nevlin count noses, to make sure no stranger was
among them. Nevlin turned to the doorway and tallied off the witnesses.
Rather than have the secretary count one too many, The Shadow dipped and
sidled back to the vestibule. He was turning toward the den again, when Nevlin
came out, accompanied by Joan. Others made way for them to pass, then followed
them.
The little group was blocking The Shadow's view of the reception hall, when
a halt came. Stopping squarely in their tracks, people began to raise their
hands. Slowly, fearfully, they were backing away, returning into the room where
Aldriff lay dead.
Why?
All were through the doorway, with the exception of Joan and Nevlin, when
The Shadow saw the cause of their retreat. A masked man was confronting them
with a gun; crouched, his body had a thickset look. His voice was forced and
ugly, as he made threatening gestures with his revolver.
Aldriff's death could well be defined as proven suicide, in a room where no
murderer could possibly be hidden. But the threat of murder was looming over
others, the very witnesses who could swear that Aldriff had died by his own
hand.
Why this masked man, entering boldly by the front door, was anxious to
enter the sealed room of death, was a strange question in itself. Yet those who
were shrinking, fearful for their lives, were not in the serious plight that
they supposed.
In the offing was a black-cloaked friend who could save them. No killer
ever lived who could commit open murder in the presence of The Shadow!
CHAPTER III
TWISTED FLIGHT
