Whirling, Joe Cardona thrust a quick hand to Jodelle’s pocket. Before the investigator could stop him, the detective had snatched forth Jodelle’s revolver. It was a smaller weapon than the one Joe already held.
“A .32,” remarked Cardona. “So that’s what you carry, Jodelle? I thought a guy like you would pack a bigger rod. Where did you get this cap pistol?”
“That’s my gun!” put in Wally Wilking. “Look at the bottom of the handle. You’ll see my initials — W. W.”
“They’re here,” declared Cardona, turning to the police commissioner. “W. W. — like he said. This is Wilking’s gun. Take a look, commissioner.”
Holding the .32 by the barrel, Joe swung the handle toward the desk. It never reached the outstretched hand of Wainwright Barth. Gorton Jodelle shot his arm forward; with a quick grasp he snatched the revolver away from Joe Cardona.
Jodelle had grabbed the gun with his left hand. As he sprang for the door, he transferred the revolver to his right. He was not the only man on the move. Tobias Hildreth’s hand had been creeping toward his pocket. The portly millionaire leaped for the door along with the investigator.
REVOLVERS barked as the two men blazed at their central adversary— Joe Cardona. The sleuth was holding the gun that Jodelle had used to kill Dobey Blitz. Joe aimed with the weapon as he dropped for the cover of the library door. Markham, close beside him, was yanking his own gun.
Bullets whistled wildly. Commissioner Barth had dropped behind the desk. Dunwood Marrick and Wally Wilking went diving to a corner. Claire Hildreth was against the wall, just inside the room. The random shots were entirely between the fugitives and the detectives.
Hildreth reached the hall; Jodelle aimed fiercely as he loosed his fourth shot. The bullet hit an inch from Cardona’s ear. An instant later, Jodelle staggered as Cardona clipped him with a bullet. The investigator, though wounded, plunged after Hildreth.
As Cardona rose to follow in pursuit, a warning cry came from Markham. Joe wheeled along with the detective sergeant. Two men were springing in from the library: Lowdy, the butler and Kerry, the chauffeur. Both were armed with revolvers. The detectives opened fire. They grappled with these new henchmen of Tobias Hildreth.
It was Wainwright Barth who took up the pursuit alone. Dashing into the side hall, pulling a revolver as he ran, the bald-headed commissioner took up the chase. He reached the side door of the house. Hildreth and Jodelle were beyond. Barth flung himself upon the investigator.
Jodelle swung his gun. His fist, not the metal, caught Barth on the chin. The commissioner staggered, groggy. With a snarl, Jodelle aimed his gun to kill. A cry from Hildreth stopped him. The fugitive banker was at the step of a waiting car.
Jodelle wheeled. He saw Hildreth aiming for a figure on the fringe of darkness. A spectral form clad in black — a dread being of whom Jodelle had heard. Blazing eyes — looming automatics — these were the tokens of The Shadow.
Hildreth fired. His shot was wild, for his hand trembled. Snarling, Jodelle aimed with the .32. He pressed the trigger while the gun was on the move. The bullet whistled past the weaving form. Those shots ended opportunity.
Automatics flared as Hildreth tried to press his trigger. Jodelle’s hand also faltered. Tobias Hildreth, archfiend of crime, went tumbling to the cobbles. Gorton Jodelle, his chief lieutenant, toppled, rolled over and lay still.
Commissioner Barth had slumped to the ground. The shots had seemed distant to his dulled ears. When he came to his senses, Barth found Detective Joe Cardona standing over him.
“Good work, commissioner,” the detective was saying. “They’re both dead.”
He stooped to pick up Barth’s gun. Impelled by momentary curiosity, Joe cracked the weapon open. He stared as he saw its complete quota of unshot bullets. Barth, on his feet, was staring at the bodies. He was still half-dazed; he did not understand Cardona’s congratulation.
“You — you killed them!” stammered Barth. “Very commendable, Cardona! Commendable!”
Joe stared into the dark. He knew the truth. The Shadow. Joe had felt sure that the master fighter had been lurking near. Joe knew what The Shadow would want him to say.
“Had to drop them, commissioner,” remarked the detective. “They would have gotten away. But credit goes to you. If they hadn’t stopped to battle with you, I couldn’t have caught up. Come inside, commissioner. Markham and I knocked out those two servants of Hildreth’s. I’m itching to take the bracelets off Marrick and Wilking.”
LESS than an hour afterward, Commissioner Wainwright Barth arrived at the Cobalt Club to find Lamont Cranston. The commissioner was enthusiastic. He clapped the millionaire on the back.
“Do you know, Cranston,” said the commissioner, “you started something by those chance remarks of yours. Too bad you didn’t stay. Dunwood Marrick talked. He accused Tobias Hildreth. It was in the balance, don’t you know, when Gorton Jodelle brought up the murder of Dobey Blitz.
“Cardona was Johnny-on-the-spot. He turned the tables. Made Jodelle the murderer — not Wilking. Then Hildreth and Jodelle tried to run for it. I delayed them. Cardona shot them.”
A smile showed on Lamont Cranston’s lips.
“What about the Garaucan bonds?” he questioned. “Did you find any in Hildreth’s safe?”
“I’ll say we did,” returned Barth. “Plenty of them. Good securities, also — ones on Hildreth’s lists. Stuff he had rifled from the trust funds and was holding. Imagine it, Cranston. The man wasn’t content with the millions that he had grasped. He had to stage that fake robbery to do the insurance company as well.
“But he had taken out all the bonds himself. Good as well as bad. He wouldn’t trust any of them to Dobey Blitz. He must have paid that fellow— through Jodelle — to steal a lot of trash. He and Jodelle must have been worried for fear Cardona would make Dobey talk. That’s why Jodelle paid a friendly visit to Blitz and killed him.”
“Thought I would wait until you came here,” remarked Cranston, as an aftermath to Barth’s statement. “I just learned good news. It will be in the newspapers to-morrow. A friend of mine, a reporter, called me up about it.”
“Something new on Hildreth?” questioned Barth, with a surprised look.
“Indirectly,” responded Cranston. “A cable from Garauca. Our friend, Weston, has arrested all the crooks left over from the Birafel regime. One of them was the representative who came here to New York: Marinez Corlaza.”
“My word! Do you think Weston’s life is safe?”
“Yes. A military junta has been formed under Colonel Daranga. He controls the army; Weston the National Police. Between them, they have quieted all factions.”
With a good-night to the commissioner, Lamont Cranston strolled from the Cobalt Club. The doorman bowed. A limousine drew up. Cranston stepped into his car.
“New Jersey, Stanley,” he said through the speaking tube.
The car rolled southward. The tiny glow of a cigarette in the back seat was indication that the lone passenger was deep in meditation. All was silent, until the soft tones of a whispered laugh crept through the confines of the luxurious limousine.
That laugh was an echo; yet it bore a strange note, heard only by the personage who uttered it. The tones of mirth had a peculiar mocking sound: one that seemed to speak of the past, more than of the future.
Sinister, chilling and subdued in its tone of victory, the laugh faded into nothingness. It carried the satisfaction that its author reserved for nights such as to-night — when the end of a trail had spelled doom to men of crime; when justice had been brought to those who deserved such due.
It was the triumph laugh of The Shadow.