“Call New York!” The Shadow’s command was powerful. “Get Commissioner Weston on the wire. He is to receive another message from The Black Falcon!”
Rowland Ransdale, trembling, obeyed. Minutes ticked by. The connection was completed.
“Speak!” ordained The Shadow. “Tell him where you are. Challenge him to come here and find you!”
“This is The Black Falcon,” declared Ransdale, in a voice which seemed controlled by The Shadow’s bidding. “I am at my stronghold. Fifteen miles from Cuthbury. In the Catskills. Come and capture me—”
“If you can!” prompted The Shadow in a sinister whisper.
“If you can!” gasped Ransdale into the telephone.
The receiver clicked on the hook. Rowland Ransdale faced The Shadow. For a moment, The Black Falcon’s role had returned. Although at bay, Ransdale snarled a question.
“If you are not Cranston,” he demanded. “Who are you?”
“You shall learn!” The Shadow’s tone was ominous. “You, Rowland Ransdale, shall see the face of The Shadow. It will be your deserved warning — you who call yourself The Black Falcon. For those who have seen the true face of The Shadow have never lived to recite their discovery!”
THE collar of the black cloak wavered as The Shadow’s gloved left hand unfolded it. A frightened gasp came hollow from Rowland Ransdale’s lips. The crook slumped as his bulging eyes viewed the countenance beneath the brim of the black slouch hat. As The Shadow’s hand refastened the collar of the cloak, Rowland Ransdale slumped pitifully to the floor.
The man’s face was ashen. A whispered laugh came from The Shadow’s lips. Only The Shadow knew why the sight of his dread face had brought terror to this evil fiend who never before tonight had known fear.
The face of The Shadow! The face that was never seen except when disguised to represent some other countenance. Roland Ransdale had met The Shadow face to face. The Black Falcon, he who had terrorized the law, had lost all nerve when he had viewed the true visage of The Shadow!
Only brilliant eyes remained in view. They were burning eyes that surveyed the gasping shape of a man who had once thought himself invincible. Then, with sudden keenness, The Shadow’s eyes were raised. Staring toward the door, they saw the barrier move.
The Shadow’s automatic rose to aim as Hazzlett, a revolver in hand, appeared upon the threshold. The henchman, wondering what had kept his chief had come to investigate. Instead of Rowland Ransdale, Hazzlett had found The Shadow!
CHAPTER XXIII
THE HOODED FALCON
HAZZLETT had arrived expecting trouble. He had been awaiting Ransdale’s call to bring the men upstairs. Hence, when he had flung the door open, Hazzlett was ready armed; behind him, on the stairs, were the others.
Keyed to excitement, Hazzlett acted on the instant. With a snarl as vicious as any that The Black Falcon had ever uttered, Ransdale’s minion pressed finger to trigger of his upswinging gun.
As Hazzlett performed this deed, The Shadow made a double action. With a quick shift to the left, The Shadow executed the fade-away maneuver which had made him an impossible target for hosts of gunmen. At the same instant, he pressed the trigger of his automatic.
The huge .45 declared itself with a terrific roar. The Shadow, in his shift, had not lost his aim. The speaking muzzle of the automatic was still on its desired objective — Hazzlett.
Directly following the spurt of flame from The Shadow’s gun, Hazzlett pitched forward into Ransdale’s room. The minion’s arms sprawled crazily. With a convulsive effort, Hazzlett managed to gain his knees. He snapped the trigger of his revolver. The shot, unaimed, was futile. The effort was Hazzlett’s last. Coughing blood, the evil servant of a vicious master, rolled dead upon the floor.
The men behind had glimpsed The Shadow. Like fiends, they sprang in through the wide doorway, to battle with this marksman who had edged away from view. Ransdale’s henchmen had not yet learned their master’s perfidy. They were out to slay the enemy who had dropped Hazzlett.
Revolvers spurted as wild shots echoed through the room. All were fired toward the spot where The Shadow had last been. Not one found its mark, for The Shadow, reaching the end wall of the room, had crouched in waiting. A second automatic had joined the first; now, as one of the four henchmen shouted his discovery of the foe, both hands performed their deadly work.
Thundering automatics belched hot lead into the ranks of the would-be rescuers. While return shots spattered wildly, The Shadow’s guns completed their work. Rowland Ransdale’s henchmen collapsed in pairs. They had come to slay The Shadow; they, in turn, had met their fate.
THE SHADOW’S tall form rose beside the wall. A weird laugh echoed from sinister lips. It was not a tone of mockery; rather was it a knell for these foolhardy minions who had served an evil and unrewarding master.
The Shadow’s gaze turned toward the desk. Rowland Ransdale, aroused from his terror by the sound of gunfire, had regained his feet. With a wild gleam in his eyes, the supercrook pounced upon his revolver and aimed the weapon toward The Shadow.
The vicious leer of The Black Falcon was upon Ransdale’s lips. Snarling, the criminal had gained the aim. His steadying hand was ready; but before his finger could press the trigger, the glint of The Shadow’s eyes was full upon him.
Ransdale quavered. The venom of The Black Falcon remained traced upon his features, but his countenance was ashen. His hand began to shake as it pointed the revolver which it held. The steady grip that had enabled Ransdale to slay Terry Rukes as well as helpless victims, was failing in this dire emergency.
Rowland Ransdale had seen the face of The Shadow! That sight, he knew, had been his sentence of doom! The words of The Shadow, the power of the master fighter — all these came surging through Ransdale’s brain as the fierce crook caught the burn of The Shadow’s eyes.
Ransdale fired. The echo from his revolver seemed deafening in his ears. Then, from across the room, came a strident burst of mockery. Ransdale caught himself as he was sinking to the desk.
The face of The Shadow! Rowland Ransdale had seen it. His nerve had passed with that revelation. He, The Black Falcon, marksman extraordinary, had beaten The Shadow to a shot — and had missed.
With a wild cry, Ransdale aimed again. The fury of The Black Falcon was upon him. Hate blazed in his own eyes; hate that matched the mastery of The Shadow’s gaze. This time Ransdale knew that he would not miss in his aim!
This shot would kill The Shadow — so Ransdale thought; and such might have been the outcome, had Ransdale fired. But The Shadow had allowed one lone opportunity. Ransdale’s first shot was to be the last. The burst of flame that came from a trigger-pressed gun was a flash from The Shadow’s left-hand automatic.
The Black Falcon had had his turn. This was The Shadow’s. The gloved hand did not fail. Rowland Ransdale, the snarl still issuing from his lips, collapsed upon the desk. The revolver dropped from his nerveless fingers and clattered on the woodwork. It slid off and fell upon the floor. Rowland Ransdale followed a few seconds later. His clutching hands had weakened. His body sagged. It sprawled face-first upon the useless gun; then, with a last writhe, turned back upward on the floor.
Slowly, The Shadow advanced. His automatics went beneath his cloak. From beneath that garment he drew a cloth of black. As he held it in his right hand, he reached forward with his left and drew an object from the desk.
Stooping above the body of The Black Falcon, The Shadow hovered like a monster of the night. When he arose, the black cloak swished as The Shadow turned and swept across this room of carnage.
Past the body of Hazzlett just within the door; down the stairs and through the archway to the cellar. Such was The Shadow’s course. The black-clad avenger reached the cellroom.