The others rose to greet their chief. Kistelle shook hands and took his place in a chair beside the table where the others were seated. The furniture was of a Chinese pattern and here, in this Oriental setting, Charley Kistelle addressed his minions.
As he addressed the group, Kistelle noted the solemnity which held them. They were anxious to hear the details of his story. Kistelle told everything — how The Shadow had foiled his well-laid scheme — and how Horace Fenwick had died while Kistelle himself managed to escape.
Then came the matter of business. A gleam of triumph spread over Kistelle’s face as he drew a large package from beneath his coat. Here, at least, were spoils of war. From the package, Kistelle dropped forth a stack of thousand dollar bills.
“There we are,” he declared. “I collected on two jobs. I converted the bonds from Tilson into cash. Here is the dough I landed when I was in Barmouth. Now, we want to hear from Daltona.”
One of the men responded. Although he could not be distinguished from the others, his words indicated that he was the one who had gone under the name of Thomas Rodan.
“I TOOK a chance, Charley,” he declared. “I waited until morning, after I received your telegram, and grabbed all that I could raise from the Davenport estate. I was lucky to get away. A hundred thousand was all that I could find.”
He pulled a thick folder from his inner pocket and spread the gold certificates upon the table. Kistelle gathered them in and began a division of the spoils. When he had finished, he shoved a stack of money to each of his comrades in crime.
“It’s more than a hundred grand each,” he declared. “I figured we were going to make a million apiece. I lost the diamonds that I grabbed in Sharport. I never had a chance to work with Eddie, down in Louisiana. It’s tough that Horace had to take the bump.
“Just the same, I’m satisfied. If The Shadow had given me the bump along with Horace, it would have queered everything. We’re marked men now, but we’ve got a hundred grand apiece. We can head for Mexico. That looks like the best bet to me.”
“So long as we keep away from Zeltapec,” interposed one of the others.
The statement brought an affirmative response from the group. The very word Zeltapec seemed to bring a feeling of awe into the minds of these evil men.
“Zeltapec!” exclaimed one. “Say, Charley, when you told me to use chicquatil as the countersign, it gave me the creeps. I can’t forget that place those Aztecs stuck us — with that green light glowing—”
“Lay off,” ordered Kistelle. “You fellows have lost your nerve, that’s all! Do you know what I’m going to do when I get to Mexico? I’m going to head for Zeltapec, if I can find the right birds to go with me. This time, I’m going to get the green chicquatil. That’s something The Shadow don’t know about—”
The words died on Kistelle’s lips. He saw his fellows staring beyond him. Kistelle turned in the direction of their gaze. His blood froze.
There, standing by an opened panel in the wall, was a tall, somber being in black. One glance told Kistelle the identity of the arrival. His comrades had already guessed it.
The Shadow!
BY some mysterious plan, the black-garbed phantom had managed to enter the midst of this group. He, alone, had divined their meeting place. He was here alone to square accounts with them!
No one made a move. The gleaming eyes of The Shadow were focused upon the faces of the five men, all of whom were the exact image of Colpoc, the Aztec god of evil!
Slowly, impressively, The Shadow advanced. His hands were ungloved. The right was advanced toward the men at the table.
Kistelle, alone, regained his scattered wits. Leaping to his feet, the chief of the crooked crew made a motion as though to draw a gun.
The Shadow snapped the fingers of his right hand. A sudden explosion burst forth from the finger tips. The flash of light was directly before Kistelle’s startled eyes. The chief of the plotters staggered back and slumped into a chair.
The others were aghast. They did not know how to respond to this unexpected action. They were half stunned by the mysterious explosion which The Shadow had caused. Those chemicals — one upon The Shadow’s finger tip, the other upon his thumb — were unfailing in their prompt reaction.
While the five men hesitated, The Shadow performed a new deed. Reaching beneath the folds of his cloak, he drew forth an object which he held hidden. He walked the few paces that he needed to reach the table and unclosed his hand.
Instantly, a strange green glow filled the room. All — Kistelle included — cried out in startled amazement. There, on the table before them, rested the green chicquatil!
In the midst of that emerald light, these bold fiends of crime weakened. They buried their faces in their hands. They cried out like so many frightened children.
In one brief instant, The Shadow had worked a total transformation. He had carried their minds from the room in which they were back to the temple in Zeltapec. They were prisoners again, men with metal masks pressed on their faces; poor, pitiful creatures who could see nothing ahead of them but certain death!
One — Kistelle — had boasted that he would again go in quest of the mammoth emerald. Here it lay, upon the table, within reach. But Kistelle, like the others, was helpless. He, too, hid his face in his hands.
“You sought the chicquatil,” declared The Shadow. “It lies before you. Take it!”
Not a man moved.
“You bear the mark of Colpoc” — The Shadow’s tone was a scornful irony — “and Colpoc lives within the shrine of Zeltapec. His eyes are not blinded by the green light of the chicquatil. Why should your eyes fail?”
Five plotters were faced by one avenger. They were helpless. The Shadow’s words were jeering. They stood the taunts without a murmur.
“Perfect crimes!” The Shadow’s sarcasm continued. “You see how they have availed against The Shadow! See how they shall avail you now! All those upon whom you sought to place crime have been vindicated. All that remains is for you to add your useless statements.”
FROM beneath his cloak, The Shadow drew forth sheets of paper. He laid these one by one before the five cowered men. He bade them look and they did. Each statement bore the man’s own confession of past crime, and of the one crime that so far had only been planned. With keen intuition, The Shadow had singled out each man despite the fact that all looked alike.
“Sign” — The Shadow was addressing the man nearest to him — “sign this paper with the name that you assumed — the name of Thomas Rodan.”
A pen dropped on the table. The man picked it up and wrote the required name.
“Sign here,” said The Shadow to the next. “Your name, too, is needed, Edward Montague.”
As the signature was completed, The Shadow moved to the next man. In response to his command, the name of Harold Thurber was affixed to the paper. Next came the signature of Earl Northrup. The Shadow moved to the master plotter.
“Charles Kistelle,” he ordered. “Sign your paper. Your full confession lies before you.”
Weakly, Charles Kistelle gripped the pen. He wrote his name; then dropped his hand. His boasts were ended. In the presence of The Shadow, he collapsed before the glow of the green emerald — the chicquatil which he had conspired to steal and now dared not even touch.
The Shadow laughed. His rippling mirth sounded as the forerunner of doom. One by one, he gathered up the signed sheets. They disappeared beneath the black cloak.
The white hand of The Shadow reached forth and plucked the green emerald from the table. Moving backward toward the panel through which he had come, the blackclad master held the priceless gem in full view.