The door was swinging open. Woodling, returning with reports of failure, had heard the tones of The Shadow’s voice. Hoping to deliver a surprise attack, he was entering by stealth. Ganford Dagron had spied the movement of the door; he was seeking to hold The Shadow’s attention.
The instant that The Shadow wheeled, Woodling, peering from the side of the door, came upward with a gun. His hurried finger pressed the trigger of the revolver just as The Shadow fired with the automatic.
Woodling’s bullet whistled past The Shadow’s shoulder. The shot from the automatic, however, was loosed with sure delivery. It found its mark in Woodling’s body. With a frenzied scream, the servant sprawled forward and rolled writhing on the floor.
Ganford Dagron shrilled an order. Henley, bounding forward, yanked a gun to cover The Shadow. Before the secretary could loose his shot, The Shadow’s turning automatic barked its interruption.
Henley staggered. He dropped his revolver. He gasped as he clutched his chest. Then, like Woodling, Henley rolled upon the floor. The second of The Crime Master’s aids had felt The Shadow’s wrath.
Had Ganford Dagron joined in the fire, he might have gained belated triumph. Though prompt, The Shadow’s shots had required an interval for action. The Crime Master was drawing a revolver at the moment of The Shadow’s second shot; but he was inspired by a double purpose.
Dagron was springing backward. He timed the raising of his right hand — with its weapon — to a clawing motion with his left, as the latter clicked an ornament upon the wall.
A panel shot upward behind Dagron’s retreating form; with the way to escape opened, the fiend pressed finger to the trigger of his revolver. The Shadow was already turning. As Dagron fired, the cloaked form slumped suddenly to the floor.
The action was timed to Dagron’s shot. The old man’s bullet grazed The Shadow’s shifting shoulder. It did not stop the completion of The Shadow’s aim. The automatic spoke before The Crime Master could fire again.
THE SHADOW’S form rose slowly upward. In the same tempo, Dagron’s body slumped. The revolver rattled from the old man’s hand. Clutching claws failed to break the fall. They only turned the drooping body so it rolled face upward.
Cliff Marsland was trying to gain his feet. The shots had aroused him from his lethargy. He saw The Shadow standing by the checkered table. He saw a gloved hand dip into a box. He heard The Shadow’s laugh as something clicked upon the square-marked glass.
The Shadow turned. He viewed Commissioner Weston, still groggy. He saw Cliff’s feeble efforts to leave his chair. With a sweep of his arm, The Shadow raised his weakened agent. As Cliff stumbled forward, The Shadow led him through the opening that Ganford Dagron had gained in the wall.
A throbbing, outlandish laugh broke through The Crime Master’s lair. It rose to a pitch of strident mockery. Sardonic echoes answered. The Shadow’s triumph! Weston, aroused by that ghoulish cry, came to his startled senses.
The panel closed with a click. Weston stared as he heard the sound. Then came muffled shouts — the tramp of feet — Inspector Klein, at the head of four detectives, came bursting into the room through the outer door.
The commissioner was raised to his feet. Bewildered, he shook his head as Klein made inquiry. Ralph Weston could not recollect what had happened. He could only point to the floor — to the body of Ganford Dagron.
“The Crime Master?” exclaimed Klein.
Weston nodded. His eyes turned toward the board. They remained there, transfixed by the object that they saw. Upon the board rested a single piece — one that had replaced all others — a man of jet black color.
Dazedly, Weston saw the symbolism of that single block of wood. Out of the chaos in his mind, he realized who had gained the final triumph that had spelled The Crime Master’s doom.
The Shadow was the victor. Master of vengeance had conquered Master of Crime.