Powell saw his face and uttered a sudden cry as he recognized the killer. The investigator aimed his automatic. The other man swung his revolver desperately and made a forward dive.
Powell’s shot was a trifle high. It seared the killer’s shoulder. Again, the investigator’s finger was pressing the trigger. Then the revolver spoke in reply.
The invader’s shot was hasty, but effective. Powell staggered. He caught himself and fired twice, but his shots were wild. Then his enemy, with calm deliberation, pressed the trigger of the revolver, and a second bullet reached the investigator’s body. Martin Powell slumped to the floor.
STAGGERING forward, the killer reached the wall and extinguished the light. He leaned there, breathing heavily. The darkness seemed to give him renewed courage.
He moved slowly across the room, and a flashlight glimmered in his hand. He threw its rays upon the desk, and uttered a muffled laugh. The edge of the light showed the form of John Hendrix lying face downward. The financier was dead.
Turning, the murderer threw a beam upon Martin Powell. The investigator lay motionless. He, too, appeared dead. The killer went to the third victim. Jermyn was alive, groaning monotonously. His eyes were closed. The slayer listened. The groaning stopped.
Now came a disturbing sound that attracted the murderer’s attention. It was the clicking of the telephone receiver. The killer listened intently. He realized that the shots must have been heard by the central operator. That meant that help might already be on the way!
The beams of the flashlight showed the killer’s right hand with its menacing weapon. Beyond the revolver was the face of Jermyn.
The man’s eyes opened. They saw the hand in front of the light. The killer, listening, was not watching Jermyn. Up came Jermyn’s hands. With a wild, renewed frenzy, he grasped the revolver and tried to wrest it from the hand that held it.
The struggle was on again. Dropping his light, the maddened murderer tried to beat Jermyn’s hand from the barrel of the revolver. He still held the butt, and his finger found the trigger. He fired to no avail. Jermyn had turned the muzzle of the gun away.
With a quick twist, Jermyn managed to yank the revolver from the man who held it. The weapon clattered across the floor as Jermyn flung it toward the wall.
Heavy fists struck downward. The fierce murderer pounded the man beneath him. His fingers clutched Jermyn’s throat. A thumb pressed deeply into the flesh. Jermyn suddenly relaxed.
It was not the choking that had overcome him. His wound was a mortal one. He had been fighting on nerve alone. Now, his strength was gone.
The murderer knew that his victim lived no longer. With a low, muttered exclamation, he arose and picked up the glowing flashlight. Then he paused and extinguished the light. Some one was pounding at the outer door of the apartment, the way by which the killer had entered.
Help was here. Escape must be made at once. The killer pushed the button of the flashlight. The rays turned toward Martin Powell. Beside the investigator lay the automatic which Powell had used so ineffectually.
In the murderer’s mind were two thoughts. First to escape; second, to carry a weapon with him.
His own gun was gone. It was the object of his search. He wanted his own revolver, but the heavy beating at the door was alarming. There was no time for either choice or delay. The hand of the killer seized the automatic. The man dashed toward a window, extinguishing the light as he went.
Peering from the window, he saw the balcony of a fire tower. He drew up the sash, swung his body clear, and clung to a cornice as he stretched toward the rail. He lost his footing, but his wild, clutching hands managed to grasp the rail.
The escaping killer pulled himself to safety and began a mad flight down the steps of the tower.
Back in the room where three men lay, all was silent, save for the sound of pounding that came from the outer door, far down the hallway. Then the pounding ceased suddenly. The rescuers, thwarted, had gone for assistance.
Silence followed. Then a slight moan. One of the three was not dead. A second moan; then silence. From far down the hall came a distant click, as though the lock of the heavy outer door had yielded. A few seconds passed, then the silence of the room was broken by a new sound that was scarcely audible.
Something was swishing through the darkness. A tiny ray of light gleamed along the wall. A spot, no larger than a silver dollar, was focused upon the light switch which the murderer had pressed. A hand reached forth and pressed the switch.
Some one had entered this room of death!
CHAPTER XIII
THE SHADOW KNOWS
ONCE again, the office of John Hendrix was flooded with light. This room, the most secluded in the apartment, presented a gruesome sight.
Two of the fallen men were unmistakably dead. One was John Hendrix; the other was Jermyn. Only Martin Powell still lived. He was the one who had moaned. Even now, his lips were moving.
In the midst of the scene of carnage stood a tall man clad in black. The Shadow had arrived too late to prevent the killings; now was his opportunity to learn the identity of the murderer.
One man could tell. That was Martin Powell. The Shadow leaned over the form of the dying investigator. The man’s eyes were glassy as they opened to stare at the shape in black. A low, whispered question came from hidden lips. Powell tried to nod in response. Another question; a second attempt at a nod.
Powell’s lips quivered, but no sound came from them. The investigator was trying to speak. The Shadow’s left hand peeled the black glove from the right. A slender, pointed fingertip rested upon those trembling lips.
With keen, sensitive touch, The Shadow felt the words that Martin Powell attempted to say. The effort ended with a single sentence.
Gently, The Shadow rested the body on the floor. Martin Powell was dead. In his last moments, he had managed to convey a message that was understood.
A new pounding began at the outer door. The Shadow ignored it. He replaced his glove on his right hand. He went to the desk and noted the papers which lay there.
With calm deliberation, he studied the documents. They disappeared beneath the folds of the black robe. These links between John Hendrix and Alvarez Legira would not remain as evidence.
Crash!
The outer door was breaking under the power of terrific crashes. The rescuers, returned to their work, were smashing their way into the apartment. Still, The Shadow was indifferent.
His eyes spied the revolver that lay against the wall. The Shadow looked toward the body of Jermyn. Visualizing the scene, he realized that this must be the murderer’s gun.
Advancing to the wall, The Shadow carefully raised the weapon by the barrel and held it in the light. A soft laugh came from his concealed lips as he replaced the revolver where it had lain.
Now he was looking for something else, searching in the vicinity of the spot where Martin Powell lay. The Shadow was hunting for the investigator’s gun. His search ended abruptly. Again, The Shadow laughed.
The driving blows were louder, now. Men were pounding their way through the outer bulwark. The Shadow, ever calm, leaned close to the body of Jermyn and noted the marks upon the dead servant’s throat. Now, he was at the door of the room, picturing the scene from its beginning.
WITH rapid strides, the man in black crossed the room and looked at the raised sash of the window. His keen eyes were close to the woodwork. There he spied new marks.
Back at the desk, The Shadow paused to make a final inspection. While there, he noted a tiny edge of a sheet of paper projecting from beneath a blotting pad. The Shadow drew out the sheet. It consisted of memoranda made by John Hendrix.