“We have come here to declare a dividend. No time was scheduled for this meeting. Our by-laws state that it could be demanded by a member who could present sufficient reason for its calling. Such reason has been given. I turn the floor over to the man who gave the word. Let him state his identity.”
A figure arose at the far end of the table. It was that of a tall individual whose bluff-faced countenance was hardened in a fixed expression. Staring steadily toward Fullis Garwald, this member announced himself:
“I am stockholder number six.”
“Your name?” questioned Garwald.
“Richard Glade.”
“Identifying members?”
Two men stood up as Garwald looked about the group. Their nods were all that the chairman pro tem required. They were the contacts of Richard Glade.
“Proceed,” ordered Garwald.
“In my message,” came the harsh voice, “I stated that danger threatened our organization. I added that the menace could be avoided by a prompt declaration of a dividend. I gave my reason: the fact that one member of our group had been slain. One, to my knowledge. Possibly more.
“My request for the appointed meeting brought back messages. We know from them that two of our chain have died. The consensus of opinion proved the value of my request.
“I call for a statement of dividends.”
“Is it agreed?” questioned Garwald, as the speaker sat down.
“Agreed,” came the reply, in unison.
GARWALD drew a folded paper from his pocket. It was his certificate: the only one that bore the title “Crime Incorporated.” It passed around the table. Members nodded as they viewed it. This certificate proved Garwald’s title. It bore authentic transfer from Barton Talbor.
“My contribution,” declared Garwald, dryly, as he regained the certificate and laid it on the table before him, “has not yet been converted into cash. It consists of rare gems now in my possession. I estimate their value as approximately a quarter million.”
Other members took their turn, to declare their contributions to the dividend fund of Crime Incorporated. Some were holding cash in large amounts. Others had appropriated trust funds. Culbert Joquill, introducing himself, announced that he had converted securities that were worth a hundred thousand dollars; and that he still held others worth three times that amount.
The statement of Richard Glade brought a buzz. Paintings worth nearly a million were stacked in an apartment, awaiting disposal through profitable channels. There were members of Crime Incorporated who could do their part in fencing art treasures.
More reports came through. Confident in their security, these rogues made little effort to veil their crimes. Every one had his share. Chalmers Blythe, who had pointed the way to crime for Culbert Joquill, had gained a full million on his own, aided in half a dozen crimes by members of Crime Incorporated.
One member did not report. Professor Langwood Devine was missing. But the crafty savant had provided for his wealth in case of death. He had informed one of his contacts, regarding the location of a cache where he had stowed the products of his evil genius. Devine’s loot was estimated at nearly half a million in cash and rare items cherished by collectors.
“Through a committee headed by myself,” announced Fullis Garwald, “our assets will be liquidated. Each stockholder will be apportioned his proper share. Some have gained more than others; all have produced, however, through the full cooperation of our organization. Therefore, we shall share alike. Are there any remarks before adjournment?”
All eyes turned to the opposite end of the table. The member who had announced himself as Richard Glade had risen. Steady words came from his lips. His face showed masklike in the gold-reflected light.
“I spoke of a menace,” was his stern pronouncement. “I shall name it. Crime Incorporated has finished its career. The menace that you face will bring destruction. I am the menace!”
WEIRD hush fell upon the room. The glittering walls, the silent draperies seemed to hold the final words. Gilded surroundings were a mockery. Strange fear crept over the seventeen who listened.
Then came the burst of a fierce, fear-provoking laugh. The rending cry was from the false lips of Richard Glade. It belied the identity of the face that startled men were facing. It was the taunting challenge of The Shadow!
With his cry of mirth, The Shadow whirled toward the draperies at the end of the room. His long hands, coming into view, were whisking automatics from deep pockets. Muzzles pointed toward the massive table as wild-eyed men leaped to their feet.
Desperate villains, some of the members of Crime incorporated had wisely armed themselves before coming to their meeting. Revolvers flashed in answer to The Shadow’s challenge. The roar of automatics preceded the revolver fire.
Aiming at rising arms, The Shadow loosed crippling shots. Hot bullets sped toward backing foemen. His outlandish laugh ringing in new mockery, The Shadow whirled as scattered shots were fired in his direction. Through the curtains at the end of the room, he found a hidden opening. The clash of a sliding door marked his departure.
Frenzied crooks were balked. They feared to follow. The Shadow had closed a barrier behind him. The shots had given the alarm. Three members of the group were clutching wounded arms; three others were slumped upon the floor.
Escape! That was their only hope. With one accord, half a dozen of the beaten crooks sprang toward the door to the mezzanine, brandishing revolvers as they took to flight.
Shots greeted them from the balcony. Cardona and his squad had heard the firing. Reinforced by house detectives, they had come up from the lobby. They fired at the armed men whom they saw coming from the Gold Room.
Wild crooks fired in return. That was proof of enmity. Police revolvers sent tuxedoed rats rolling on the carpeted mezzanine. Trapped, the members of Crime Incorporated sprang back into the Gold Room. One man — Culbert Joquill — tried to close the heavy door to form a barricade.
A SHOT staggered the crooked lawyer. It came from the curtains at the end of the room. Fullis Garwald was the first to turn in that direction. He was the first to see the menace that had returned.
The Shadow was standing by the opened doorway. No longer did he display the guise of dead Richard Glade. He was garbed in cloak and hat of black. His blazing eyes, keen above leveled automatics, spelled doom to Crime Incorporated.
Garwald aimed, hoping to clear the way for escape through the end door. An automatic answered. The crooked successor of Barton Talbor fell coughing to the floor. The others preferred to meet the law. Head on, the surging members of the crime chain leaped for Joe Cardona and his men who had reached the door of the Gold Room in a body.
Unmasked crooks sought no quarter. They fought to kill. Those who had no guns were wielding chairs while their fellows pressed revolver triggers. It was an equal fray; one that would have broken the police attack, but for the enfilading fire that broke from beyond the curtains.
Clipping shots from The Shadow’s automatics dropped aiming gun arms. Bullets intended for Cardona and his men were never fired. Aided by The Shadow’s heavy fire, the men of the law came surging through. The door clanged beyond the curtains as members of Crime Incorporated went staggering backward through the room, sprawling across gilded chairs, staining tufted carpeting of orange with their crimson life blood.
Amid the hollow silence of a blue-draped room, The Shadow’s laugh sounded its parting knell. Crossing this empty chamber, The Shadow reached the further door. He entered another unoccupied apartment that had curtains of a different hue. From then on, his silent course faded.