Tabbert stopped, quivering. Jurrick was shrinking away; backed against the wall, he showed his guilt by manner and expression.
Again. The Shadow spoke.
“Tyson Weed visited Montgomery Hadwil,” he pronounced. “The lobbyist guessed the impersonation; his detectives had reported Layton Coyd in two places at the same time. Weed offered terms to Hadwil. You saw their danger, Crozan.
“Only you were available at the time of Weed's murder. Mullard was taking Hadwil to a new hide−out.
Borneau was at the embassy with Senator Releston. Jurrick was here with Tabbert. It was your task, Crozan, the elimination of Weed. You could not entrust it to some underling as you had that theft at Releston's.
“You wanted those papers as a prelude to the game; to make it look as though Rydel were guilty. To−night, with your schemes balked, you prompted your tools—Hadwil and Borneau—to make confessions. They did so, knowing that they would be convicted of minor crimes alone. In their confessions—to gain your favor further—they named Rydel as the master crook. Rydel, instead of you—”
Crozan had cowered; yet his face was venomous. The Shadow's automatics were moving from man to man, covering the master crook and his trio of helpers. A murderer was trapped, his accomplices trembled, helpless. They, too, dreaded The Shadow's wrath, now that justice faced them.
THEN came the unexpected. Harry Vincent was the one to see the danger; for The Shadow, concentrated upon Crozan, had deliberately left Harry on guard. Standing by the door to the bedroom, Harry could see past The Shadow, who had advanced into the living room. He could observe that far doorway to the hall, the only spot that offered possible complications.
Gun in hand, Harry uttered a sudden shout of warning as he saw a figure leap into view. The Shadow heard it, twisting inward, he performed a fading motion just as an evil rescuer came springing past the threshold.
It was Mullard. The chauffeur had slipped Hawkeye. He had come here with Rydel's limousine, to pick up Hadwil. Alarmed by the delay, Mullard had entered Coyd's home. From the stairs, he had heard The Shadow's tones. Revolver leveled, this underling of crime was driving in to aid his evil master, Foster Crozan.
CHAPTER XX. CRIME'S END.
TWO guns cracked simultaneously. One was Mullard's revolver; the other, Harry Vincent's automatic.
Mullard was aiming hastily for The Shadow; Harry was shooting for the spot which he had been covering—the space inside the door.
Mullard's bullet whistled by The Shadow's whirling form. The cloaked avenger knew that the first shot would be wide; he was wheeling about to aim with deliberate purpose. His automatics covered Mullard simultaneously. Ordinarily, The Shadow would have mowed down the intruder before he could take new aim.
But Mullard was already sprawling. Harry's timely shot had clipped the in−rushing chauffeur. Mullard's revolver went bouncing across the floor to bash against Burbank's cabinet. Its owner writhed helpless, moaning in agony. Harry's shot had found his left shoulder.
As The Shadow wheeled to cover Mullard, a fiendish shout resounded. Foster Crozan had lost no precious moments. From his pocket the arch−fiend was snatching a .38; he bounded forward, aiming to shoot The Shadow in the back. Hard after him came another, drawing a revolver also. Montgomery Hadwil was seeking to aid his chief.
The Shadow's spin had not ended. It was a complete twist, off at an angle at the end of the room. Whirling with his first fade, The Shadow had planned to clip Mullard; to keep on in his revolution and deal with the foes whom he knew would make a break.
Shots at Mullard had been unnecessary. The Shadow was almost full about before Crozan could fire. The crook's gun spoke; a whistling bullet clipped the brim of The Shadow's hat. Then, as Crozan fell upon the cloaked fighter, an automatic spoke. Its burst came just as Crozan jabbed his revolver against The Shadow's body.
A finger faltered; The Shadow's automatic gave a second spurt as Crozan wavered. The master crook sprawled heavily upon his adversary, losing his gun as he fell.
Shifting, The Shadow swung Crozan's form as a shield, just as Hadwil, pumping shots from a .32, came plunging upon his dead chief and the living foe.
HALF sprawled by Crozan's death plunge, The Shadow saw Hadwil above him. The face that resembled Coyd's was flushed with fury as the hand beside it thrust the .32 between The Shadow's eyes.
Hadwil's previous shots had buried themselves in Crozan's sagged body; this bullet—so the transformed actor believed—would finish The Shadow.
The slug never issued from Hadwil's gun. The Shadow's arm had already swung inward, under Crozan's arm.
A muffled roar from The Shadow's automatic. Hadwil's lifted face showed agony. He tried to fire; The Shadow smashed the revolver with a stroke of the automatic.
The gun went skidding across the floor as Hadwil slumped backward. He was the man who had doomed Tyson Weed; at heart a murderer like Crozan, Hadwil had gone to a deserved death.
Twisting away from the sprawled bodies, The Shadow was ready with his automatics. His enemies had shielded him in the fray; if remaining foemen were prepared for battle, they, too, could have it. But as The Shadow cleared for further action, he saw that the cause was won.
Harry Vincent had sprung forward to down Crozan and Hadwil. Doctor Borneau had sprung in to stop Harry's surge. The physician was unarmed—Harry had learned that when frisking him for the key to the locked bedroom. Hence Harry had driven blows with his automatic, to clear the physician from the way.
Borneau had resisted the flaying strokes, long enough to hold back Harry. But at last, the physician had succumbed; he had dropped to the floor, holding up his hands in surrender. Turning to aid The Shadow, Harry saw his chief triumphant.
Another struggle was ending. Don Jurrick had started forward, later than the others, reaching to pull a gun from his pocket. Hugh Tabbert had taken care of that adversary.
Fiercely, the red−haired secretary had snatched the revolver from Jurrick. He had followed that by slugging the sleek underling with merciless punches. Jurrick was lying huddled by the big chair, Tabbert, fists clenched, towered above him.
The radio technician had picked up Mullard's gun and was holding it gingerly. That precaution had been unnecessary. No fight remained in Mullard. Harry's shot had clipped him properly. The rogue was still moaning on the floor.
Hearty pounds came from beyond the bedroom door. The Shadow hissed an order. Harry, still covering Borneau, moved back and produced the key with his left hand. The Shadow was backing toward the hall, both automatics ready. With no need to watch Borneau, Harry unlocked the bedroom door.
CONGRESSMAN COYD was on the threshold. Fully awake, he stared with startled eyes at the havoc which filled the living room. Harry spoke; Coyd nodded. Turning, he ordered Evelyn and Beatrice to remain where they were. Stalking out into the living room, Coyd took imperious charge of the scene.
Harry, gun in hand, backed Borneau to the chair beside which Jurrick lay.
Tabbert collected the revolvers that were on the floor; then Coyd ordered Borneau to attend to Mullard's wound. Disarmed, these minions were helpless.
Borneau, as he obeyed, glanced toward the doorway to the hall. That was the spot to which The Shadow had retreated. There was no sign of the cloaked form in the blackness; but the cowed physician suspected that The Shadow was still there.
Some one was hammering at the front door. The pounding ceased; footsteps clattered on the stairs. Mose had admitted a visitor. From the hall came Dunwood Rydel; the magnate had arrived at the finish of the shooting; and had been hammering for admittance ever since.
Consternation showed on Rydel's face as he gazed about, anxiously seeking his daughter. Harry explained briefly what had happened; adding that Beatrice was safe with Evelyn.