“This will cover more than I intend to purchase,” remarked Arberg. “I have plenty of money with me — and I always buy with cash. Always, yess.”
The words came in well-pronounced English, which was just a trifle thick in tone. Before Sparkles could reply, Arberg thrust the roll back in his pocket and indicated the jewels with a sweep of his hand.
“There iss only one trouble, yess,” he asserted. “These gems have value, but there is something about them that I do not like. You understand, yess?”
Sparkles shook his head.
“They are not like a collection,” argued Arberg. “Not one bit, no. They are like many gems which might have been taken from here and there. Like stolen gems, you understand—”
Sparkles stared coldly at the physician. He felt ill at case as he met Arberg’s steady eyes. Sparkles did not like the old man’s expression.
“These jewels,” declared the crook, “are not stolen. I have collected them regardless of their history. Their value depends upon their own merits. I am sorry, Doctor Arberg, if they do not interest you.”
THE crook shifted in his chair. He was just about to glance toward the kitchen door when Arberg caught his eye with an odd gesture. Extending his left hand, the physician displayed a gleaming ring upon his third finger. Sparkles looked in wonder at a beautiful opal which glimmered with ever-changing hues.
“This stone,” remarked Arberg, “iss my favorite. See it — a rare girasol. Once it belonged to the Russian czar who—”
Sparkles Lorskin was staring at the gem. Its glow, changing from maroon to mauve, was fascinating. Sparkles did not notice Arberg’s right hand, which rested beneath the old man’s coat. The crook, thinking this the perfect opportunity, signaled with his fingers.
Without moving his head, he peered upward to see Mitts Cordy stealing through the door, revolver in hand. His gaze went back to the girasol.
It was then that Doctor Arberg acted in a most surprising manner. The old physician’s keen eyes had seen Lorskin’s signal. They saw the crook’s gaze turn downward. Arberg’s right hand came from beneath his coat, carrying an automatic. At the same time, his left hand shot for Lorskin’s arm.
From a forward position, the white-bearded man snapped backward and upward. With incredible strength, he yanked Sparkles Lorskin’s long, light frame from the chair. As the crook shot sprawling across the table, Arberg’s right arm extended as a rigid bar upon which Sparkles fell.
With a mighty twist of his body, the amazing old man swept his arm on a long arc, and sent the crook hurtling across the room directly toward the spot where Mitts Cordy stood.
The whole maneuver was an amazing one. A jujutsu thrust, which depended upon strength as well as skill, it brought the fierce old man face to face with Mitts Cordy and the quartet of invaders.
The bitter tones of a mocking laugh burst from Arberg’s beard. That blast of merriment betokened the true identity of the visitor. This was not Johan Arberg, a frail old man. This being who had sprung into action was The Shadow — the enemy whom all the hordes of gangdom feared!
AT times, the very appearance of The Shadow was sufficient to cow the most hardened mobster. But when action occurred, the instinct of self-preservation was sufficient to bring a counterthrust. In this crisis, Mitts Cordy acted with all the venom that was in his nature.
The gang leader had already covered the white-bearded visitor. As Lorskin’s body came through the air; as The Shadow whirled and emitted his identifying laugh, Mitts Cordy fired. Quick with the trigger, he accomplished the rare feat of beating The Shadow to the first shot.
With his quickness of action, however, Mitts was forced to change his aim. The gang leader, in side-stepping Sparkles Lorskin’s body, had turned the muzzle of his revolver from the white-bearded man. It was during the quick return swing that Mitts loosed his shot.
The Shadow, in his unfamiliar white-bearded garb, was still in motion. Mitts Cordy’s bullet whistled past The Shadow’s shoulder. The gang leader pressed his finger to the trigger for the second shot. It never came.
The Shadow’s automatic delivered its explosion. Momentarily delayed for perfect aim, the shot reached its mark. A hideous look appeared upon Mitts Cordy’s face. The gang leader crumpled. The revolver dropped from his right hand. Clasping both hands to his breast, Mitts sprawled forward upon Sparkles Lorskin, then rolled sidewise and lay flat upon his back.
The eyes of The Shadow did not follow the gang leader’s demise. Even while Mitts Cordy’s gun was dropping to the floor, the master fighter opened a swift attack upon the mobsters who stood beyond the door.
Mitts Cordy’s fall had cleared the way for action. Ready revolvers were coming up. Trigger fingers were in action. But The Shadow, who had cleared the path for this new fray, was a fighter who dealt in split seconds. Into the massed quartet before him, he opened a leaden hail from his powerful automatic.
The roars of the .45 resounded with thunderous repetition. Three shots went forth from that mighty weapon ere a single revolver responded.
The first answering report came from a staggering mobster. The man’s bullet went wide. The second bullet was dispatched by the rearmost gangster, who fired hastily as he turned to dive for shelter. The gunman failed to reach his mark. He screamed, an instant later, as The Shadow delivered a shot that winged his shoulder.
Of the four mobsters, one had fled, wounded, for the window which was out of The Shadow’s range. Another, also wounded, managed to scramble to his feet and hurry for the same point of safety. The Shadow’s laugh followed the fleeing crooks.
The other two mobsmen lay upon the floor. One did not stir; the second, however, showed a sudden sign of life. He writhed, propped himself upon elbow, and leveled a revolver toward The Shadow. The mobster’s lips, twisted in dying pain, phrased venomous oaths.
Calmly, The Shadow covered the man with his automatic; but did not fire. A shot proved unnecessary. The gangster’s curses died; his leaning form collapsed before he could attempt a shot. He had succumbed to a mortal wound.
Shots came from the direction of the kitchen. One mobster was firing from the window. Answering reports from below; a shriek betokened the fall of a dying mobster from the window. The Shadow’s sinister laugh was repeated.
The Shadow knew the source of those outside shots. His agent, Cliff Marsland, who had been previously watching the activities of Mitts Cordy’s gang, had come below to cut off retreat. That was the reason why The Shadow had allowed the two crippled mobsters to flee.
UPON the floor, Sparkles Lorskin lay unconscious. The crook had not recovered from the terrific jolt which he had received. The Shadow, still in his bewhiskered impersonation of Doctor Johan Arberg, laughed again as he saw that Sparkles had witnessed no part of the gun fray.
Suddenly, The Shadow swung upward. Dashing from the kitchen came the last of the mobsters. Choosing the door instead of the window, where darkness lurked below, the wounded ruffian sought to wrest victory from The Shadow.
With a cry of rage, the mobster hurtled forward, aiming his revolver directly into the white-bearded face that he knew masked the visage of The Shadow. Up came the automatic. Its final roar resounded. The gangster plunged forward, his trigger finger jerking spasmodically. Two hopeless bullets pierced the floor.
The last of the mob lay dead.
In the room which now became strangely silent, The Shadow gave a whispered laugh. It was a grim paean of triumph, the final note to the swift and scattered struggle.