Before he could speak to the detective, the professor was listening intently, and he was anxiously resuming conversation.
“That’s right… The local police… Yes, yes… Come in here. Have them bring it… Everything. Wrappings and all.
“What’s that? A cigar box? Like one you get every week… Don’t delay… Get here at once!”
The phone dropped from Biscayne’s hands. The startled man seized Cardona by the shoulders.
“A bomb!” he cried. “A bomb, on Arthur Wilhelm’s desk! Set to kill him! Wrapped in a cigar box. He opened the lid — the detonator must have failed.
“Wilhelm! I can’t believe it — he was to die tonight!”
Cardona was bewildered. He was trying to piece the riddle.
It seemed incredible that Arthur Wilhelm could have been the fifth man — Wilhelm, with whom they had chatted in the commissioner’s office. Yet with perplexity came remembrance.
The word of The Shadow! Death would not strike tonight!
A call echoed from the stairway. It was answered by another cry. Mayhew rushed down from the mezzanine. He pointed wildly toward the mail box.