Donald Shiloh — The Creeper. Theresa could hardly have believed it, as she studied the light-haired man’s handsome countenance. But the look of evil that appeared upon that visage changed all the girl’s former admiration to utter contempt for this man who was openly bragging of his crime.
“I didn’t finish Myram,” sneered Shiloh. “But I landed others. Dopey got his. Jerry probably did, too, after Slugger was bumped. Those names don’t mean much to you; but here’s one that does. Montague Rayne! I located the old bird, thanks to you, Theresa. I didn’t hear all of Lundig’s call that day I listened; it was you who told me that Rayne was at the Torrington.
“Reggie Spaylor bumped Rayne for me; out at Ridley, Long Island. I gained the scroll; I deciphered it to-night. I sent my men to the old bank. They won’t find the swag there — because I’ve got it here. And there’s a rub-out due here; Jeffrey and I will take care of it. There’s not much chance of the shots being heard when we chop down the pack of you.
“Fools, the whole lot! If you had put facts together, you might have guessed I was The Creeper. But no one guessed that; not even The—”
Shiloh stopped. His head swung toward the front door, which he alone could see. He had heard a startling sound; seeing what followed it, he retreated instinctively across the hall, toward the stairs. His hands sank as if carried down by heavy weights; although he still gripped his revolvers, he could not use them. He was covered by a brace of automatics.
Involuntarily, Shiloh’s lips phrased the name that he had interrupted; but his tone was no longer one of derision. The Creeper’s gasp showed awe as he pronounced:
“The Shadow!”
A CLOAKED figure had swished inward, clear to the wide-arched doorway. The Shadow, weird in his flowing cloak, was covering Shiloh with one .45; his second weapon swung suddenly toward Jeffrey, just within the library door.
The Creeper’s servant stared; then let his revolvers clatter when his arms came up.
“I knew the part that you were playing, Shiloh.” The Shadow’s sinister tone held mockery. “I, too, was present in the mansion. The choice was between you and Lundig. He proved that he could not have been The Creeper. No criminal would have tossed a crumpled message in a wastebasket, or conversed over an extension telephone.
“I heard you talk, Shiloh. I saw through your excuse for the cut-off telephone call; your rapid drive. I heard your artful effort to pin blame on Mark Lundig. I noted your careful questioning concerning The Creeper’s visits.”
The Shadow’s stature suddenly lessened. A toss of his head sent the slouch hat back toward the door; a shake of his shoulders dropped the inky cloak to the floor. His dwindling figure had doubled. In place of the cloaked intruder was a bent old man, his face a mass of withered wrinkles whereon dried lips were forming a cackly chortle. Donald Shiloh gasped new recognition of identity:
“Montague Rayne!”
The transformation was complete, save for those gloved hands which still gripped leveled automatics.
Except for that feature, The Shadow — in feature, expression and pose — had become Montague Rayne.
Tobias Clavelock and Egbert Doyd stared in bewilderment, wondering if this could actually be the old friend of Bigelow Doyd.
“Montague Rayne is absent,” cackled The Shadow. “Still abroad — deceased, perhaps — but I have passed for him. Through this guise, I attracted the notice of Lundig’s detectives. I left evidence, Shiloh, that I knew would reach you — The Creeper.”
AMAZEMENT reigned. Had agents of The Shadow been present, they, too, would have been astounded. It was plain, at last, how Montague Rayne had slipped in and out their cordon; how he had so easily tabbed Moe Shrevnitz’s cab. This, too, explained how The Shadow had gained a key to Rayne’s old room at the Torrington.
It told why Zimmer Funson’s tout had so easily gained news of Rayne’s new location. The Shadow had left the want-ad clipping where it would be found. He had ordered Harry Vincent into the old room to learn if the important bait had been swallowed.
“I bought the scroll from Jerry Kobal,” croaked The Shadow, with an oldish laugh. “I rescued Kobal from your murderers, Shiloh. I deciphered the scroll with ease; for I had a code list of my own. I sold the scroll — when I needed it no longer — to your tool, Reggie Spaylor.
“He tried to kill me. We fought in darkness; I gained his gun; it was he who was shot dead in the struggle.
I came from the house with the gables, bearing scroll and money. In the darkness, I talked as Reggie Spaylor. I guessed your countersign when I heard it; I responded and passed along the scroll. I departed as Spaylor, in his car.
“Earlier, I had sent a fake note to Lundig, signed with the typewritten letter N. He met my agents, the treasure was brought here, leaving an empty vault — a trap — wherein your full hordes of henchmen were enmeshed to-night—”
A form hurtled forward. Donald Shiloh might have hesitated to spring upon The Shadow. Like Reggie Spaylor, he had gained confidence through continued sight of Montague Rayne’s stooped, shaking form.
With one bounding dive, Shiloh swung past The Shadow’s pointing gun; roaring viciously, he drove his own weapons upward as he came.
The Shadow straightened, whirling — an amazing sight in his character of Montague Rayne. Shiloh twisted; guns roared with spurts of flame. The Shadow had spun away from the wide door. Shiloh’s bullets, whistling wide, ricocheted from the hallway wall. But the jabs of The Shadow’s weapons were thrusts toward The Creeper’s heart.
As with Reggie Spaylor, The Shadow had no other choice. A foe had charged him bent on murder; that foe was a killer who must be stopped. Donald Shiloh, who had threatened the massacre of six helpless victims, ended his rush by sprawling prone upon the threshold of the treasure room.
NORRIS and Woodling had pounced upon Jeffrey, pummeling the valet to the floor. Grabbing the rogue’s own guns, they covered him.
The Shadow, seeing their prompt action, swung toward the front hall. His quavering lips were chuckling a solemn knell in the tone of Montague Rayne. Automatics rested on the floor; gloved hands swept up crimson-lined cloak and dark slouch hat. The black exterior of the cloak enveloped The Shadow’s rising form. His hands had regained their guns.
The tremulous mirth changed with the visible transformation. Hidden lips awoke resounding echoes with the weird crescendo of a mirthless laugh. The cloaked figure faded beyond the corner of the doorway. A puff of breeze came from the opening front door; then silence followed echoes.
Rescued heirs stood amid the treasure that was their legacy. Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland had done well in their handling of Mark Lundig; his error, not theirs, had brought Donald Shiloh here. But The Shadow had changed that unfortunate event into a final triumph.
Wealth had been restored to its proper owners. Upon the threshold of success lay The Creeper, dead within view of that treasure which his eyes could no longer see.
Donald Shiloh’s run of crime had ended. Self-revealed as The Creeper, he, like his overwhelmed henchmen, had fallen before the prowess of The Shadow.
The law would learn the true facts of crime. Jeffrey, the tool who knew his master’s wiles, would talk. He would tell of the scroll still resting on the writing table in Donald Shiloh’s apartment — that final piece of evidence that all would like to see.
Those who had deserved good fortune had gained it — those heirs of Bigelow Doyd, forever freed from the menace of The Creeper.
Right had won — through The Shadow!