“THESE treasures,” came The Shadow’s announcement, “will be restored to their rightful owners. Those men will be warned and protected against new attacks. Your crimes, Tyrell, have proven fruitless.
“You are fortunate in one respect. I have followed your game. I have seen you avoid the one crime that might have forced me to become your executioner: namely, murder.”
Mark Tyrell quailed. Did The Shadow know that he had planned the murder of Powers Jordan? Tyrell suspected it. The Shadow knew the situation that existed here. Probably, he had divined that Jordan’s death would be essential to the culmination of the final robbery.
“My policy toward criminals” — The Shadow’s tone had suddenly become the sinister whisper that all crooks feared — “is one that yields no mercy. You, Mark Tyrell, are a thief. Yet you have accomplished nothing. You have been thwarted.”
“I am beaten,” acknowledged Tyrell, in a gasping, pleading tone. “I’ve got nothing—”
“You have henchmen,” warned The Shadow. “You have accomplices. I know their identities. If they persist in crime, I shall deal with them as they deserve.”
“I’m through,” admitted Tyrell. “I’ve paid my associates for what they’ve done. I owe them nothing. I’m not only licked; I know that I was wrong.”
There was pleading in the crook’s tone; yet Tyrell maintained an earnest bearing as he raised his eyes to face The Shadow’s gaze. Realization of crime’s hopeless hazards had apparently gripped Mark Tyrell.
The Shadow stood silent. The glow faded slightly from his eyes. His gestures, his leisurely manners — all became those of Powers Jordan, the man whose part he was playing. With his right hand, The Shadow gave a slight wave toward the door.
Faltering, with head half-bowed, Mark Tyrell walked from the room. The Shadow followed. Tyrell found his hat and coat. He donned them while The Shadow spoke in the easy drawl of Powers Jordan.
“Honest opportunity lies before you, Tyrell,” he suggested. “Why not take it? You may find that it will pay.”
“I’ll try it,” nodded Tyrell.
“In that case,” came the easy drawl, “the past will be forgotten. Take a friend’s suggestion, Tyrell. Avoid crime in the future. If you do not—”
The last sentence came in another tone. The contrast was electric. The Shadow had replaced Jordan’s drawl with a sinister whisper that made Tyrell quake.
“If you do not—”
The hissed words seemed to echo in Tyrell’s startled ears as the beaten schemer stepped into the hall. Tyrell did not pause. He walked weakly toward the stairs; as he reached them, a new sound brought a quiver to his frame.
This was the whispered shudder of an eerie laugh that Mark Tyrell had heard before. It was the final warning of The Shadow. Weird reverberations persisted as Tyrell descended the stairs. His face ashen, his steps those of a man in a trance, Tyrell crossed the lobby and reached the street.
Mechanically, he called a cab. He gasped an order to the driver, telling the man to take him to the Esplanade. He sank back in the cushions and sat staring from the window as the cab rolled along.
The Shadow had explained. The Shadow had shown mercy. The Shadow had warned. Mark Tyrell had left his presence in penitent fashion. The schemer had maintained his hangdog, beaten bearing.
BUT when he entered his apartment at the Esplanade, the schemer no longer wore a pitiful expression. His suavity had returned. His face was flushed with an evil glow; his eyes were hard and wicked.
Ordering Wellington outside, Tyrell picked up the telephone. He dialed a number; his voice rasped as he spoke across the wire.
“That you, Slug?” queried Tyrell. “This is Tyrell… No, the game’s off for to-night… I’ll tell you more later… I’ve got another job coming… Yes, stick with Pug at the Morocco until you hear from me.”
As he hung up the receiver, Mark Tyrell blurted an evil laugh. He was pleased as he faced his reflection in the mirror. Beaten, he had managed to extricate himself from The Shadow’s toils.
Mark Tyrell felt that he had tricked The Shadow. His pretended penitence had been a clever ruse. He had no intention of heeding The Shadow’s warning. So far as crime was concerned, Mark Tyrell was ready to make it pay.
Twice had Mark Tyrell discoursed with The Shadow. On both occasions, the smooth crook had come out second best. The Shadow had shown leniency at each meeting. Mark Tyrell was looking forward to a third event.
He knew that he could expect no quarter. He did not seem perturbed. Fiendish at heart, despite his cleverness in pretending that he had reformed, Tyrell had gained a singular wish.
Crime was to be his watchword. It would be his answer to The Shadow’s warning. It would bring him — so Tyrell hoped — to the culmination of the desire that now gripped his entire being. Mark Tyrell wanted what other crooks avoided: the chance to meet The Shadow face to face, on even terms.
Mortal combat with The Shadow! That was what Tyrell sought. Through new and daring crime, he would find the way to his dangerous goal!
CHAPTER XIII
NEW CRIME BREWS
For several days following his second meeting with The Shadow, Mark Tyrell behaved himself with the utmost caution. He feared that he might be under surveillance; hence he planned his course so that The Shadow — if spying — would suppose that Tyrell had renounced his career of crime.
The schemer was never at home in the evenings. When calls came in from Slug Bracken or Pug Halfin, Wellington answered them with the simple statement that his master was out. Toward Harry Vincent, Tyrell also preserved a new attitude. He told Harry, on the occasions when the young man telephoned, that he was planning some promotion work. He added that a job might be open and that he would notify Harry later.
On certain evenings, Tyrell accompanied Doris Munson to society affairs. On others, he paid visits, alone, to men of high repute. Among them were such friends as Sebastian Dutton, Rudolph Brockthorpe and Hubert Bexler.
None of these men had regained their stolen treasures. The police were still looking for the pilfered valuables. Powers Jordan had not returned from Atlantic City. Tyrell saw significance in these facts. He knew that he was practically under parole; that The Shadow was waiting to make sure that he had reformed.
The Shadow, in the past, had dealt with other crooks who masked their evil under a gloss of social status. The majority of such had been weaklings by nature — men who had turned to crime to make up for spendthrift losses. Others had been ex-criminals who had found the upper crust more to their liking than the underworld. Mark Tyrell, however, belonged to neither of those groups.
A polished gentleman, a man capable of high earnings through honest practices, Tyrell had swung to crime as another man might have taken up another business. The Shadow had recognized that fact. By blocking Tyrell’s course of crime, he had shown the suave schemer the uselessness of evil effort.
Yet Tyrell had refused to learn his lesson. Still, he had seen the advantage of keeping up the pretence that he was in accord with The Shadow’s view. Thus a new evening found him in his apartment at the Esplanade, smiling archly as he thought of the cunning game which he had managed and contemplating new crime that lay ahead.
The telephone was ringing. Tyrell pushed Wellington aside and answered the call. He heard the gruff voice of Slug Bracken. Tyrell responded in a suave tone.
“All ready to see you,” he remarked. “Pug, too… You know where… With the stuff… Yes, tell Foon Koo I’ll be there… No, I haven’t seen him… Right. Mum to the gorillas.”
One minute after Tyrell hung up the telephone, there was another ring. This call was from Harry Vincent. Tyrell’s voice was an easy purr as the crook spoke to the secret agent of The Shadow.