“I’VE nabbed two killers for you, lieutenant,” chuckled Hayd, in his heavy laugh. “That one — he calls himself Ring Stortzel — has admitted himself as the murderer of Carl Randon. He came here to rob me—”
Hayd stopped short. Wayson was motioning the others back toward the living room. At the same time, he was moving his right hand toward his pocket.
“Have your men put up their rifles,” ordered the police lieutenant. “These two crooks belong to the law. I shall take charge of them.”
Hayd had seen a startled look upon the face of Fanchon Callier. With a sudden sweep, the loan president whisked a revolver from the desk drawer. He leveled his revolver at Wayson. Two of his riflemen changed the direction of their aim. Ring and Banjo were still covered by a pair of guns, while three weapons held Wayson, Harry and Andrew.
Hands went up. Lieutenant Wayson, the only man ready for the draw, knew that a move might spell death for him and his companions. Slowly, the newcomers followed Hayd’s order to line along the wall.
Ring and Banjo stared in new astonishment. For a short interval, their beliefs had changed. They had thought Hayd’s welcome genuine; they had gained the impression that they had come to find the wrong man.
At last, deception had ended. The biggest of big-shots stood revealed. Lester Hayd was the crook who had preyed upon others; the master mind of crime whom Ring Stortzel had sought to slay. Backed by a quartet of ready henchmen, a murderous crook had tossed aside his mask.
Grimness showed upon the faces of the new entrants who stared at Hayd’s livid, gloating countenance.
Most disconcerted of all was Harry Vincent. He had come here with the others, believing that Lester Hayd could be trapped unawares. Instructions had been gained by the law. Lieutenant Wayson — for good reason — had followed them to the letter.
Wayson had believed that proof was needed concerning facts that he had learned. He had been told how he could gain that proof — by a prompt and open visit to Hayd’s home. Harry, like Wayson, had believed that information had come from a reliable source.
Harry had believed more than Wayson; for where the police lieutenant had acted upon what seemed sound judgment, Harry had been convinced that they were obeying the wish of The Shadow.
Something had gone wrong. A snare had been sprung. One of two answers were the only possibilities that came to Harry’s startled mind. Either they had been duped, without The Shadow’s knowledge; or The Shadow’s own plans had gone awry.
In either event, the cause would be hopeless. For the evil leer that had spread upon the face of Lester Hayd was one that promised no mercy. A murderous supercrook was ready to order slaughter, under circumstances which even The Shadow could not alter.
CHAPTER XX. DEATH AND THE SHADOW
“DEATH for all of you!”
Lester Hayd pronounced the sentence in a fierce rumble. His glaring eyes were straight toward Lieutenant Wayson, the victim whom he covered; but his words were meant for everyone who stood before him.
“Death!” The word came again, with a booming chuckle. “But before my firing squad receives its order, you will tell me what brought you here tonight. You, Fanchon Callier, are the one in back of it. Step forward and speak.”
The girl moved boldly toward the desk. She stared at the transformed visage of the man whom she obeyed. Deliberately, that all might hear, Fanchon began her statement. The ring in her voice was genuine. She sought to clear herself with persons who had trusted her, yet who might — through present circumstance — believe that she had betrayed them.
“I was in your employ,” Fanchon told Hayd, “doing work which I believed honest. I was an investigator, studying the cases of those who wanted loans from your company. I came regularly to the office and paid pretended loans. With my receipts I was given envelopes, containing the names and addresses of those whom I was to investigate.”
“A good policy,” rumbled Hayd, “for the loan business. You were not the only investigator who worked upon that basis. Proceed.”
“One day,” resumed Fanchon, steadily, “you asked to see me personally. You gave me an ebony box, with a silver key. It was Mardi Gras Day; and you stated that I was to be outside of Gallion’s restaurant at a certain hour. I was to be in costume, masked; and my task was to deliver the ebony box to a man attired as a cavalier, when he passed by. I followed your instructions.”
“So you reported,” declared Hayd. “Come. Declare the facts that followed.” The girl paused deliberately.
“I shall do so,” she declared, “upon one condition only. That you spare the lives of innocent persons here.”
Hayd nodded his agreement.
“I shall do so.” His leer had lessened and his tone was almost eager. “Yes. I agree. Provided you state all.”
Lieutenant Wayson shifted. So did Harry and Andrew. But the girl could not see them, for they were at the wall in back of her. Hayd’s prompt accord had given Fanchon hopefulness.
“LAST night,” Fanchon declared, “I learned that Andrew Blouchet was the man to whom I had given the box. I heard from him that it had contained money; that the cash was the cause of the attack against him.
Before I left, I promised to learn facts that he had sought. I trusted you, Mr. Hayd. I believed that there had been a mistake.”
“You say that you trusted me?” rumbled Hayd. “What made you change that opinion?”
“Jerry Bodwin was called to the theater office,” explained Fanchon. “I was working there evenings, and you knew it. I received a telephone call. I heard a voice that I thought was yours. You promised to give me important facts. The call seemed most timely.”
“I made no such call.”
“I learned that later, Mr. Hayd. You — or the person who spoke like you — told me to register at the Hotel Bontezan under another name, so that I could receive a message unobserved. The message arrived beneath my door.”
“And it said—”
“It stated facts so plainly that I could not doubt. It told me that a certain man could easily have known that Andrew Blouchet would be passing Gallion’s at the hour stated. It declared that the same man had advised Andrew to keep the money and to spend it.”
“You refer to Carl Randon?”
“Yes. The message proved also that he had pretended to be in New York when he was not; that his purpose of supposed absence was to let Andrew Blouchet bear a menace alone. Andrew was to be sacrificed to crooks who sought your life.”
“You say you had proof—”
“Yes — proof of Carl Randon’s connection with you. The writer of the note stated that on the day when you returned Carl’s endorsement to Andrew, you also put away an envelope with papers addressed to you in Randon’s writing. Yet you claimed no contact with Randon.”
“And you believed all this?”
“Yes. Because the note stated that only through Randon could you have known that the ebony box reached its proper recipient. The fact that you were satisfied with my performance of the task was proof absolute that you were in the game.”
Hayd nodded and delivered a pleased chuckle.
“Quite true,” he commended. “I like good logic. Some one performed a piece of creditable deduction. That person must have seen you in the loan office, the day he spied Carl Randon’s report. I suppose the note told you what to do.”
“It did,” affirmed Fanchon. “I was to wait. When the right time came, I was to take my story to Lieutenant Wayson.”
“Your story? Why not the note?”
“Because its writing faded.”