The receiver clicked at the other end of the wire. Slugger did not hear it. His eyes were glazed and staring. He had slumped back against the wall, still gripping the telephone. Talking, he managed to make his voice coherent as he numbly repeated details.
As Slugger gasped, the door of the apartment opened. A blackened form appeared upon the threshold.
The Shadow had reached the end of the trail that Slugger’s blood had left for him.
“I RUBBED out Dopey,” Slugger was repeating. “Rubbed out de guy. But De Shadow got me — got me before I could slip de paper to De Creeper. Yeah. You hear me? It was De Shadow—”
Slugger paused, apparently expecting a reply through the receiver. Then, with none coming, he resumed his final repetition.
“I slipped de paper to Jerry. Yeah, to Jerry Kobal. He — he’s holdin’ it for De Creeper. Dat’s wot Jerry’s doin’—like I told him. He — he’ll be dere at de hotel — dat’s where he’ll be. I told Jerry to go dere—”
Slugger’s voice ended with a hoarse sigh. His head sank back against the wall with a thud. The telephone fell from his clutch and tumbled to the floor.
The Shadow swished forward and plucked up the rolling instrument. He spoke, his voice a simulation of Slugger’s gasp. There was no response; the line was dead.
Gasping, Slugger had opened his eyes at the sound of a voice that seemed to be his own. His glazed optics spied The Shadow; his bloated lips spat a snarl as he tried to raise his body. Fists clenching, Slugger wanted to begin a new fray. His effort was tremendous; but it carried him no distance. Slugger’s head rose a dozen inches from the wall; then thudded back.
Blood gushed from the killer’s wound. The snarling murderer rolled sidewise, his hoarse challenge ending.
Big arms sprawled helplessly. The bruiser’s form became motionless. Slugger Haskew was dead. A murderer had paid the penalty for crime.
THE SHADOW studied the dead form. Calmly, he hung up the receiver of the telephone; then made a brief search of Slugger’s body, to make certain that the killer had actually passed along the scroll, as he had orated in those final, maudlin words. That done, The Shadow left the apartment and headed out into the night.
A whispered laugh sounded in outer darkness. It carried no mirth; but again its tone was prophetic. A new trail led ahead; one that would be beset with the presence of an insidious foeman, bound for the same goal — an enemy whose title The Shadow had heard from Slugger’s dying lips.
The Creeper, worker of evil; he was the antagonist with whom The Shadow must deal. His hand, The Shadow realized, had come early into the game. The Creeper had sought the same spoils: that scroll within the ebony casket, the precious document that had created a chain of violent death.
Myram first; then Dopey. Both murdered. Both had been thieves; but Dopey had proven vicious enough to kill, as well as steal. Next, Slugger, a murderer. He had killed Dopey; he had sought to slay The Shadow; instead he had received a crippling wound. Slugger’s subsequent efforts to evade pursuit had cost him his life. He, too, was dead.
Three trails, all ended. Again, a hunt must be begun. A fourth man had gained the lost scroll — an ex-crook named Jerry Kobal. His was the trail that The Shadow must next gain. Somewhere in Manhattan — at some hotel, the name not mentioned in Slugger’s repeated statements over the dead wire — there Jerry Kobal might be found.
New moves for The Shadow and his agents. A scouring search for Jerry Kobal, in hope that he could be discovered before The Creeper found him. Well did The Shadow know that Slugger must have passed his message through before the line went dead. The killer had been talking to some one who had hung up, once he had gained the facts he needed.
The Creeper would know where to look for Jerry Kobal. This time the odds were with the master of crime. Yet The Shadow would search, unceasingly. Sometimes circumstances changed the odds, as they had to-night, when the cloaked fighter had been trapped between Slugger and The Creeper.
Such was The Shadow’s hope; and it had chance for realization. For Jerry Kobal, the new factor in the chase, was to have his say before this game was through.
CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW’S VISIT
IT was early the next evening. Donald Shiloh was seated by the window of a small but sumptuous apartment, overlooking Central Park. On the table beside him lay a newspaper; its scareheads told of murder in a tenement house near the Bowery, with added details of a dead slayer, found in a deserted apartment, seven blocks from the scene of crime.
The police had linked the death of Dopey Delvin with the dead killer, Slugger Haskew. They had examined Slugger’s revolver; the bullets in Dopey’s body matched those of the .38 in the murderer’s pocket. But the newspaper accounts carried no mention of the shattered ebony casket. That explained why Shiloh had tossed the paper aside after glancing through the columns that told of crime.
Twinkling lights of the park did not attract Shiloh’s meditative gaze. He was staring beyond them; the direction of his vision was toward the region where the Doyd mansion was located. Shiloh was thinking of Theresa, wondering whether he should call and learn if new developments had occurred within the ancient mansion.
The telephone bell rang. Jeffrey, a solemn valet with fishlike face, came into the room to answer the call.
He spoke in solemn tones; then held the telephone toward Shiloh, with the low-toned statement:
“It is Miss Theresa Doyd, sir.”
Shiloh sprang from his chair and seized the telephone. He talked in brief, serious tones:
“Hello, Theresa… Yes, I can come to the house… Certainly, at once… Yes, my coupe is out front. It will take me less than twenty minutes.”
Jeffrey brought hat and coat. Briskly, Shiloh left the sumptuous apartment. His time estimate had been correct. Just twenty minutes later, his svelte, dark-green coupe rolled to a stop in front of the gloomy Doyd residence.
Wilfred admitted Shiloh and showed him to the library, where Theresa awaited. The girl closed the door; it was evident that she had something important to say and wanted to be sure that no listeners were about. Tensely, almost terrified, she waited before speaking.
Shiloh guessed that she was listening in dread of creeping footsteps. With a smile at the girl’s alarm, Shiloh opened the door and peered out into the hallway. He returned.
“No one about,” he informed.
SHILOH was wrong. Although he had gazed straight toward the blackness of the rear hall and had seen nothing, a living form was there. This house had gained a silent, unseen listener, almost at the moment when Wilfred had admitted Shiloh.
When the living room door closed for the second time, a shape moved forward. Dim light from the front hall furnished a hazy, almost indistinguishable outline of The Shadow.
While his agents still searched for Jerry Kobal, The Shadow had decided to visit this old mansion, to discover if news of the shattered ebony casket had reached the Doyd heirs. The Shadow had remembered the door at the side of the house. He had chosen it as a means of entry. Obscured by the blackness of the rear hall, he had seen Wilfred announce Shiloh.
The servant had lingered a few moments; then had gone upstairs. The Shadow, coming from gloom, had dropped back when Shiloh reopened the door. This time, however, he did not stay his advance. He reached the library door, turned the knob and pressed the barrier inward, just the fraction of an inch.
The sound of voices came to his ears; he pressed the door no further. He preferred to listen only, rather than run chances of attracting attention should he push the door far enough open to peer within the room.