Before him stood a tall, thin man clad in a close-fitting black suit. The man’s arms were folded. His head was bowed, and his face was shadowy beneath the brim of his hat.
STEADYING himself with one hand, Cardona reached for his automatic. The man in black laughed softly. He drew his cloak from Cardona’s knees. He wrapped the cloak about his shoulders and raised the collar high above his chin.
Cardona was examining his automatic. He saw the reason for The Shadow’s laugh. The gun was useless.
The Shadow’s shot had ruined it. The detective tried to rise from his chair, but sank back helplessly.
“Cardona,” said The Shadow in a low, weird whisper, “I am not your enemy. I did not kill Doctor Lukens. I came here to protect him. Do you understand?”
The detective nodded.
“Your men have captured my weapons,” continued The Shadow in that same strange voice. “You will find that the bullet that killed this man does not correspond to either of my automatics. The murderer left here before I arrived. He has taken the gun with him.”
Quietly The Shadow stooped over the body of the dead physician. He opened Lukens’s clenched right hand.
The pair of dice dropped upon the floor. They showed the number seven — a five spot and a two.
“There is a connection,” said The Shadow, rising. “Those dice were in Marchand’s desk. This murder — like Marchand’s death — has something to do with the number seven.