Hiram Mallory, cold and determined, was entering the fray. He had drawn an automatic. So had Bob Maddox.
As Mallory came forward, shooting, The Shadow’s bullets smashed the light which he held, and the leaden harbingers of death spelled the old man’s doom.
It was more than a battle for possession; it was a fight for self-preservation. Briggs knew it. Clutching his gun in his right hand, he snarled to Bob Maddox, “Come on!”
MORE shots followed. Groans and cries were uttered in the smoke-filled chamber of death.
In the midst of all the furor, a slight grating noise was scarcely audible. Bob Maddox, still crouching, slid open the trapdoor, and pulled the two nearest suitcases with him as he dropped to safety. He shoved the trap behind him.
Garry Elvers leaped beside him.
“What’s happened?” demanded the gangster.
“The Shadow!” exclaimed Maddox, staggering toward the door with the suitcases. “He’s up there! Get him!”
Garry leaped upon the table. As he did, a black form seemed to envelop him.
The trapdoor had opened. Garry was wrapped in the folds of The Shadow’s cloak.
To the startled eyes of Bob Maddox, staring through the dusk, the man himself had come from above. Maddox held his automatic in readiness.
The Shadow came down with his cloak. He was struggling with Garry, and Maddox could hear the gangster grunting like an enraged beast.
The fighting men were by the window. Maddox could discern the flapping cloak. Simultaneously he heard two sounds — a choking, and a cry from Garry. He knew that the gangster was throttling The Shadow.
Then, as though propelled by a desperate effort, the black-cloaked form was uplifted. The cloak fell free, but the man crashed, head-foremost, through the pane of the window — off on a four-hundred foot fall to the street!
Garry had finished The Shadow!
But Maddox did not wait to extend congratulations. He had realized that one of the suitcases which he held contained — because of its weight — the share of the swag that belonged to Hiram Mallory. In his hands, Maddox held no less than two hundred and eighty thousand dollars!
The shots above had been muffled. Yet some one might have heard them. Maddox did not know who might be alive in that room above. Why should he wait to share, when every instant might bring discovery closer?
Even as the form in the black cloak was crashing through the glass toward its terrible doom, Bob Maddox turned the knob of the door.
In another instant, he was gone, with a fortune in his grasp!
CHAPTER XXII
BOB GALVIN nodded wearily as he faced Acting Inspector Herbert Zull. He was undergoing the third degree, weakening before the brutal tactics of the police officer. Zull bore a reputation for two things: brutality and results.
Another man was present, taking notes. This was Crowell, the young detective. It was one of his first experiences in watching Zull’s methods. He sighed in relief when Zull finally paused and leaned back in his chair.
“What have you got, Crowell?” demanded Zull.
Crowell began to read off the unintelligible replies that Bob Galvin had made. Zull grunted disdainfully.
“We’ll get it out of him,” he declared. He glanced at a sheet of paper and handed it over to Crowell. “I’ve got all the dope there, haven’t I?”
“Nearly everything,” replied Crowell.
“What do you mean, nearly everything?”
“Well” — Crowell spoke hesitatingly — “it may not be important, but when I got there last night, I found a corner of a rug turned under—”
“Forget that foolishness!” roared Zull.
“It’s the third time,” objected Crowell. “First, with that man who was dead in old Galvin’s study. Then Harkness, who knew old Galvin. Now it’s Galvin’s nephew—”
“Talk sense!” ordered Zull. “Go out and take a walk. Call me up in ten minutes. I’ll tell you then when I want you back.
“I’m going to let this smart guy rest a while. He’ll be bewildered when he wakes up.”
Crowell left the room, while Zull’s keen eyes were still watching the nodding form of Bob Galvin.
The Acting Inspector sat with folded arms. He intended to break this man’s resistance; to force a confession.
The door opened. Zull thought it was Crowell returning.
“I told you to stay out a while,” he said, gruffly.
There was no reply. Zull looked up. He was staring into the muzzle of an automatic.
It was held by a man in a black cloak — a man whose face was hidden by a low-turned slouch hat.
“The Shadow!”
A WHISPERED laugh came in response to Zull’s exclamation. The acting inspector had heard that laugh before. Sullenly, he raised his hands.
“Tonight,” came The Shadow’s whisper, “you pay the penalty.”
“For what?”
“For your crimes.”
Zull stared, brutally sullen.
“A big man on the force!” said The Shadow, contemptuously. “Tipped off to certain crimes by crooks, to add to your prestige. In return you have protected them when they needed it — and have been paid for that protection.
“Cover-up man for a group of criminals! That is ended now. Your pals are dead — all but one who escaped.”
“Hiram Mallory!” blurted Zull, forgetting himself.
“Hiram Mallory is dead,” came the reply.
Zull still stared, now bewildered.
“As for this man,” declared The Shadow, signifying Bob Galvin, “he is innocent, despite your trumped-up charges.
“You were ordered to get him as the slayer of Zachary Mitchell — another feather for your rogue’s cap. I can tell you the name of the real killer. Bob Maddox!”
“No one can prove it,” growled Zull.
“I can prove it. Where you destroy evidence, I can replace evidence, of which you know nothing.
“When Crowell began his examination in Mitchell’s apartment, you arrived. He was about to look for finger prints on the receiver of the telephone. You put him on another task. You destroyed the evidence.
“Crowell thought you took the record. It was taken — not by you, but by myself — before you arrived. It is here.”
From beneath his cloak, The Shadow drew forth a photographic impression.
“The finger prints of Bob Maddox,” he declared. “That young man did time, some years ago. You will find that these prints compare exactly with police records.”
The telephone bell rang.
“Who is it?” questioned The Shadow.
“Crowell,” replied Zull.
“Answer it. Say what I tell you.”
Zull obeyed.
“Oh, hello, Crowell,” he said.
The black form of The Shadow was bending over his captive, whispering instructions into his ear.
Zull grimaced fiercely. He knew that a single word could bring Crowell to his aid, but he feared the threat of that automatic. He knew from experience that The Shadow would not hesitate in an attack.
“Listen, Crowell,” said Zull, tensely, “I’ve just figured that we’ve made a mistake… Yes… We’ve got the wrong guy… Remember those finger prints? They don’t correspond.
“Yes, I found prints there; thought I told you about them… Tell you what… Run up to Mitchell’s place and give another search… See what you can find… No, I don’t think I’ve got all the evidence.”
He hung up the telephone.
“A clever idea,” commented The Shadow, stepping back. “A turned-down corner of a rug. I was in that room while you were there, Zull.
“The door opened inward. I stood behind it. The door was never once closed — all during the inspection.
“When your pals commit crimes, they leave their sign. You come along and kill the evidence. Like you did with Harkness. You still had that precious pad when I finished with you. But one sheet was gone—”