The key turned in the lock. The police stormed the door. The Shadow swiftly crossed the room and gained the window. Over the ledge went the black-clad shape. Again, the rubber cups squdged against the brick wall that surrounded the court.
Above the spot where one mobsman had fallen to his doom; back over the course which he had so hazardously traced before, The Shadow made his even way toward Victor Venturi’s room.
The situation was serious now. Police were crashing at the door of 1108. The sound of the yielding barrier was plain. The door had broken with a splintering crescendo.
The police were within the captured room. Amid the shambles of dead and wounded mobsmen, they were searching for a living man. They found none.
The light was glowing in 1108. The head of an officer appeared at the window. The policeman’s eyes scanned the walls of the court. They did not see the clinging form that had reached Venturi’s window. Motion, then, would have meant betrayal. The Shadow rested, waiting through long, tense moments. At last came the cry that he had expected.
The policeman, glancing downward, had distinguished the body of the mobster who had plunged to destruction. He called out his discovery. Other heads appeared at the window.
“There he is!” was the shout. “Tried to get somewhere along the wall. Dropped to the bottom of the court—”
All eyes were in the one direction. The Shadow, beside Venturi’s window, raised the sash. The shade wavered as the black-garbed phantom entered the room. A few moments later, The Shadow stood safely in the darkness.
The path was open now. From Venturi’s room, around the corner from 1108, The Shadow could make a getaway. A stairway on the other side of the hotel — a powerful car in a garage near by — a swift drive into New Jersey -
These were the steps that lay ahead. Yet, with all the speed that he might command, The Shadow faced an arduous task. Bumps Jaffrey and his men had started long ago. Victor Venturi had followed considerably later. The Shadow would be the last to make the trip. The delay had consumed the most precious minutes at his disposal.
These factors were the disappointments in the triumph of The Shadow. To him they meant more than the glory of victory over fiends. But in actuality, The Shadow had accomplished unbelievable feats since his return to the Dexter Hotel.
On the wall he had learned Victor Venturi’s destination — the home of Sturgis Bosworth. On the wall, he had encountered and defeated the man who had tried to slay him. On the wall, he had opened the terrific attack that had downed an entire mob of hardened fighters.
On the wall, again, The Shadow had made his escape. The police back in the other room believed that they had accounted for all contenders in the gang war. They had not accounted for The Shadow.
A phantom of mystery, The Shadow had vanished from their very midst. Now, unscathed after two quick battles with men of the underworld, he was on his way to a new adventure!
CHAPTER XIII
CRIX CALLS
“A GENTLEMAN to see you, Mr. Bosworth.”
Sturgis Bosworth looked up from his desk. He was seated in a private office that he had in his home at Montclair. He looked questioningly at the servant who had made the announcement.
“Who is it, Caleb?” he asked.
The servant handed Bosworth a card. It bore the name of Hugo von Tollsburg.
“Show him in,” ordered Bosworth.
A few minutes later, the visitor entered the office. Sturgis Bosworth, like Winston Collister, found himself facing a man who had a foreign air, but who did not appear to be a German.
“I am Baron von Tollsburg,” the visitor announced.
“Pleased to meet you, baron,” responded Bosworth. “Sit down and have a smoke. Cigar or cigarette?”
“A cigarette,” said the visitor suavely, “but I prefer my own brand, thank you.”
He lighted a cigarette, and the odor of Egyptian tobacco became noticeable in the room.
Sturgis Bosworth was a man past middle age, baldheaded, and serious in demeanor. He, like his guest, had lighted a cigarette, and as the smoke floated upward, Bosworth blew a puff and made a chance observation.
“It is an excellent evening,” were his words.
“An evening which one might long expect,” came the reply.
“With the world in turmoil—”
” — it is our duty to right it.” Sturgis Bosworth puffed again on his cigarette.
“I am glad that you have arrived, baron,” he said. “I am ready to deliver the money to aid the cause of my friend Aristide Ponjeau. It has worried me a bit.”
“You are providing a large sum,” said the visitor, in a commending tone.
“It is not the money,” returned Bosworth. “I have made millions through the manufacture of various types of machinery. I regard this contribution as an investment. The World Court of Industry will aid the international progress of big business. No, baron, I have merely been worried about the delivery of the funds.”
“That worry is ended now.” Bosworth nodded in agreement.
“You have your credentials?” he questioned.
The man who called himself Baron von Tollsburg arose. He brought forth the same documents that he had shown to Winston Collister on the fateful night when he had slain the insurance magnate.
“These are satisfactory,” announced Bosworth. “Your method is wise, baron — or should I say that Monsieur Ponjeau’s method is wise? I — nor any of the other contributors — do not know the identity of those who are providing funds. We shall know later, however. It may prove surprising then.”
Bosworth chuckled as he unlocked a desk drawer. He brought out an oblong box, and opened it to display a mass of bills of large denomination. He thrust a typewritten sheet across the desk to his visitor.
“Your signature, baron,” he requested.
The visitor signed. He slipped his hand to his coat pocket as he saw Bosworth comparing the signed slip with the indelible signature upon the document. Sturgis Bosworth was not so close a scrutinizer as Winston Collister had been.
“This is quite satisfactory,” said the manufacturer.
THE false Von Tollsburg removed his hand from his coat pocket. He reached forward to take the box that contained the money.
At that moment, there was a knock at the door. The visitor looked up in momentary alarm. Sturgis Bosworth registered the same expression. With a lift of his hand, he went to the door.
“Who is it?” he questioned.
“Caleb, sir. A visitor. Quite important, sir. Here is his card.”
Bosworth opened the door a trifle and received the card. His face paled momentarily, then regained its color. The millionaire laughed.
“It gave me a trifling shock,” he said. “A visitor at this opportune moment. An old friend whom I have not seen for some time. He can wait.”
“I shall be leaving immediately, Herr Bosworth.”
“Of course. Of course” — Bosworth paused as he approached the desk — “but before you leave, baron, you must accept a special gift which I have provided for the emissary of Monsieur Aristide Ponjeau. Wait until you see it, baron. It will surprise you.”
Bosworth reopened the desk drawer and fumbled as though looking for something that he had misplaced. Suddenly, his head popped up above the desk. His hand came with it, and an old-style revolver glimmered in the millionaire’s fist.
“Put up your hands!” ordered Sturgis Bosworth, in a hoarse voice.
The visitor obeyed in feigned surprise.
“So!” Bosworth’s tone was indignant. “You have tried to trick me, eh? Well, it is fortunate that the next visitor arrived. Did you ever hear of Victor Venturi, Mr. Baron?”
The visitor registered blankness. “He is a friend of Aristide Ponjeau,” declared Bosworth. “He sent in this card that bears his name — marked ‘From Aristide Ponjeau.’ It also bears a written statement. ‘Beware the impostor who is deceiving you.’ What do you make of that, Mr. Baron?”