Needler was Duvale. Andrew had so denounced him. Stationed in the apartment opposite, the leader of the thuggish crew had been in the ideal spot from which to summon his crew. Harry could picture the whole situation. Worst of all, he could see how it had worked against The Shadow.
Harry could vaguely picture his own chief outside, waiting for the arrival of Needler, while a cordon of crooks had closed about the building. Even yet, The Shadow could be bluffed. Should he finally guess that Needler was already inside, his own entry would be stopped by the circle of guarding thugs.
As Harry saw it, The Shadow’s only course would be to wait still longer; for enemies would surely spot him if he tried to enter now. But meanwhile, when Needler found cash in Andrew’s safe, murder would threaten. Andrew’s bluff was all that remained to stave off death; and Andrew could not complete it.
Grimly, Harry Vincent waited, ready to start battle at the final moment. Such had been The Shadow’s order; Harry would follow it to the limit. Even when hope had ended, it was Harry’s duty to obey The Shadow. Death could come; but it would be in The Shadow’s service.
Such was Harry’s feeling regarding himself; his present hope was that, in dying, he might be instrumental in saving the life of Andrew Blouchet.
THE safe was open. With arms outstretched, Andrew was indicating the contents. Except for envelopes and boxes, it contained nothing that appeared of possible value. Avidly, Needler pounced forward. He ripped open envelopes and wrenched the tops from boxes. He found nothing.
Andrew stood smiling, but tense. His expression was forced.
A yap from Needler’s lips. With evil snarl, the crook thrust his hands into a darkened corner at the bottom of the safe. He clutched the ebony box; he had spied it by the glimmer of a silvery corner.
Fiercely, Needler tried to wrench away the cover.
“No use to injure the box,” protested Andrew, boldly. “It is empty. You can tell that by its lack of weight.”
Harry could see that Andrew was bluffing. He admired the chap for his nerve. Needler was finding the ebony box too tough to break. He planked it down upon the top of the safe; and for a moment, Harry thought that the bluff had worked. Then came a triumphant oath from Needler — one that told that the game was up.
Like Harry, Needler had been sharp enough to guess that the box must contain something. But Needler had thought of something which did not strike Harry. Pouncing away from the safe, the long-limbed crook reached the mantelpiece and yanked the silver key from beneath the clock.
“I’d forgotten this,” he snarled. “I saw the key this afternoon, when I was frisking this joint of yours. I wondered what it was for. I’ve got the answer now.”
“So you entered here, did you?” retorted Andrew. He was chewing at his lip as he spoke. “Just another bit of sneaky work on your part, Duvale. Well, you’re all wrong. That key won’t open the black box. Even if it does” — Andrew was fighting for a last bluff — “even if it does, you’ll find the box empty.” The key clicked in the lock of the box. Needler yanked the cover upward.
Harry Vincent, rigid, was ready for a spring, hoping to start a fray before the nearest thug could shoot.
Andrew Blouchet, his last bluff finished, was staring with a frown of defeat. Needler’s snarl was one of evil satisfaction as he swung the lid of the black box.
Then came astonishment. Needler’s snarl ended in a fierce oath of disappointment. Andrew’s eyes popped wide in complete bewilderment. Harry’s heart gave a thump of hope as he realized that the moment of final conflict was due for a postponement.
Needler Urbin had failed to find what he expected. Andrew Blouchet’s bluff had proven more than pretense, even though he had not anticipated such a result. Nearly ninety-nine thousand dollars had staged a disappearance.
The ebony box was empty!
CHAPTER IX. WITHIN THE SNARE
THE savage rage that gripped Urbin was proof that the crook had lost the surety upon which he had banked. It was plain that Needler must have scoured the apartment during his afternoon search; that he had departed, positive that Andrew Blouchet’s safe would reveal the wanted cash.
Once the safe had been opened, Needler had eliminated everything except the ebony box. Finding the black casket empty, he was spluttering with fury. Muffled oaths fumed from snarling, bandanna-covered lips. With a final epithet, Needler flung the ebony box to the floor.
Needler had shoved Andrew away from the safe. Turning toward the young man, the crook glared ferociously through his mask. Andrew had regained composure. Though he could not guess what had become of his wealth, he knew that its loss was to his present advantage. He had found his bluff backed. He was smart enough to push the game.
“Sorry,” drawled Andrew, in face of Needler’s rage. “I told you that the box was empty. I have nothing of value here—”
“I’ll take your word for it,” interrupted Needler, in a vicious tone. “But it’s not helping you any, mug! You’re not the bozo that I’m after, but you’ll do for practice. I’m not taking chances on a mug like you squawking to the bulls. It’s curtains for you anyway; for you and this boob who walked into trouble!”
Needler glared toward Harry Vincent as he completed the statement. A murderer by inclination, his thirst for a kill was spurring Needler. The fact that he had come to the wrong place — which Needler now believed — did not curb the would-be killer’s violence.
“Easy, Duvale.” Andrew was steady, though pale. “Murder won’t help you any.”
Needler’s answer was a snarl. He had put his gun into his coat pocket, in order to search the safe. He was reaching for the weapon, slowly and deliberately, while his henchmen kept Andrew and Harry covered. New alarm came to Harry. He realized that the snare had tightened.
Needler had been told not to murder Andrew Blouchet until he made the man talk. But that order had been based on the belief that Andrew held a secret store of wealth. Ring Stortzel — through Banjo Lobot — had specified nothing in case Andrew should prove to be a penniless victim. Since Needler had formed the conclusion that Andrew was of no consequence, the crook was following his own inclination.
Murder. It was coming — for both Andrew and Harry. To the latter, the threat was forcing action. With every muscle taut, The Shadow’s agent prepared for a spring the moment that he caught the glimmer of Needler’s gun. Trapped in the snare, without the presence of The Shadow, Harry was desperate.
Needler’s hand was coming from the pocket. One instant more, and Harry would have launched himself to the attack. But in that momentary interval came interruption. A sound made Needler turn. Something had thumped the door. The barrier was swinging inward.
Needler’s gun hand snapped from his pocket; but stayed itself, without raising its revolver. Harry Vincent tightened on the verge of a spring. Like Needler — like Andrew — like the two thugs — Harry stared toward the door.
Framed against the dull light from the hall stood a tall, stooped figure clad in artist’s smock and beret. The oddly clad intruder was facing toward the hall. His left hand gripped an automatic, which pointed toward the door to the balcony steps. The purpose of the gun was obvious. The smocked invader was holding Needler’s reserves at bay.
The artist had shoved the door inward with his shoulder. His head had turned to look into the room. His eyes were blazing from his pallid face; below, his right hand gripped a second automatic, with which he covered Needler and the two thugs. That big gun was wagging slowly, warning the trio not to move.