"You will go in alone, yes?" came the whispered voice of Doctor Zerndorff.
"Yes," came the reply from Joe Cardona. "I'll nab him. Stay outside with the others, professor."
The four men silently took positions in accordance with a rehearsed plan. Joe Cardona moved to the door of Killer Bryan's room. Doctor Zerndorff remained by the stairway, where he commanded a direct view of the door. The other men stood away from the door.
Cardona advanced cautiously. He waited, listening.
Then came action. His hand was on the knob. His men clicked their flashlights, focusing their powerful glare upon the doorway. That was the signal for Cardona to rush in upon Killer Bryan.
But as the lights went on, the door opened inward, seemingly of its own accord. There stood Killer Bryan, his evil face leering in the glare, his automatic aimed directly at Cardona, his finger on the trigger.
At that instant, another pistol spoke from the darkness, and a bullet from an unseen hand tore through Killer Bryan's fingers. With an oath he dropped his gun.
Cardona, his life saved, whirled toward the doorway, a startled exclamation coming to his lips.
But he had no time to think of the strange, black-clad figure he had glimpsed; a tall, imposing being whose smoking gun was already disappearing beneath the folds of a flowing cloak.
For almost at the same instant he flung himself forward on Killer Bryan; heard the snarl of a cornered beast at bay, and then heard more shots from a new quarter. And even as Cardona seized his antagonist, the killer's body collapsed limply in his grasp.
Doctor Zerndorff had fired, and the bullets from his Luger had found their mark in Killer Bryan's body.
Together, the detective and Doctor Zerndorff bent over the form of Killer Bryan. Cardona gripped Zerndorff's hand.
"You saved my life, professor," he said. "Those shots were in the nick of time. I wanted to get him alive — but we had to take him dead."
They carried Bryan's inert form from the house to a patrol car outside. Cardona loaded the victim into the patrol and ordered a quick trip to the nearest hospital — a mere formality, he believed, for Killer Bryan was dead, to all appearances.
Zerndorff remained on the street with the detectives.
At the hospital, Cardona was struck with amazement. Laid out upon an operating table, Killer Bryan opened his eyes. The attending physician shook his head.
"There's no hope for him," he said. "He'll only last a few minutes. Maybe you can make him talk."
Cardona leaned over the dying man.
"Did you kill Matthew Stokes?" he demanded.
There was no response. Killer Bryan's eyes glared coldly. A hospital attendant entered. He walked up to the group gathered about the table. He pressed Cardona to one side.
"Let me talk to him," he said.
He held his hand in front of Killer Bryan's eyes. Cardona noted that the hand was holding an oddly shaped piece of black metal, which rested in the attendant's palm.
A strange change came over Killer Bryan. His glassy eyes were centered upon that object. He seemed oblivious to everything else.
"Speak!" said the attendant. "Tell everything!"
Killer Bryan nodded feebly.
"I killed Warfield," he said slowly. Cardona, the doctor and two nurses heard his words. "I killed him in the Goliath Hotel. I killed Stokes — the same night. I shot him in his bed."
"Why did you kill them?" questioned Cardona.
"Because — The — Mas—"
The last word ended in a hoarse gasp. The physician bent over Bryan's body.
"He is dead," he said.
"We must make a record of his statement immediately," declared Cardona. "I have four witnesses, doctor. Yourself, the two nurses, and that attendant—"
He looked about him. The man who had made Killer Bryan speak was gone. Cardona blinked.
"Where — where is the attendant?"
A nurse shook her head.
"I don't know," she said. "I don't even know who he is. I never saw him here in the hospital before!"
Fifteen minutes later, as Joe Cardona was leaving the hospital, he encountered Doctor Zerndorff, entering with the two detectives. They had followed in a cab.
"Bryan was dead, of course," commented Doctor Zerndorff, in a matter-of-fact tone.
"He is dead now," replied Cardona. "But before he died, he gave us this."
He held up a typewritten copy of the Killer's statement, signed by himself, the physician and the nurses.
"He confessed, yes?" exclaimed Doctor Zerndorff. "You made him tell what he had done?"
"Not I," replied Cardona. "It was another man. We don't know who he was."
"No?" questioned Doctor Zerndorff sharply.
Cardona shook his head as he pocketed the typewritten statement.
Killer Bryan was dead, his guilt admitted at the command of an unknown stranger. But despite his feigned ignorance, Cardona was positive of the identity of the man who had appeared so mysteriously.
There was but one man who could have accomplished such a mission — and that man was The Shadow!
CHAPTER XI. THE MAD MILLIONAIRE
A BUTLER came down a short flight of thickly carpeted steps. He entered a huge, dimly lit room.
Tapestried walls gave it a gloomy appearance, and the dark mahogany furniture added to the morbidness of the surroundings. The butler stopped at the foot of the steps and spoke:
"A gentleman to see you, Mr. Banks."
"Who is he?" inquired a rasping voice.
"Mr. Gage."
"Clifford Gage!" A man arose from the corner of the room where the voice had spoken. "Clifford Gage! I must see him at once!"
The man called Banks stepped into the light. He was past middle age and was in evening dress.
His features were haggard and showed traces of weariness. He moved as though each step was laborious. He stopped in the center of the room, apparently unwilling to advance farther. There he waited until his visitor appeared.
A man came down the steps. He was wearing a tuxedo and formed a marked contrast to the stoop-shouldered man who awaited him. His walk had a youthful spring. His face was that of a man who looked much younger than his age. He advanced with outstretched hand.
"Clifford!" exclaimed Banks. "My word, you're as young as ever! And I thought you were dead!"
"I've been away a long time, Hubert," said Gage. "No wonder you thought I had joined the departed. It's good to see you again, old man—" He paused as though he had committed a blunder. Hubert Banks smiled sourly.
"No harm meant," he said, "so no injury is felt on my part. I am an old man, Clifford. I feel it, and I look it!"
"I'm only a few years younger than you," Gage reminded him.
"Yes," returned Banks. "We looked the same age when I last saw you, fifteen years ago. But I've changed a lot, Clifford. Changed a lot! Mostly in the past months, too."
He drew his visitor to a corner of the room. They sat down together. Banks rang for refreshments.
"How long have you been back?" he questioned.
"Only a few days," said Gage. "No one knows I am in town. No one is going to know. I'm going back to India very soon."
"The last I heard of you," said Banks slowly, "was five years ago. You were supposed to have died during a snow storm in the Himalayas. I never heard a denial of that rumor."
"There is lots of news that never comes out of India!" replied Clifford Gage. "Between the two of us, Hubert" — he glanced about him to make sure the butler was not in the room — "the idea that I was an American explorer is incorrect. In reality, I am an Englishman—"
"I knew that," interposed Banks, with a nod.
"And," continued Gage, "I have been engaged in government investigation in India. My supposed death was reported with a definite purpose."
Hubert Banks nodded again. He raised his finger warningly as the butler appeared with a tray. The men took their glasses. The servant left. Conversation was resumed.