“Living men have obstructed our path,” resumed Armsbury. “Some of them have died. Others still live. Three of them are here before us.” He pointed to the prisoners. “They shall die — all three. Living shall be dead!”
THE old man’s chuckle resounded in hollow tones through the vault. It was a fiendish sign of an evildoer.
The prisoners who heard it knew that they could expect no mercy from this cruel captor.
“Living men have brought us trouble,” continued Armsbury, in a dramatic voice. “Therefore they shall die. The dead mean more to us than the living. The dead can bring us wealth!”
He turned to approach the huge mummy case. While the others watched, Armsbury clawed away the loose straps which bound the huge Egyptian casket.
“Wealth from the dead!” exclaimed Armsbury, turning to face his listeners. “Senwosri, the son of Amenemhe, brings us his gifts! The living have deserved to die. The dead deserve to live. Had I the power, I would restore life to Senwosri.
“That cannot be.” The old man’s tone seemed regretful. “So we must accept Senwosri as dead. Let us look upon his wealth. Feast your eyes, my friends, upon the splendor that will glitter from within this casket!”
As he completed his statement, Cecil Armsbury seized the front of the mummy case and pulled it open.
The powerful wrench brought him alongside the casket, facing the men who thronged the crime crypt.
That was as Cecil Armsbury had intended. A showman in his ways of crime, he wanted to see the effect upon the members of Duke Larrin’s band.
Cecil Armsbury stared at faces that showed grotesquely in the crime crypt. He had noted eager eyes; he expected to hear gasps of elation. Instead, he was amazed by the sight of frozen faces.
Brodie Brodan’s eyes were bulging. Fingers Keefel was sinking as his legs trembled beneath him. Bozo Griffin — Fritz Fursch — Sinker Hargun — these redoubtable lieutenants were wavering. Armsbury stared at Martin Havelock.
The crook who called himself Duke Larrin was as rigid as a statue. A look of horror showed upon his whitened face. His gaze was centered upon the opened mummy case. Something within it had petrified the international crook.
With a snarl, Cecil Armsbury sprang forward. He wheeled and gazed in the same direction of the others — toward the opened front of the mummy case. His snarl died. He, too, stood astounded.
The figure that loomed within the mummy case was not the dead body of Senwosri, son of Amenemhe.
Instead of a white-wrapped mummy, Cecil Armsbury gazed upon a living form in black. A tall, spectral being was surveying the crime crypt crooks with burning eyes. That penetrating gaze brought terror.
Black from head to foot. Eyes, alone, of the features that were hidden beneath the projecting brim of a slouch hat. A form shrouded with a cloak of sable hue. Such was the terrible figure that Cecil Armsbury and the others saw. They also viewed the threats that this living creature carried — a pair of mammoth automatics that bulged from black-gloved fists!
“The Shadow!”
Cecil Armsbury gasped the name that others dared not utter. In answer came a token from the opened mummy case of Senwosri. It was a strange, weird burst of whispered mirth that rose to a crescendo within the hollowness of the crypt; then faded to leave taunting echoes that seemed voiced by a myriad of invisible, impish tongues!
The laugh of The Shadow! To the startled crooks who heard it, that strident mockery came as a prophecy of doom!
CHAPTER XXII. WORDS OF THE SHADOW
NOT one crook dared make a move. Silence reigned within the crime crypt, but the memory of The Shadow’s laugh prevailed. The Shadow had caught these fiends at a moment when they thought their safety complete. Not a gun was ready to challenge the threat of his mammoth automatics.
Cliff Marsland uttered an inaudible sigh of relief. He had forgotten that his own life was at stake. He had been chiding himself for the failure which had brought two others — Joe Cardona and Handley Matson — to share his fate.
The presence of The Shadow had ended all thoughts of doom. That spectral visitant in black, his ready guns looming before the terrified crooks, had the situation completely within his control. One against six; but The Shadow dominated the half-dozen!
Moments seemed to linger within the crime crypt. Bulging eyes stared as The Shadow’s weird shape moved forward. With a slow, gliding motion, The Shadow issued from the mummy case of Senwosri.
His tall figure in plain view, the master who battled crime whispered forth a laugh more terrifying than the first. It was a shuddering laugh that seemed to come from everywhere. Sinister mirth pounded the ear-drums of the listening fiends. All trembled. Even Cliff and the two prisoners beside him felt the horror of that mockery.
“Living shall be dead.” The Shadow’s pronouncement came in a sibilant tone. “The dead has come to life to deal judgment. Your crimes are ended.”
The blazing eyes were focused upon the cringing crooks. Again an echo of The Shadow’s laugh; then the hissing voice spoke:
“You are murderers. Perry Trappe died through your conniving. So did Tyler Bogart. One man — Croaker Mannick — was the instrument through whom death was dealt.
“Croaker Mannick met his fate. He challenged my might. He fought me amid darkness — at Tyler Bogart’s home.” A pause; The Shadow’s whispered laugh was throbbing at the recollection. “A fight in the darkness. The Shadow dwells in dark! Croaker Mannick did not escape The Shadow. Croaker Mannick, man of murder, died as he fled!”
A gesture of one automatic added emphasis to The Shadow’s statement. Fingers Keefel stared, bewildered. He remembered shots that Croaker had fired, back in Bogart’s strongroom. Croaker had fought with The Shadow — and had lost!
“Croaker Mannick left Bogart’s.” The Shadow’s voice was a creepy sneer. “I carried him from the spot where he had died. His body will never be found. But I retained his famous revolver. It was I who visited the home of Brisbane Calbot — to play the part of Croaker Mannick!”
THE truth broke upon Fingers Keefel. He realized now the oddities of that meeting in Calbot’s curio room. He had seen Croaker Mannick there — but Croaker had seemed different. Fingers recalled the pale face of the murderer; Croaker’s unusual suggestion.
Fingers had attributed them to nervousness on Croaker’s part. He knew now that The Shadow had feigned such expressions so that Fingers would not detect the imposition!
“Croaker Mannick placed Brisbane Calbot in the vault.” The Shadow’s whisper was a sibilant throb. “I was Croaker Mannick. It was I who released Calbot — I, The Shadow — to carry him to safety. Brisbane Calbot lives! Living, he provided the clew to crime!”
The whole truth was dawning upon all. Cecil Armsbury, a snarl frozen on his lips, was facing The Shadow with eyes that still showed the glower of a fiend.
“Cecil Armsbury!” The Shadow’s scoffing tone marked the crook who had backed the schemes of crime.
“Purveyor of false treasures. I learned your game; but I, The Shadow, waited. I foresaw the culmination of crime. I sought a way to reach this crypt and take you and your minions unaware.
“I visited the Egyptian Museum! I saw your collection of antiquities. I knew them to be spurious. I learned of the mummy cases that were coming in. I divined that they would carry living henchmen.”
A gasp from the corner of the room. It came from Handley Matson. The curator of the Egyptian Museum had gained a sudden inkling. He realized the identity of the old visitor who had called during the afternoon to see the tomb of Senwosri.
The Shadow! He had played the part of Professor Sturgis Dilling. His package — his briefcase — these had contained his black garments and his huge automatics. The Shadow, with masterful craft, had opened the door to Senwosri’s tomb. He had entered — to close the door behind him.