Standing by the window, Cranston slipped a pair of thin black gloves over his hands. A gem that gleamed on the left third finger was blotted from view.
Lamont Cranston was no longer the occupant of this room. The Shadow had taken his place. Where a human being had stood, a specter of the night now reigned!
The silent, black-clad form moved slowly away. The automatics were no longer on the table. The Shadow, like a phantom of another world, had merged with the darkened corners of the room. His presence had become invisible!
IN contrast to this scene, a slowly moving drama was unfolding four stories below. Herbert Carpenter, calmly smoking a cigarette, was still seated in Gifford Morton’s living room, apparently unconcerned about his fate.
The multimillionaire was gloating as he watched his prisoner. Gorman, the secretary, was speaking over the telephone. Morton questioned him as he hung up the receiver.
“The police will be here soon,” announced Gorman. “I have just talked with Mr. Hurley, the proprietor. He says that he will have the officers come up with the house detectives.”
“That’s all right,” declared Morton. “You explained the situation properly, Gorman. You told him that my own detectives are here. They are competent to take care of the matter until the police arrive.”
“The house men will probably beat them here, anyway,” growled one of Morton’s private detectives. “That’s the way with them noseys. Always trying to get in first, and take the credit. That’s hokum the manager was giving. You wait and see.”
“It doesn’t matter greatly,” said Gifford Morton.
Herbert Carpenter was leaning back in his chair. His eyes were half closed as he tried to picture matters downstairs. He was entirely ignorant of the strange sequence of events that had so recently occurred — events that put a different color on the situation.
MEN with different purposes had crossed paths. Lamont Cranston had passed Hooks Borglund, before the master crook had heard the operator at the telephone. Then, mobsters had followed Borglund’s quick bidding, without Lamont Cranston’s knowledge.
Lamont Cranston had undergone a strange transformation. Hooks Borglund had left the Hotel Pavilion in response to a call from Wheels Bryant. These were matters of great moment to Herbert Carpenter, despite the fact that he did not know of their occurrence.
“I told you. See?”
The voice of one of the private detectives aroused Herbert Carpenter from his reverie. A man dressed in a Tuxedo had entered the room, and was standing in the now open doorway. The fellow had a hardened, bulldozing expression.
“The house dicks,” growled the same private sleuth. “I told you they’d get here before the police.”
A second man had joined the first at the doorway. The pair advanced into the room. Gifford Morton spoke in a dominating tone.
“Wait until the police arrive,” he ordered. “I wish to turn my prisoner over to the law.”
One of the newcomers nodded.
“I told the manager to keep you downstairs until the police arrived,” continued the multimillionaire. “Why were my instructions disobeyed?”
“It’s our job,” growled the first of the two men who had entered. “Whatta ya got on this bozo, anyway?”
“That is something I shall tell the police,” declared Morton, in a surly tone.
“Who are dese guys?” came the question as the entrant pointed his thumb toward one of the private detectives.
“My own men,” replied Morton, in an annoyed voice. “They are detectives, in my hire. I am Gifford Morton.”
“Tell ‘em to put up their rods,” ordered the newcomer. “Well take care of this phony.”
The speaker waved to his companion. The two approached Herbert Carpenter. As the private detectives reluctantly lowered their revolvers, the men who had come in produced their own weapons.
“Give ‘em the works, huh?”
These words were uttered in a low voice as the first of the two advancing men neared Herbert Carpenter. A sudden expression of understanding came over Gifford Morton’s purplish face. With a wild cry, he turned toward his two sleuths.
“Look out!” he shouted. “Look out! These men are not the house detectives!”
As the cry came from Morton’s lips, other men appeared at the door. For a brief instant, a tense group seemed ready to spring. Revolvers were flashing into view. Snarls and gasps came from excited lips.
Then a man by the door pressed the light switch. Figures leaped forward in the gloom, which was alleviated only by the light from the outside corridor.
With a maddened shout, Gifford Morton yanked open the door of the larger room. A new flood of illumination cast a cross-beam over the floor, toward the central chair, where Herbert Carpenter was seated.
A shot rang out. That spurt of flame was the forerunner of a grim and unequal conflict that was due. The pretended house detectives were the advance guard of Hooks Borglund’s mobsmen.
Police were on the way to this spot; every second was precious. Lives and wealth were at stake. Crime had locked with fair play.
The tables were turned on Gifford Morton!
CHAPTER X
THE BATTLE OF GLOOM
THE opening shot of the attacking gangsters was the sign of an outburst of heavy fire. The extinguishing of the lights had served these gunmen well. Skulking though the dark, they held an advantage that added to their strength in numbers.
At the precise moment when the switch turned, two gunmen were facing the private detectives. Gifford Morton was in the same portion of the room as his men. Only Gorman, the secretary, was in a protected spot — directly beyond the chair in which Herbert Carpenter was seated.
The men at the door were covering Morton and his sleuths. As the raiding forces swept into the room, they fired at random; but all their bullets were directed toward the same corner. The two men on either side of Carpenter joined in the shooting.
The only targets afforded the detectives were the chair in which Carpenter was located, and the door through which gangsters were flocking from the hall. Realizing that their lives were in jeopardy, the sleuths aimed for these spots.
They failed to bag Carpenter, for he had acted with instinctive promptness. He knew that the chair was in the danger zone, and he dived away from it. Shots aimed toward the hall brought down one gunman, but that was all.
The guns of the gangsters roared, and into the shaft of light from the inner room appeared the detectives, one staggering, the other crawling, as they sought the single way that offered safety. Loud oaths sounded as the relentless killers mercilessly shot down their fleeing foemen.
The echoes of the firing ended. The room was silent. Upon the floor lay the murdered detectives, their bodies riddled with lead. The gangsters awaited answering shots. None came. The light was switched on again.
The scene revealed the one-sidedness of the brief fray — nine gunmen against two detectives and a pair of unarmed men.
One wounded gangster lay beside the outer door; the others were crouched and standing; with smoking revolvers in their hands.
Curiously enough, the two defenseless men had escaped death. Had Gifford Morton attempted escape to the inner room, he would have died instantly. But he had dropped behind the door that he had opened. Close to the floor, he had been in a solitary spot of security.
Gorman was crouched below the window. The bespectacled secretary was a pitiful sight. Directly beyond Carpenter’s chair, on a line with the door, he had been avoided. The gangsters had fired at the men whom they knew could fight back.
Herbert Carpenter, his face flushed with excitement, arose from beside the chair. A pallor stole over his features as he saw the murdered detectives.