With a sickening gasp, the motionless dwarf toppled forward. Instinctively the monster spread its thin, horrible arms as death overtook it, body sprawled and writhing for a brief instant after it had fallen.
The Shadow’s arm dropped. The black cloak seemed to sway as though its wearer had been dumfounded. The Shadow, who had never known the emotion of surprise, was momentarily overcome by the hideous reality.
Not for an instant had he suspected that the metal monstrosity had been a freak of humanity. In the amazement of the moment, that tall, unyielding man forgot his surroundings, his mind completely fascinated by the sight of the ugly thing that he had unwittingly slain.
Palermo seized his opportunity. With three stupendous leaps, he fell upon The Shadow before the avenger had lost his astonishment.
The attack brought back the reality of the situation. Palermo had seized the barrel of the revolver. The Shadow still clutched the butt. Their free arms were locked. Together they staggered in the center of the room.
The physician was the first to yield. His sudden weakness brought no material advantage to his antagonist. Palermo simply allowed himself to be forced backward across the room.
The Shadow pushed him against a screen, which fell to the side. Palermo knocked against a table. The Shadow pressed the trigger of the automatic, as it was turning toward Palermo. The other man stopped the motion of the barrel and the bullet grazed his body.
Another shot followed. Again Palermo escaped.
“Help!” cried Palermo.
The Shadow saw the purpose of his opponent’s shout.
When Palermo had tipped the table, he had knocked a telephone from its place. The instrument, of French pattern, had fallen to the floor, with the receiver off the hook.
The revolver shots, the cry for help — all had been heard at the desk downstairs.
It was now a fight against time. Unless The Shadow could quickly overpower his antagonist, help would be at hand.
The odds seemed greatly in Palermo’s favor, but the criminal knew too well that he could not expect immediate aid. He, himself, had made it impossible for the elevator to rise above the thirty-ninth floor. He could only rely on Warwick’s keenness.
The detective might take the emergency measure of sending a man up the shaft on top of the elevator.
Even then it would take time to batter down the heavy door of the apartment.
Realizing this, Palermo displayed a sudden attack. He managed to wrest the automatic from his opponent’s grasp. Then the barrel eluded his fingers, and the gun fell to the floor.
Backward went The Shadow, while Hassan watched from the torture chair, his teeth clenched in hatred.
The Shadow staggered and fell to the floor. He came up again, still clutching his foe; but now his left arm had become limp.
The Shadow had weakened. He was fighting to hold his own. Palermo had the strength of a bull.
WITH raging force, Palermo virtually lifted The Shadow and bore him through the opening to the roof.
There The Shadow twisted free.
His hat was gone; now his cloak was torn from his shoulders in the grappling, but Palermo could not see his face in the darkness.
The physician was governed by one single purpose — to lift The Shadow bodily and carry him to the rail of the roof. He was succeeding, although the effort strained him to the utmost.
Now they had reached the parapet. The Shadow seemed weaker than before. Palermo pushed him to the rail. The Shadow clung desperately to the posts. He was over the rail now, still fighting.
Suddenly his efforts became tremendous. Palermo, leaning upon the rail and trying to force The Shadow downward, felt himself drawn over the edge.
Down below him gleamed the tiny lights of the street. The Shadow was almost conquered; but that sight of the depths below aroused in Palermo the one thought of self-preservation.
He was balanced on the parapet; he relaxed his hold upon his opponent in a sudden effort to gain a more secure position. Then The Shadow’s right arm shot upward through the air and caught Palermo by the neck.
It was the stroke that decided the struggle.
Palermo’s hands slipped from the rail. For an instant he was balanced on a fulcrum; then the leverage of The Shadow’s grasp toppled him outward.
Palermo’s hands struck the edge of the roof. They found no purchase there. Head foremost, the master of villainy shot forward into space.
He uttered a long, shrill cry of terror as he fell. It seemed to die away in the distance as he sped to his doom.
The Shadow watched as he clung feebly to the post beneath the parapet. He saw Palermo’s body grow smaller and smaller. He saw it turn twice as its speed increased. Then its downward course stopped with breath-taking suddenness.
From that point, high above the city, all that remained of Albert Palermo was a tiny, pitiful blotch of whiteness upon the sidewalk far below.
CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW DEPARTS
A BLACK-CLAD figure slowly entered the penthouse. Hassan recognized the form that seemed weary beneath its frayed cloak and shapeless hat. He knew that the distant cry he had heard had been the death shout of his master. The Shadow picked up the automatic. He looked at the dead form of Chong. Then he went to the chair in the corner and slowly unlocked the fetters that bound the Arab.
Hassan stepped free, as The Shadow walked away. Too well did the Arab know the threat of that automatic. He made no effort to attack The Shadow. He stood silently, awaiting orders. None came.
The Arab walked to the roof. The Shadow watched his white-clad form as it went to the parapet and looked over to the edge, seeking a view of the man who had gone.
Then, with deliberate precision, Hassan raised his body to the rail. His figure seemed strange and weird against the distant sky. Without further hesitation the faithful Arab leaped from the parapet.
His death had not been demanded, yet he had chosen to follow his master into oblivion.
A slight sigh came from The Shadow’s lips. It did not express regret for the Arab’s death. Hassan had murdered; like Palermo, he deserved his end.
It was the action of the Arab, his loyalty to his master in spite of the latter’s faults, that had brought that sigh from The Shadow.
It was the tribute of one brave man to another.
The Shadow went to the taboret. He emptied the ebony boxes. He quickly sorted the documents he found therein.
Palermo’s statement bad been correct. There was sufficient evidence in these papers to implicate the renegade physician in many crimes, once the documents had been turned over to the proper persons.
His inspection ended, The Shadow attempted to place the papers in his pocket. His left arm seemed to fail him. He used his right instead.
He rose to his feet and almost tottered. He caught himself as he stumbled over the dead form of Chong.
He looked for a place to rest, and staggered to Palermo’s Chinese throne. There The Shadow reclined, indifferent to what might transpire.
His conflict with Palermo had been a desperate one. He seemed to be completely exhausted by his efforts.
The sound of dull, crashing hammering came from below. The Shadow did not hear the distant noise. He still remained in that chair, a stranger figure than the man who had been wont to occupy it.
The distant hammering ceased. There was silence for several minutes. Then came new strokes, closer by.
They were at the foot of the circular staircase.
Wood splintered as the blows of an ax shattered the sliding panel. Footsteps rang on the stairway.
Excited voices were heard.
The Shadow suddenly raised his head. His lethargy was forgotten. He was himself again, his strength renewed. He was ready for action as he started to leave the throne. Then it was too late.