Joe had seen The Shadow in the past. Always he had arrived as a grim avenger, to fight on the side of right. Now, his every action showing evil intent, The Shadow had come to rob.
Babson had reported a lurker outside. It must be one of a mob. The Shadow’s mob! Joe could not have believed it, but for the presence of the black-clad intruder now engaged in deliberate crime.
A sneering laugh. It was like the laugh of The Shadow that Cardona had heard before; but it held a new tone — one that was ugly in its jeering. Joe Cardona glanced toward Ralph Weston. The commissioner’s face was purple.
“You have looked for crime.” The sneer of The Shadow seemed a snarl as it was addressed to Weston, “Watch it. Robbery — and murder. Turn out the law. I do not fear it.”
Caleb Myland had opened the vault beyond the panel. Without awaiting bidding, the criminologist removed stacks of bank-notes and placed them on the table. Thousands of dollars — all the wealth that the strong box contained.
“Close the vault!” hissed the unseen lips.
Caleb Myland obeyed.
“Death!” The word was ominous, as the black-gloved hands turned automatic muzzles toward Caleb Myland and his servant Babson.
Weston and Cardona stood helpless. They knew that they could not save the criminologist and the menial. One move would mean shots; then the guns would swing in their direction.
The money lay where the black-gloved hands could pluck it. Quick death to Myland and Babson — that, Weston took, was the intent of The Shadow. Then the money — unless Weston or Cardona should attempt to intervene. If they did, those automatics would bark new shots to end the lives of commissioner and detective.
WESTON could not watch. He heard the taunting laugh, delivered in spiteful hatred. He turned his eyes toward the door, to avoid a view of Myland’s death. Cardona, glancing toward Weston’s face, saw a sudden gleam appear in the commissioner’s eyes.
At the same instant, Weston’s lips blurted forth a cry of hope. The words swung Cardona’s eyes in the direction of the commissioner’s gaze.
“The Cobra!”
Framed in the doorway was the fantastic figure that had rescued Ralph Weston and Joe Cardona from a former plight like this. The folds of the dark brown garb seemed almost black against the gloom of the hall beyond. But the painted hood shone with luminous circles and pointed lines!
The moment that followed Weston’s involuntary gasp seemed like a lifetime. Four men — those with upraised hands — stood motionless. They were but helpless witnesses to the amazing scene.
Weston’s gasp had been an alarm. The black-cloaked figure of The Shadow whirled rapidly toward the door. Both automatics swung to cover the brown-garbed form of The Cobra. At the same instant, a long brown arm shot up from the folds of The Cobra’s brown attire. A revolver flashed as the quick hand took aim!
A hiss came from the doorway. It was answered by a scoffing laugh. Then came the conflict.
Three shots resounded with a deafening roar. To the listeners, they came as a single, prolonged outburst. In this instantaneous duel between The Shadow and The Cobra, both mighty fighters had launched their lead with fierce defiance to the other’s challenge.
But in that mighty burst of gunfire, one trigger was pulled a split second before the others. A quick, but perfect shot accomplished both vengeance and salvation. Brown finger, pressed to revolver trigger, had beaten the black with their automatics.
Turning, Joe Cardona saw the figure of The Shadow as it wavered. The arms had swayed in firing. A bullet to the body beneath the black cloak had caused the automatics to falter in their aim.
The black-cloaked form crumpled. It sprawled on the floor, a helpless, inert mass, while clattering automatics dropped beside it. The black hat, toppling forward, completely obscured the face beneath.
At the door stood the hooded figure of The Cobra. The painted face seemed to represent a gleeful smile. The muzzle of the revolver still was pointing; a wisp of smoke was curling from it.
Eyes behind the painted mask saw that the shot had gone home. The figure of The Cobra faded beyond the door.
“The Cobra!” exclaimed Ralph Weston. “He has saved us all. He has killed The Shadow!”
THE commissioner was pointing toward the motionless figure on the floor. Caleb Myland, leaning pale-faced on the table, nodded, as his hands pressed the stacks of rescued bank-notes.
Joe Cardona was stunned. The Shadow — slain in the act of crime — by The Cobra! Mechanically, the detective moved forward from the wall. Stooping, he fumbled as he plucked up one of the automatics. A sudden stare came to Cardona’s eyes. He grabbed for the other gun and stood, gaping, with one weapon in each hand.
These were not the famous .45s — those mammoth weapons with which The Shadow had mowed down many fiends of crime. They were .38s — powerful, but of lesser caliber than The Shadow’s mighty guns.
As Weston stepped forward, Cardona stooped again. He dropped the automatics to the floor. With sudden inspiration, he seized the black hat and whipped it from the face that was beneath.
“Look!”
Ralph Weston and Caleb Myland obeyed Cardona’s cry. Like the detective, they registered amazement. Cardona’s expression turned to triumph.
The lifting of the hat had revealed an unexpected sight. The painted hood of The Cobra! An exact duplicate of the luminous, circled mask which had been worn by the fighter at the door!
Again, Cardona stooped. He seized the hood by the knot at the top. He yanked it clear of the head that wore it. This time, Joe Cardona, as well as the others, stood amazed and wordless.
The face of the dead man was that of Crawler Gorgan!
It was Caleb Myland who saw the light. Blurting, the criminologist gave the facts as he perceived them.
“Gorgan — The Cobra!” exclaimed Myland. “He turned to crime. He came here as The Shadow — to lay crime on The Shadow! The one at the door — we took him for The Cobra — was — The Shadow!”
As in corroboration of Caleb Myland’s finding came a weird, chilling token from beyond the door. It was a whispered, creeping laugh, that broke with shuddering echoes — the laugh of the one who had slain The Cobra.
Saved men stood in silent awe as they heard the triumphant laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XXV
VANQUISHED MINIONS
OUTSIDE of Myland’s home, Gringo Volks was tense as he whispered orders to his men. The fangs had heard dull, muffled reports of gunshots within the house. They were waiting for another signal.
It came. From the side door which the fangs had seen The Cobra enter, a burst of flame appeared accompanied by the bark of a revolver. Fangs of The Cobra fired in return. High shots smashed against the walls of Myland’s home.
Into a patch of moonlight appeared the figure of The Cobra, moving forward. A brown hand flung aside a glittering object — a revolver. The hand descended; two arms swung upward, holding blackened objects: huge automatics.
A peal of weird laughter. Strident, unrepressed, the battle cry of The Shadow struck the ears of the fangs as they paused in their fire. Wild exclamations followed. Before them stood The Cobra — but his weird call was the laugh of The Shadow.
Terror gripped the waiting fangs.
Then came bursts of flame from The Shadow’s automatics, followed by screams about the lawn. Guiding his shots by the flashes of revolvers, The Shadow was aiming for The Cobra’s henchmen.
“Let him have it!”
The order came from Gringo Volks as The Cobra’s chief aid leaped from the bush where he was waiting. Flashing a revolver, Gringo sought to meet the challenge. Cobra or Shadow, this hooded figure was an enemy.
Gringo fired. His first quick shot was wide.