Fingers Keefel spied the golden scroll. He gloated. He pulled the object from between the two statues that guarded it and gripped the scroll beneath his arm, leaving the pedestal on the floor of the vault.
AS Fingers headed for the door of the curio room, he saw Croaker Mannick moving inward. The killer shoved the muzzle of his revolver close to Brisbane Calbot’s body. Fingers, at the door, peered nervously about. He remembered the sensation of some strange presence in the house. He wanted to be sure that no intruder was around.
“Better give him the bump,” urged Fingers, nudging his free thumb toward Brisbane Calbot. “Wait until I’m up the stairs though. You’ll have to hurry to get out before the mob piles in. I’ll open the side door, Croaker. That’ll leave two ways.”
“Yeah?” Croaker growled. “How’s the mob going to hear it if I fire down here?”
“Give them another signal upstairs.”
“And suppose they might happen to hear the first one? Listen, Fingers — I’m coming right after you — get that? I’m not sticking down here in this trap. Say — could anybody ever open that vault in shorter time than it took you?”
“There’s not another guy could do it in less than an hour.”
“Well, that settles it. This mug is going in his own vault. He won’t last a half an hour.”
Croaker’s gun jabbed against Calbot’s ribs. The curio collector backed away. Fingers Keefel grinned fiendishly as he watched from the cellar. He saw Croaker back Calbot into the vault while the curio collector gasped his protests.
“My scroll!” blurted Calbot. “You thieves! Stealing — my greatest treasure. You — you murderers!”
The last word came in a hoarse scream as the collector tumbled backward into the vault. As Calbot sprawled upon the pedestal which had held the golden scroll, the vault door swung shut. Fingers saw Croaker twirl the knob. Without another word, the safecracker started for the stairs, leaving his companion to follow.
Fingers reached the side door and opened it. He left the barrier ajar. With the fake scroll of pretended gold, Fingers slipped out into the darkness of the alleyway. He headed toward the back; he quickened his pace as he heard the blast of Croaker’s .38 from within the side door of the house.
Croaker, like Fingers, was clear. Thief and murderer were scurrying away to safety — each to his own hide-out. The third job had been accomplished.
Gloating, Fingers Keefel chuckled over the thought of Brisbane Calbot, interred alive in his own vault.
The last of three whom Duke Larrin had marked for death was buried in a spot where doom was certain!
CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW ACTS
THE pause that followed the shot from Croaker’s revolver was an ominous one. To mobsmen, waiting in cars in front of Brisbane Calbot’s home, the report was a familiar signal. They had heard the sound of that gun at Perry Trappe’s. They had heard it again on Long Island, when they had invaded the home of Tyler Bogart.
Bozo Griffin, assuming full command for himself despite the fact that he and Cliff Marsland were of equal ranking, emitted a growl as he heard the signal. He remembered Brodie Brodan’s admonition to allow time for the man who fired the revolver to make a getaway.
The single shot, though unexpected in this quiet neighborhood, had no aftermath until Bozo decided to give the next command. In a louder growl, Brodie Brodan’s lieutenant ordered his gorillas to start their wild raid.
“Let ‘em go!”
Mobsters piled from automobiles. Dashing across the street, they opened fire on the windows of Calbot’s home. Three men rushed up the front steps and threw open the big door. Others made for the alley, to seek the side entrance. Bozo Griffin, with Cliff Marsland beside him, was standing near the leading car across the street.
Shots from the front of the house. Then came a scream from the first mobster who had entered. The man came tumbling from the vestibule. A gorilla beside him leveled his revolver and fired. An answering boom came from within. The second mobster staggered and plunged, headlong down the steps. The third man scrambled for safety.
There were shots in the alleyway. The gangsters who had taken the cement passage were at the side door. In response to the wild barks of their revolvers came a new fusillade. Someone within the house had stopped the raiders at the front and had turned to meet those who were entering at the side!
One mobster had sprawled upon the cement. Another was staggering, crying to his pals to aid him. The rest, remembering the ambush at Bogart’s, took to flight. As they scattered for the waiting automobiles, new shots came from bullet-broken windows.
Mobsmen were starting the automobiles. Bozo Griffin had dived into the front car. Cliff Marsland was following him. With demoralized gorillas clambering aboard, the cars shot from the curb. Brodie Brodan’s mobsters had met another set-back.
CLIFF MARSLAND knew the answer. The Shadow had acted from within the beleaguered house.
Stationed there, he had met the first invaders; then had turned his fire to the second horde. Mobsters had met their just deserts.
The quick exchange of shots had roused the neighborhood. People were shouting from windows. In this quiet, unfrequented district, minutes would elapse before police responded.
Within Calbot’s now silent house, The Shadow was moving with quick precision. Almost before the echoes of his fire had died, the tall avenger in black had reached the steps to the cellar. With swift, sweeping stride, The Shadow gained the curio room.
Gloved fingers worked upon the knobs of Brisbane Calbot’s vault. The Shadow had unbarred the barrier in a few minutes on his previous attempt. This time, his task was a matter of seconds. The door of the vault swung open.
Brisbane Calbot was slumped between the two idols. The black statue and the white looked like huge slaves protecting their master. The light from the curio room shone upon Calbot’s face. With frightened gasp, the recluse looked up.
Before him stood a being clad in black. The sinister visitant seemed like a spectral figure sent to the vault which had been marked as Calbot’s tomb. Burning eyes were commanding, as a black-gloved hand stretched forth and beckoned.
Wondering, Brisbane Calbot rose. He was like a man in a trance. Strong hands caught his shoulders and swung him from the vault. The door clanged shut. The light went out. With a powerful arm swinging him forward, Brisbane Calbot found himself following the sharp glare of a narrow-beamed flashlight as it cut a swath toward the bottom of the steps that led upstairs.
The Shadow swept the recluse onward. Together, they crossed the floor above and reached the side entrance. Calbot, wondering where he was being taken, could do nothing but obey. This strange visitant had brought him from a vault of death. He felt that he had gained a needed protector.
Shouts were coming from the front street when The Shadow and his charge issued into the cement passage. Brisbane Calbot stumbled over the body of a dead gangster. The Shadow caught the recluse and helped him onward. Through the rear of the passage; down a tiny alleyway; then across a side street.
The pair was just ahead of the police who were arriving.
Calbot slumped upon the cushions of a coupe. The car shot forward as an invisible driver took the wheel.
Turning a corner, it sped into darkness. The Shadow, like those who had gone ahead, was leaving this vicinity.
The coupe stopped after a trip of one mile. Calbot, still nervous, felt himself being aided from the car. He blinked. He was on a side street, with a bright avenue ahead. He felt a strong arm aiding him through the dark; then he tumbled into the rear seat of a sumptuous limousine.