Muffled shots still sounded when The Shadow’s taunt subsided. Rick Parrin, half obscured behind a group of henchmen, was quick to dart a glance at Nick Curlin. Rick caught a glare of understanding from the squatty man. Nick, too, was partly from The Shadow’s sight.
With one accord, both lieutenants snatched forth revolvers. Springing forward, they aimed point-blank at The Shadow, jostling others aside in hope of getting the bead on their cloaked foe. Desperation had caused the move; once it had begun, The Shadow had but one way to stop it.
Automatics blazed. Amid their thunder in this low-roofed room, two figures sprawled. Rick Parrin went down shooting; but his fire was wide. Nick Curlin didn’t loose a shot.
There were others, however, who were on the draw. Spreading, dropping, the aroused minions were zealous now that the battle had begun.
Clipping, withering shots spat from The Shadow’s automatics. Each .45 was pumping well-timed bullets.
Crooks sprawled; some dropped their guns and howled as they raised their arms for mercy; others dived for the shelter of the open vault, yanking the door halfway shut.
The Shadow’s barrage ceased as suddenly as it had begun. He had stopped the wild attack.
A GIBING laugh sounded as the cloaked figure whirled and faded with the darkness of the stairs.
Startled crooks stared unbelieving. Those wounded on the floor were helpless; but the ones with upraised arms were quick to snatch up their weapons. With a shout, they started forward, followed by those who had huddled in the vault.
They reached the stairs, that throng, and galloped upward. The way was clear until they reached the top; there they learned why The Shadow had so suddenly desisted. The dashing crooks came squarely into the glare of flashlights, flourished by police who had entered the side door. The Shadow had correctly gauged the arrival of the law.
Venomously, The Creeper’s horde opened fire. Police revolvers replied; then, into the fray, came zipping shots from the darkness near the front of the big banking room. The Shadow was there; stopping these lawless fighters with an enfilading fire.
Screaming crooks went sprawling headlong down the stairs. The others dropped for shelter; then turning about, dashed below, with officers in prompt pursuit.
The side door cleared. Sweeping from darkness, The Shadow gained the street. Combat there had ended. Patrol cars had crippled fleeing touring cars. A quartet of detectives had captured Gus and Carning aboard their truck.
Nearing the corner, The Shadow paused at a darkened spot to see three bluecoats gathered about prone figures on the sidewalk. Zimmer Funson had put up a fight; the crooked bookmaker had been shot dead.
Jocko and another tout had been wounded; they were to be sent off in an ambulance, already on its way here. The rest of Zimmer’s touts had been taken prisoners.
The Shadow glided away from this scene.
DOWN in the vault room of the old bank, Joe Cardona, leader of the invading crowd, was standing above the form of Rick Parrin. The man who had tried to slay The Shadow was coughing badly; his wounds were mortal.
Nick Curlin was dead; wounded by The Shadow, he had tried to shoot down entering police, who had gotten him instead. Of the dozen underlings, a few were dead; but the majority were wounded prisoners.
Cardona knew that these rogues would talk. But the question was how much they knew. Rick Parrin was the man to cough out news. Cardona wanted to hear it. Rick, glaring upward, was managing fierce snarls.
Wild thoughts had gathered in the lieutenant’s delirious brain.
“The Creeper!” gasped Rick. “He — he must have double-crossed us! We were — we were held back — I thought it was to make a sure job of it. An hour — an hour and a half — that’s what The Creeper had. To come here — to get the swag himself — to leave us for The Shadow.”
“The Creeper,” prompted Cardona. “Spill it. Who is he?”
“A double-crosser,” coughed Rick. “A dirty double-crosser! Through with us — that’s what he was. Didn’t want us to have our cut. I’ll— I’ll tell you who— who he is. I saw him — talked with him — to-night. His name—”
Rick paused to groan as he came up from the floor, leaning on one elbow. He stared straight at Joe Cardona and tried to speak; this time, words refused to reach his lips. A gurgle sounded in Rick Parrin’s throat. The Creeper’s lieutenant sank to the floor and flattened there, dead.
FAR from that scene of battle, Mark Lundig was pacing the hallway of the little house in Judson Place.
His forehead was furrowed; the fox-faced man was pushing his fingers through his gray-streaked hair. He was blinking through rimmed spectacles as he chewed his lips. Suddenly he wheeled to the two men who were standing near.
“I’m going out again,” snapped Lundig. “To make another call. If I don’t come back—”
He stopped as the doorbell began to ring. He nudged his thumb toward the treasure room.
“Get in there, Woodling,” he told the man in the gray suit. Then, to the fellow in the derby hat: “You answer the door, Norris.”
Chewing his cigar, Norris complied. Two persons entered: one was Egbert Doyd; the other, Tobias Clavelock.
Lundig smiled as he saw them. Passing the pair, he stood at the open door and waved his arm up and down, in signal. Closing the door, he joined the arrivals.
“What is this, Lundig?” queried Clavelock, sharply. “Egbert told me that something must be doing here in this old house. Since it belongs to the Doyd estate, I was naturally concerned.”
“Especially about Theresa,” added Egbert, shrewdly. “Where is she, Mark?”
“Get the girl,” said Lundig to Norris. Then, to the others: “Come in here. I want to show you something of importance.”
He indicated the treasure room. Clavelock and Egbert advanced; they stopped on the threshold. Egbert gaped, blinking, as he saw the glittering galaxy of wealth. Clavelock stared steadily, making no comment, until he had viewed the entire display; then he turned sharply to Lundig.
“You found Bigelow Doyd’s treasures,” asserted the lawyer. “But tell me, Lundig: how did you happen to discover them here?”
“You will learn in a few minutes,” returned Lundig, shrewdly. “But, wait: Here is Theresa.”
Norris had brought the girl downstairs. Theresa had arrived just in time to hear Mark Lundig’s statement.
Bounding forward, she shouted her accusation.
“I’ll tell you about Mark Lundig!” Seeing Clavelock and Egbert, the girl was aroused to new protest, since potential rescuers were at hand. “He is a thief — a rogue — he is The Creeper! He tricked me into coming here. He—”
Lundig was barking a protest. Egbert, nodding at Theresa’s words, showed sudden activity as he sprang to seize the fellow. Lundig struggled; Clavelock joined in. Lundig shouted to Norris in the hall; to Woodling, who was across the room. Both men sprang forward, rasping warnings.
Egbert Doyd and Tobias Clavelock dropped back as the two men drew revolvers. Theresa did the same, staring at the stubby weapons. Mark Lundig’s face was furious; but his momentary rage abated.
He chuckled in elation.
“So I’m a crook, eh?” he questioned, looking at Theresa. “You call me The Creeper,” Lundig chuckled.
“Well, you’ll learn more than you even guessed when you’ve heard what I have to say. When I’m through, you’ll—”
A voice interrupted from the hall. Lundig turned; so did the two men with him. Norris and Woodling dropped their guns and raised their arms. They had reason; they were staring straight into the muzzle of a .38, held by a stolid-faced man who had entered.
It was Donald Shiloh; behind him, his solemn-faced valet, Jeffrey. The latter stooped to pick up the revolvers that Lundig’s men had dropped.
Theresa Doyd smiled as she gave a happy gasp. This time, the girl was sure, rescue would prove complete.