NOT one had suspected The Shadow’s ruse. They had thought — as Armsbury had suggested — that The Shadow might have crouched to cover to avoid their shots. But to drop — as if from nowhere, on a twelve-story plunge! This was the stroke that caught them unaware.
Cecil Armsbury crouched to the floor as cursing mobsters dropped about him. Of a dozen shots delivered by The Shadow, seven had passed between the slats. They had crippled the trio of mobsters in the car with Armsbury.
Alone capable of action, the old crook yanked the control as The Shadow’s car whizzed past.
Armsbury’s elevator jammed to a stop between the fifth floor and the fourth. It started upward at the old man’s action on the control.
A whistling sound wailed through the shaft. The Shadow’s lift had struck the air-cushion in its confined shaft below the fourth floor. Rebounding as though shot upward by a spring, it was in new pursuit. The Shadow had regained the control!
Armsbury’s car clicked to a stop at the twelfth floor. The old man clawed open the door. He dashed along a short passage, up steps, and pulled open a barrier. He hurried out to the roof of Ridgelow Court.
He was ahead of The Shadow. Let the dying gangsters remain in their useless elevator!
Reaching a corner post at the rear of the roof, Cecil Armsbury clung there in the darkness. He was obscured from the glare of the city’s sky. He steadied his right wrist upon the cornice. Gloating; he pointed revolver at the door through which he had come. He waited.
Though capture might prove inevitable, Cecil Armsbury was determined to commit one final deed of crime. He had reached this spot in time to await The Shadow. The moment that the blackclad avenger might appear, Armsbury’s hand would press the trigger.
Sure death — with this steady aim. Armsbury’s eyes were keen as they watched the whitened surface of the door. Not even The Shadow could come there undiscovered. Armsbury’s only qualm was the possibility that The Shadow might avoid this trap. Yet the old fiend, chuckling, counted on The Shadow’s daring.
The being who had come to the crime crypt in the mummy case of Senwosri, there to eliminate a band of fierce ruffians, would certainly not avoid this challenge. In the crypt, Armsbury had chosen flight. That course was ended. The Shadow would learn the perfection of Cecil Armsbury’s calculating aim!
ON the twelfth floor of Ridgelow Court, The Shadow was standing by the very exit which Armsbury had taken. Behind him were the open doors of two elevators: the one containing the bullet-scarred gangsters whom Armsbury had abandoned; the other, the car in which The Shadow had arrived.
There was one path which Armsbury must have taken. The Shadow knew it: through that door to the roof. The Shadow’s gloved hand was upon the door. Then came a solemn, whispered laugh from lips that were hidden by the upturned collar of the black cloak.
The Shadow saw the trap. He knew the odds which Armsbury was playing. His keen eyes spied a window at the bottom of the steps. The Shadow took it as his objective.
Gloved hands raised the sash. The Shadow’s tall form passed through the opened window. Strong fingers gripped an ornamental stone above the window. A long arm was thrust higher; it clutched the base of the cornice.
Clinging with one sure hand, The Shadow swung over space. His free hand joined the gripping one. Both held the base of the cornice. The Shadow’s body moved upward. A rising hand pressed powerful fingers against the top of the cornice.
Both hands gained this objective. The Shadow’s body reached the base. It rested firmly there; a freed hand reached beneath the black, enshrouding cloak.
That hand produced an automatic. Gripping the weapon of vengeance, The Shadow raised hand and head above the walled cornice. Clinging to his precarious perch, he turned his keen eyes in searching gaze across the roof.
The Shadow was more than a dozen feet from the door which Cecil Armsbury was watching. The old man was hidden in the darkness of the opposite corner; but the whispered laugh which was almost inaudible told The Shadow’s divination.
The one spot which the villainous sponsor of the crime crypt could have chosen was that opposite corner. There, The Shadow knew, the fiend was waiting with his gun trained on the whitened door from the twelfth floor!
The Shadow raised head and shoulders. His automatic leveled. Here, at the front of the roof, the glow was behind him. His slouch hat and the upper portion of his cloak formed a spectral silhouette against the glowing sky.
A cry came from across the roof. Cecil Armsbury had spied The Shadow. Clinging to his vantage post, Armsbury shifted aim as he realized that the door could no longer be his target. With his cry, Armsbury fired.
THE blaze of the revolver showed the old man’s exact location. The bullet, though aimed in haste, was close. It clipped the brim of The Shadow’s tilted hat as it whistled past to space. Armsbury’s frantic finger was pressing for a second shot when The Shadow’s answer came.
The automatic barked. The Shadow’s aim was perfect. The flash of the crook’s revolver was all that he had needed. The leaden messenger found its target.
A second cry came from Cecil Armsbury. The old man’s clinging arm lost its hold. His revolver dangled, hanging from his trigger finger. It clattered to the roof. A wail came from Armsbury’s lips as the master of the crime crypt toppled backward.
Headlong over the cornice — thus did Cecil Armsbury plunge. Twelve stories downward to the courtyard behind the old hotel; Armsbury’s helpless body formed a circling, puppet figure as it dropped though darkness. It crashed upon the paving.
The Shadow crossed the roof. Peering from the rear cornice, his keen eyes distinguished the contorted form of the villain who had perished. Cecil Armsbury was dead; his motionless corpse was lying on the cement that covered the passage between Ridgelow Court and the crime crypt!
Crime from the crypt was ended. From the crypt had Cecil Armsbury fled. The Shadow, from the crypt, had blocked the monster’s path of flight.
Minions of crime had perished. Duke Larrin’s band of murderers and raiders were no more. Last to die had been the master schemer of the lot: Cecil Armsbury.
Weird laughter sounded its triumph from atop the old hotel. Its tones reached the roof of the old mansion where Cecil Armsbury had lived.
Chilling, penetrating mockery! Its echoes faded with eerie irony, as though creeping through the old secluded mansion that they might reach the crime crypt as a token of The Shadow’s victory!
(NOTE: Here is a description of the main characters in the story. They were placed throughout the story in the original pulp. They have now been placed at the end of the story, so as not to interrupt the flow of the narrative.)
Under the guise of adventurer, world-traveler, collector of various treasures, Cecil Armsbury has been successful in accomplishing a masterful plot of crookedness. The victims of his evil are not aware of his treachery — not yet. But there is a time for reckoning, and Cecil Armsbury plans for such a time.
From within his own home, he acts as the master mind of this vast plot. He foresees all contingencies; he realizes the difficulty of the task which he undertakes. But his evil mind is equal to all the situations, and his cunning sufficient to bring to him aides who carry out orders to the letter.
A master crook in his own right, Duke Larrin attempts to take advantage of another master crook — and there results the most deadly combination of wickedness possible. One is a schemer beyond reproach; the other is a crook of international reputation who is looking for new territory, new means of crime.