“Until you showed it to me,” interposed Cranston, quietly.
Cardona nodded. He had been about to mention the name of Clyde Burke. Cranston had intervened in time to stop him.
“Wimbledon,” asserted Cranston, facing the man behind the desk, “your guilt is proven. Why should any one follow the method of killing men whose names had the letters M—E—N and whose telephone numbers contained the figure 13?
“Only one man would have chosen that method. You are the man — the only one who saw the clew and who recognized its meaning. You blundered when you ordered the deaths of Jerome Neville and Hiram Engliss. I mentioned that fact before Drayson arrived.”
“How could I have found those names?” stammered Wimbledon. “Where was I to get the numbers—”
Cranston’s tall form was beside the desk. Long fingers gripped a knob. A drawer came open. Cranston’s hand pulled forth a stack of papers.
“Here is the final evidence.” Cranston passed the crumpled sheaf to Weston. “Wimbledon formed a list of his own. He had four days to work on it between the time that you first came here, commissioner, and the night when Jerome Neville was slain.”
Commissioner Weston was thumbing the papers. Lamont Cranston had guessed aright. This list, like the one that the telephone company had prepared in short order, was formed of names with number thirteen listings.
MORE damaging was an attached sheet which Weston discovered with the sheaf. It bore four names, with telephone numbers. Jerome Neville, Hiram Engliss, Dudley Arment and a fourth that Weston had not known: that of Clement Hessling.
“One more point.” Cranston was emphatic with his final statement. “The compilation of this list was a private job; but it would have required the work of two persons to be completed within four days.
“I know now why Roscoe Wimbledon and Ross Harlton went into continued seclusion. Presumably, they were making a technical survey of the affairs of Universal Aircraft. Actually, they were preparing this murderer’s list. There’s another man you want, commissioner. Ross Harlton, accessory to the murders of Jerome Neville and Hiram Engliss—”
Lamont Cranston paused suddenly and swung to the door. The others followed his move. Keen ears had caught the sound of footsteps just in time. Standing in the doorway, his face glowering above the barrel of a raised revolver, was Ross Harlton.
Roscoe Wimbledon’s accomplice had returned unexpectedly. From the hallway, he had sensed the truth.
He was here to thwart the law; here to save Roscoe Wimbledon, the master crook whose schemes he had abetted!
CHAPTER XXII. THE BREAK
THE arrival of Ross Harlton was the final proof of Roscoe Wimbledon’s treachery. Lester Drayson, with Dudley Arment’s documents at hand, had launched the accusation against the master crook. The Shadow — speaking as Lamont Cranston — had driven home denouncing arguments.
Ross Harlton, here to use force in rescue of his chief, had brought opportunity to Roscoe Wimbledon.
The plotting president of World Wide Aviation had no chance to clear his blackened name, but Harlton’s unexpected aid offered him a way to freedom.
Of the five men who had cornered Roscoe Wimbledon, only Joe Cardona had a gun in readiness.
Warned of danger, the moment that he saw Lamont Cranston turn, Cardona swung to the door and aimed for Ross Harlton.
One prompt shot from the detective’s gun could end this attempt at rescue. The Shadow recognized that fact upon the instant. Playing the part of Lamont Cranston, he stood and watched, relying upon Cardona’s ability to down the foeman at the door.
Ross Harlton had picked Cardona as the man whom he must meet. He saw the revolver in the detective’s hand. Springing inward from the doorway, Harlton swung his gun in Cardona’s direction: He was too late to beat the detective to the shot. Cardona fired.
The shot went wide by inches only. Cardona, deviating his aim when Harlton lunged, missed his mark by a scant margin. An instant later, Harlton’s gun barked. Cardona dropped, a bullet in his shoulder.
Roscoe Wimbledon was yanking open a drawer at the left of the desk. From it, he was snatching a revolver. Trusting to Harlton for the present, the arch-crook grabbed his gun and sprang for a doorway at the far left corner of the room.
Commissioner Weston was drawing a revolver. He was the second enemy whom Harlton had to face.
The murderous technician swung to cover the commissioner. This time the odds lay all with Harlton. His aim was completed while Weston’s gun was half way from the commissioner’s pocket.
THE SHADOW was acting. The instant that he had seen Cardona drop, he knew what was coming. Yet in this crisis, The Shadow had not forgotten his part — that of Lamont Cranston.
As Cardona toppled, The Shadow sprang forward, directly toward the chair into which Commissioner Weston had tossed Lester Drayson’s revolver. As Harlton and Weston swung to begin their savage duel, the long arm of Lamont Cranston swept upward with a rapid aim.
Harlton’s finger was on the trigger. It never pressed to send the death shot toward Ralph Weston. The Shadow’s delivery was a split-second in advance. Drayson’s discarded gun was a puny .32 — but The Shadow used it with the same effect as a huge automatic.
The revolver barked. A bullet clipped Harlton’s aiming wrist. The technician staggered backward with a cry as his own gun fell from his helpless hand. An instant later, Weston’s gun blazed its belated message.
Ross Harlton sprawled on the floor, mortally wounded.
In those fractions of seconds, The Shadow had performed a double action. Not only had he fired the shot that saved Weston’s life; he was also on the move for the next event in the exciting conflict.
As he pressed the trigger of Drayson’s .32, The Shadow dropped sidewise behind the armchair from which he had seized the gun. The act was timely. Roscoe Wimbledon, wheeling from the far doorway, had aimed at the very instant of The Shadow’s shot. Wimbledon’s gun blazed. A bullet whistled across the chair, past the very spot from which Lamont Cranston’s tall form had made its sudden fadeaway.
As Wimbledon stood momentarily bewildered, the figure of Cranston bobbed up erect beyond the chair.
The hand that held the .32 swung for new aim, while Wimbledon stood flat-footed in the doorway. The master crook was a perfect target. The Shadow’s finger was on the trigger of the revolver.
Then came unexpected aid. Harkin, arriving at the door of the library, was just in time to see Lamont Cranston rising to new aim. With Wimbledon the target, the servant acted to save his crooked master.
The Shadow had turned with back toward the door. Harkin, leaping furiously, landed upon his shoulders and clutched wildly at the aiming hand.
The revolver spat flame too late. The servant had destroyed the aim. The Shadow’s bullet found its lodging place in the door frame above Wimbledon’s shoulder. As Harkin bore Cranston’s body toward the floor, Wimbledon, seeing opportunity, aimed low to deliver a return shot.
AGAIN, The Shadow acted. The instant that Harkin fell upon him, the master fighter sought to bring quick end to the attack. His right hand dropped the revolver; it rose, with the left, to grip Harkin by the neck.
Knees on the floor, The Shadow lunged his shoulders forward. Harkin’s body described a huge somersault that catapulted him over The Shadow’s head. Sprawled, almost in a seated posture, the servant landed on the floor. He was the shield when Roscoe Wimbledon fired.
Just too late to clip the stooped form of Lamont Cranston, Wimbledon’s bullet found its mark in Harkin’s body. Catching the collapsing servant with his left hand, The Shadow snatched for the gun with his right.