Beneath the hat brim were two burning eyes. Their fierce glare held a menace. From two hands incased in gloves of black projected mammoth automatics with tunneled muzzles trained upon the trapped fiends who shrank before them.
“The Shadow!”
The gasp of recognition came from Bugs Ritler. The gang leader had seen the destructive power of this mighty fighter, the night that Lito Carraza had been saved from death upon the Virginia speedway.
Then, The Shadow had met armed mobsters and had stilled their fire with slaughtering lead from his automatics. Now, The Shadow had come upon a group that was expectant of no danger.
Fiends sat helpless as The Shadow swept into the room. Circling toward the empty chair at the side of Rochelle’s desk, The Shadow kept his guns trained on his clustered foemen. The mobsters who guarded the prisoners, feared to move.
Each villain who viewed the muzzles of The Shadow’s automatics, thought that both guns were directed fully upon him. The black cloak swished; its crimson lining showed momentarily as The Shadow paused, just past the huge globe of the world.
From this position, The Shadow covered everyone with the exception of Darvin Rochelle. Yet the master plotter was afraid to make a move. Rising, he had gripped the desk with his left hand while he held his cane clutched in his right. Motionless as a statue, he stared toward The Shadow — so close that a quick swing of either automatic would mean prompt doom for the man with the limp.
“I have come,” hissed The Shadow, “to end your schemes. You have prisoners. Release them!”
The command was directed toward one of the mobsters. Cowering, the man stooped and, tugged at the cords which bound Vic Marquette.
“Stand up!”
The mobster ceased his work as he heard the sibilant command. With hands above his head, he stood against the wall. Vic Marquette, struggling free from his loosened bonds, looked toward The Shadow. He understood the order that showed in the glaring eyes. While helpless crooks watched, Vic released the cords that held Harry Vincent and Clyde Burke.
Three disarmed men were now at The Shadow’s call. Guns were available, for they could seize them from the crooks. But as they waited for The Shadow’s bidding, the sound of a creepy laugh made the released prisoners wait. Staring with the startled crooks, they heard The Shadow speak.
“You are awaiting Alvarez Menzone.” The Shadow’s words were directed toward Darvin Rochelle. “You might continue to wait him forever. Alvarez Menzone is dead. He died in Caracas in 1931. That, Rochelle, is why your records ended.
“Alvarez Menzone was a murderer. He died at my bidding. His death was unknown. I, The Shadow, knew his past. That was why I, The Shadow, chose to resurrect the personality of Alvarez Menzone to gain access to your schemes!”
The Shadow’s head moved upward. The folds of the cloak collar dropped away. The umbra from the hat brim vanished in the light. Darvin Rochelle stared aghast. The face which he and his minions were viewing was that of Alvarez Menzone!
THERE was no need for a further word. The truth had explained itself. Not once had The Shadow appeared while Alvarez Menzone was present. The briefcase which Menzone had carried — within its bulky interior had been more than mere papers. That portfolio had included the black garb of The Shadow!
Harry Vincent understood. When Menzone had returned to the apartment tonight, he must have come guised as The Shadow. There he had found Harry and Vic Marquette planning the capture of Alvarez Menzone. The Shadow had departed. Returning, as Menzone, he had easily trapped the trappers!
Vic Marquette understood. He realized that The Shadow, guised as Alvarez Menzone, had deliberately roused his suspicions to draw Vic on the trail of the plotters with whom The Shadow — as Menzone — had formed contact.
The capture of Harry Vincent and Vic Marquette had been essential, once they had pried into the affairs of Alvarez Menzone. So had Clyde Burke, spying on Whistler Ingliss, been taken prisoner while The Shadow stood by.
The Shadow, knowing that he would be present, had no fears for the safety of the prisoners. But he had not been willing to risk any step that might have caused Darvin Rochelle to postpone the meeting at which all the crooks were due.
Darvin Rochelle understood. As Alvarez Menzone, The Shadow had walked by the downstairs servants, unmolested. Briefcase in hand, he had donned his black raiment in the anteroom.
But there was another question that lay unanswered in Rochelle’s startled brain. As though divining it, The Shadow answered — not by word, but by action.
While his right hand automatic covered the crooks, his left arm rose to sweep the fold of the cloak collar about the false features of Alvarez Menzone. The left hand disappeared momentarily; it reappeared, carrying a white envelope with the automatic. The envelope dropped to the table.
“The stolen correspondence,” hissed The Shadow, “is within that envelope. The documents that Alvarez Menzone delivered were spurious. They will be rejected as false when they reach South America. Your schemes, Darvin Rochelle, have failed completely.”
Rochelle’s left hand, gripping the desk, twitched itchingly. The master plotter wanted to grasp that envelope. He feared to do so. He stared at The Shadow. He saw the burning eyes — the leveled automatics beneath. Close by, Rochelle observed that the eyes which the others thought were everywhere, were directed upon him alone!
With a dejected leer, Rochelle let the handle of his cane fall heavily upon the surface of the desk. Feigning fear, he stared toward those blazing eyes, which seemed to be looking through and past him.
All eyes were upon The Shadow. No one realized that Rochelle had given a signal. Before a single crook could utter a gasp; before one of the released prisoners saw the danger, Darvin Rochelle’s counterthrust had come.
The upper hemisphere of the huge globe had opened. Bobbing noiselessly from its interior was Thurk, the hideous dwarf. Poised, the monster was beginning his downward swing to drive his wicked, long-pointed knife toward the unprotected shoulders of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIX
THE STROKE OF DEATH
THE SHADOW’S body did not move. Beneath the descending knife of Thurk it remained a perfect goal for the blade. But The Shadow, his eyes still steady, performed a motion that was swifter than that of Thurk.
Although his back was toward the monster, The Shadow was ready. His right hand swung beneath his left arm. The right forefinger pressed the trigger of the automatic that it controlled. A burst of flame spat outward and upward, accompanied by the bark of the .45.
Thurk’s forward lunge ended as a wild scream came from the dwarf’s hideous lips. His ribs shattered, Thurk toppled backward in agony. His rebounding body thumped against the back-tilted top of the globe.
As the dwarf writhed, his weight upset the pedestal. Rolling from the opened, overturned globe, Thurk sprawled dead upon the rug beside the chair in which Croydon Herkimer had been slain.
The Shadow had met Rochelle’s counterthrust. He had trumped the master plotter’s buried ace. The laugh that came amid the echoes of the gunshot brought a dawn of understanding to Rochelle’s hate-racked brain.
The Shadow had spotted the huge globe as a death trap. His visits here, in the guise of Alvarez Menzone, had been accompanied by keen observation. Had The Shadow stood on the near side of the globe, close to the chair where Rochelle guided visitors, he would not have seen the rise of Thurk.
But the Shadow had chosen the far side of the globe. His gaze, toward Rochelle, had gone beyond: to the mahogany-framed mirror on the opposite side of the room. In that glass, The Shadow had eyed the huge globe. He had chosen the very angle of vision that he needed to keep Thurk’s hiding place in view.