“You seek a murderer.” The tones of The Shadow’s sinister voice came from his hidden lips. “So you shall find him. He is here, within this room. Hearken while I name him.”
A pause of momentary silence, so tense that it seemed never-ending. Then came the pronunciation of the name which listeners expected. It was hissed from The Shadow’s unseen lips:
“Nicholas Rokesbury!”
CHAPTER XX. THE END OF CRIME
No one stirred as The Shadow’s hissed pronouncement echoed in whispers from the tapestried walls.
Steady, burning eyes; massive, menacing automatics still held the throng motionless.
Nicholas Rokesbury was rigid, his face had turned ashen while his fingers were stilled upon the handle of his revolver. Philo Halthorpe was stooped forward with hands upon the table. The lawyer’s mouth was agape.
Wildemar Brent had slumped hack in his chair. Dorothy was standing by the wall, amazement in her expression. Austin Culeth was staring at The Shadow. He had recognized the mysterious warrior who had conquered him in the conflict in the cabin.
Clyde Burke and the deputies formed a group of three men who made no move. The reporter did not have to pretend astonishment. Even though he knew The Shadow as his master, Clyde was dumfounded at the sudden entry of his spectral chief.
All seemed to sense that further words were coming. They were correct in this conjecture. Tersely, in steady, inflexible tones, The Shadow drove home the truth of his accusations.
“You are the crook who sought Thaddeus Culeth’s life.” The Shadow’s burning gaze was fixed on Nicholas Rokesbury. “You established yourself in Rensdale. You gained the contract to construct the causeway. Surrounded by hired ruffians — your workers — you bided your time until Thaddeus Culeth died.
“Hector Lundig became an obstacle. You decided to remove him. You planted footprints leading to the causeway. You entered the hotel as Simon Glosting. Removing your disguising garments, you placed them in the box that a workman took to the causeway.
“Returning to your own character, you went to your room. Half shaven you entered Lundig’s room and slew him. You dashed back to your own room and arrived as a rescuer. You had already prepared the rope of torn sheets to indicate the pretended flight of Simon Glosting.”
A pause. The Shadow’s laugh sounded as a weird whisper. The fire-eyed master had moved forward into the tapestried room. His gaze still glowed on Nicholas Rokesbury.
“Those extra shoes were obviously left behind,” sneered The Shadow. “They were proof that the killer wanted his tracks discovered. All the evidence showed me that the murderer wanted to lead pursuers away from the hotel. That made me suspect you as the killer. Yet, at the time, there was still a possibility that another might be the murderer.”
THE eyes burned toward Halthorpe then at Brent. This showed that The Shadow had once suspected that either of them might be guilty. Then the burning optics again centered upon Rokesbury.
“I came here as Professor Darwin Shelby,” hissed the merciless accuser. “The real Professor Shelby died recently in London. I observed Austin Culeth — as the bearded Dalwar — when he came to confer with Twindell. When Merle Cray was murdered — through his own folly — I knew the truth; Austin Culeth could not be the killer. The real murderer must have entered and left by a secret exit in the cellar.
“I found that opening. It had been blocked but reopened. It led to the old well between this house and the causeway. I knew that the search of your men, Rokesbury, was a pretence. You had used that passage to enter the cellar and lie in wait for Austin Culeth. You were forced to kill Merle Cray in his stead. You left and followed your men here to the house.”
Rokesbury’s face was white. The engineer’s expression showed that The Shadow had divined the absolute truth. But the grim accuser had not finished.
“I sought to prevent Austin Culeth’s next visit,” declared The Shadow, in his shivering whisper. “Chance was against me. Austin Culeth entered a trap. Twindell saved him from you, Rokesbury, but Twindell died because of his faithfulness. You slew him in cold blood.
“Good fortune enabled Austin Culeth to escape your men outside. When you testified to your actions, when you expressed feigned regret at the death of Twindell, you gave yourself entirely away. To cover the fact that you had entered by the secret tunnel, you stated that you had come in by a window in the passage by the hall. That window — like all others except those in the locked corner room — is solid. No one could have entered through its metal structure.”
This was the statement that brought instinctive exclamations from Philo Halthorpe and Wildemar Brent.
Both remembered Nicholas Rokesbury’s explanation of his entry on the night of Twindell’s death. They realized that the man’s own testimony — held in the prosecutor’s files — was evidence of his guilt.
“I used your passage,” concluded The Shadow. “It is open, for all to see. To-night, I played the part of the bearded squatter. I brought the climax that was needed. I wanted all here to listen to Austin Culeth; then to learn the truth of your guilt, Nicholas Rokesbury.
“You sought Thaddeus Culeth’s hidden wealth. It was in your grasp; but you did not know it. When you removed those tapestried panels—”
The Shadow’s statement ended. With amazing swiftness, the black-cloaked accuser wheeled to the door.
His keen ears had detected approaching footsteps. Rokesbury’s men, not finding Professor Darwin Shelby, had returned. They had caught The Shadow’s sinister tones; they had sensed that their chief was in trouble.
THE SHADOW’S sudden twist forestalled their surprise attack. As the two workmen sprang forward, leveling their guns, The Shadow whirled through the doorway to meet them. His automatics delivered tongues of flame. One thug crumpled; the other wavered. His gun arm dropped; then, with a dying effort, he sprang upon The Shadow. He clutched the black-garbed fighter with a frenzied death grip.
Nicholas Rokesbury’s game was up. Knowing it, the crook acted with sudden promptness. He yanked his revolver from his hip. Wildly, he sprang toward the door. Of all the startled witnesses, one alone was quick enough to act. That was Austin Culeth.
The man who had trekked the South African veldt had given previous displays of his mighty strength. He pounced upon Rokesbury as the fellow neared the door. Catching the man about the body, Austin sent him spinning across the floor to the wall. Following the swift strike, Austin again pounced forward toward the crook.
Rokesbury responded. His head had struck a thick tapestry. He was not stunned by the thump. Up came his revolver. A vicious snarl hissed from his leering lips. Then came a roaring shot. It was not from Rokesbury’s gun, however. That report was delivered from the door.
The Shadow had hurled the dying workman aside. Swinging, he had fired with quick aim. His hot bullet had speeded straight to its appointed mark — the heart of Nicholas Rokesbury. As Austin Culeth completed his lunge toward the man on the floor, Rokesbury rolled sidewise, dead.
REVOLVERS barked from the great hall. The rest of Rokesbury’s crew was piling into the mansion.
They had spied their fellows dead upon the floor. The first of the intruders fired wildly at the form of The Shadow, framed in the doorway to the tapestried room.
The Shadow turned. His automatics boomed. Weaving forward, he delivered burning slugs into the ranks of these vicious enemies. Pretended workmen— actually ex-convicts hired by Rokesbury — went tumbling to the floor. Yet others came surging in behind them. The Shadow was ready for all.