The prisoners — Farrow and his henchmen — still stood with upraised arms. They had been ready to grab for revolvers, to aid in the futile fight that Hawkeye was ready to begin. Now they stood as helpless as before.
Most marked was the effect upon Hawkeye himself. With the first peals of that laugh, the keen crook quavered. His eyes bulged; his lips twisted. The revolver dropped from his shaking hand. It clattered upon the floor.
Hawkeye knew the author of that laugh. Like an echo from the past, the weird tones of The Shadow’s mirth had cowered the little crook.
WHILE his hidden lips were uttering the eerie mockery, The Shadow had swept into view from the door of the inner store room. His tall black form cast an ominous splotch across the floor — a broad streak of black that covered the mass of wealth in the center of the room.
His burning eyes brought terror to those who met them. His mighty automatics, one clutched in each black-gloved fist, were weapons that none dared defy. To every observer, it seemed as though a tunneled muzzle was gaping in his direction.
Hawkeye and his quickly drawn revolver were as nothing to the menace of this mighty figure whose shuddering laughter still persisted as ghoulish, dying echoes. Like a thing from the beyond, The Shadow had awakened unforgettable terror.
Motionless, The Shadow waited, amid grim silence. The atmosphere became more tense. The laugh came again, this time as a sinister whisper. Police Chief Kerr was standing dumbfounded; all others showed drawn, worried faces, with one exception.
That one was Slade Farrow. The ex-convict who had launched crime in Southfield was calmly waiting. He, of all those in this room, might most have dreaded The Shadow’s presence. Supercrooks had quailed at sight of the master from the night.
Yet Farrow’s face betrayed no fear, even as his eyes met the blazing orbs of The Shadow. Caught with the goods, trapped by the superfighter who battled crime with unrelenting fury, Slade Farrow was displaying amazing self-reserve.
The Shadow’s eyes turned squarely toward Police Chief Kerr. The Shadow had picked this official as the one to receive his order. A stern pronouncement came in The Shadow’s whisper — a sibilant tone that hissed:
“Let Slade Farrow speak!”
CHAPTER XXI
FRUITS OF CRIME
SLADE FARROW stepped from the wall. He dropped his arms and nodded quietly, as if thanking The Shadow for the opportunity that had been given him. To all others, including Police Chief Kerr, The Shadow’s automatics still were a potent threat. None dared move.
Farrow faced the police chief. He could see Norton Granger’s tense face beside Kerr’s. He observed Griff standing just within the door. No others appeared of consequence. Under protection of The Shadow’s guns, Slade Farrow spoke.
“You see the fruits of crime,” declared the ex-convict, swinging his hand toward the mass of wealth upon the packing cases and the floor. “My men were the ones who gained these spoils. They did their work under my order. Their purpose, however, was to reclaim — not to pilfer.
“I was an inmate of the state penitentiary until a few weeks ago. Presumably there as a convict, I was actually confined at my own request. I am a sociologist, and my life work has been to lead men away from ways of crime.
“These men” — Farrow was indicating those who had served him — “were once criminals. All had served their terms. Through confidence in me, they have gone straight. I summoned them to aid me in my work in Southfield, because there was no other way to gain the results that I required.”
Farrow paused. Chief Kerr and Norton Granger stared in amazement. Griff glowered. Sight of a looming automatic muzzle made the big man quail. The power of The Shadow still prevailed.
“My cellmate,” resumed Slade Farrow, “was Ferris Legrand. I learned his true story. I shall tell it now. Legrand was a friend of Wilbur Granger, Southfield’s most prominent attorney. One night, Wilbur Granger came to Ferris Legrand and gave him a green metal box.
“That box contained full evidence concerning the fraudulent activities of three men in Southfield. I shall name them. Townsend Rowling; Rutherford Blogg; Hiram Marker. Wilbur Granger had warned them to desist their evil practices. They had refused.
“All three had gained properties through false deeds. Wilbur Granger had obtained the originals. All three had dealt in crimes of greater order — even to murder — as in the case of Hiram Marker, who caused the death of his brother-in-law.
“The green box contained genuine papers to dispute fake documents. It held testimonies of dead men and living. Its contents were sufficient to put an end to the combined evil that Rowling, Blogg and Marker had committed in their greed for wealth.
“Wilbur Granger was fleeing town. He left Legrand’s home. Legrand, in turn, went directly to the railway trestle above the deep gorge. He hid the green box in the open end of a steel girder.
“Returning, he went to Wilbur Granger’s home. He had another duty to perform. It was his task to remove personal funds and belongings that Wilbur Granger had left; to keep them until his friend’s return. But Wilbur Granger was never to return.”
NORTON GRANGER’S face was firm. This reference to his father was rousing fury in his mind. He knew enough to piece the story. He understood the perfidy that lay beneath the smugness of the three men who were his clients: Rowling, Blogg and Marker.
“Wilbur Granger was murdered,” declared Farrow, solemnly. “He was slain shortly after he left Legrand’s. His body was discovered. Men went to his house. They surprised Ferris Legrand — not in the act of robbery, but while he was performing a duty to his friend. He was trapped in this very house. All that he had taken was restored to Norton Granger. Ferris Legrand was then sentenced to the penitentiary.
“Legrand was afraid to speak. He was awaiting his release. By regaining the green box, he could prove his innocence and lay crime upon the three evil men who ruled Southfield. Death intervened; but before Ferris Legrand died, he told his story to his only friend — myself.”
Another pause. Not a man stirred. The whispered laugh of The Shadow crept through the room. It was an ominous tone that held no mockery nor mercy. Those who heard it shuddered — all except Slade Farrow.
“I came to Southfield,” asserted the sociologist. “I recovered the green metal box. It was taken from me. I knew why — because suspicions had been aroused by my purchase of Ferris Legrand’s business.
“I remained here.” Farrow’s tone was firm. “I knew that the contents of that green box would be found in certain places. I brought former criminals to my aid. They did the work that I required. They raided Blogg’s; then Marker’s; and finally, they blew open Rowling’s own vault.
“They took all that they found. Such was my order. The wealth of those three men has all been stolen from those to whom it rightfully belonged. Furthermore, I decided to leave no clew. Yet Townsend Rowling feared. He sensed the purpose of the robberies. He wanted deputies to guard his bank.
“Here is the reason why.” Triumphantly, Farrow reached his hand into a packing case and drew out a green metal box. “This was in Rowling’s vault. It contained some real deeds, and other documents, of which Blogg and Marker had the forgeries. Rowling gave the originals to his friends; he kept the false ones. He wanted to hold the whip hand. A crook at heart, he could not trust others of his kind.
“Other proofs are here — some, even, that can incriminate Rowling himself. But the irony is yet to come. In this box, Rowling placed other documents which he had in his vault. He trusted no one — not even those who served him.
“I have completed my examination of these papers. Among them is a signed statement, evidently obtained by Townsend Rowling, from the man who was the murderer of Wilbur Granger. The murderer was paid for his work; his confession was his receipt.”