“Open the vault, Hurnor,” ordered the man who had gone to the windows.
“All right, Frenchy,” replied the other, in a cautious tone. He strode across the room, turned the combination and drew back the heavy door. He paused, with hand upon the inner gate.
“Ready?” he asked.
“No,” returned “Frenchy.” “Just wanted to make sure your vault was locked. We’ll wait for Lapone.”
The interior of the vault was blackened, hence The Shadow was invisible to the men in the office. They, however, were plainly in view to The Shadow. Keen eyes that stared from beneath the hat brim were studying the waiting men.
One, a bald-headed man of portly build; was Cyrus Hurnor, who owned the International Import Company. The other was Frenchy Duprez, a crook known in Europe as well as America; a man who had cunningly evaded the law by scampering from one continent to the other when places became too hot for him.
“Worried, Hurnor?” Frenchy laughed in grating tone. “You don’t need to be. Lapone and I have been behaving. We’re supposed to be has-beens so far as crooked work is concerned.”
“But both of you were in wrong—”
“A year ago. They thought we had a lot of stolen rocks on us. That’s when we unloaded the swag to you for safe keeping. Don’t worry about Lapone and me. We’re ace high right now. I’ve got a clean bill of health in Europe; he has the same in South America. We’re going back where we belong. You’ll get your cut when we fence the stuff. It’s cold now — those jewels have been forgotten in a year.”
Hurnor nodded. His doubts were fading. His face, however, showed one last qualm.
“But you come here at night,” he protested. “That means that you think some one may know—”
“I’m taking no chances,” interposed Frenchy, “and neither is Lapone. I don’t think any one is on my trail; neither does Lapone. I called him at noon to-day.”
“Was that necessary? I thought you arranged this meeting last night.”
“We did. I called Lapone on another matter—”
A soft tap was sounding at the outer door. Hurnor shivered. Frenchy smiled and nodded.
“It’s Lapone,” he stated. “Let him in.”
HURNOR went to the door to admit a tall, dark-faced fellow who looked like a Spaniard. Lapone waved a greeting to Frenchy. With Hurnor, he approached the vault.
“I’ll open the gate,” said Hurnor, nervously. “Are you ready?”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Frenchy. Then, to Lapone: “Did you send that cable?”
“Sure,” grinned the dark-skinned man. “Here’s the copy of it.”
Frenchy took the paper. He nodded as he read the message; then tore the sheet in quarters and threw the pieces in the wastebasket.
“You’re sure your friend in Rio will understand it?” questioned Frenchy.
“Positive,” replied Lapone.
“He’ll be sure to find Warren Sigler?” came the next inquiry.
“Why not?” demanded Lapone. “You said Sigler’s at the Hotel Nacional. That’s the first place my friend will pick.”
“All right.”
“What’s this about?” The question came nervously from Hurnor. The fake importer wanted an explanation from Duprez. “I thought you fellows were keeping clear of complications. You weren’t to unload the swag yet—”
“Easy, Hurnor,” interposed Frenchy. “This has nothing to do with the jewels.”
“What is it then?”
“Lapone has contacts in South American cities. Friends, like I have in Europe. What’s more, we’ve both got friends in New York. This morning, I received a call from a man whom I know. He wanted a job done — an important one — down in Rio. It was something that he had anticipated. I had already told Lapone to notify his contact in Rio, should a message be going through. Well — the message came to me — I called Lapone and he sent it. That’s all.”
“But why didn’t this man send the message himself?”
“You were never cut out for real work, Hurnor,” returned Frenchy, sadly. “My friend did handle his own communications until this one was necessary. Then he wanted something that couldn’t be traced. He had a job, I tell you. A job to be done. That’s why the word was to be passed by Lapone.
“It’s got nothing to do with jewels. So keep your shirt on. Let’s get busy. Open that gate. Lapone and I will each take half of what’s inside.”
“We’ll let Hurnor make the division,” suggested Lapone.
“No need,” decided Frenchy. “We’ll get it fifty-fifty, in a rough way. In a hurry, too; there’ll be no time for argument.”
The gate had swung open under Hurnor’s pull. The portly man had pressed a light switch. His bulky form obscured the view of the others. Suddenly, Hurnor emitted a gasping cry. He came staggering backward from the lighted vault.
“Get him!” he screamed. “Get him! Quick!”
Frenchy and Lapone had thrust hands to pockets even before Hurnor shouted. As the stout man cleared the opening by his backward motion, both crooks aimed for the vault, knowing that an enemy must be within. As Hurnor’s words rang in their ears, they saw their rising foeman.
THE SHADOW was in the center of the vault. A blackened outline, his shape made a perfect silhouette target for the upcoming guns. Snarling vicious oaths, Frenchy and Lapone sought to fire.
One revolver spoke. It was Frenchy’s. The crook loosed his first shot too quickly. A bullet winged the side of the vault. Lapone, determined upon perfect aim, pressed finger to trigger a half second after Frenchy’s futile shot.
To The Shadow, half seconds were long intervals. Between Frenchy’s shot and Lapone’s attempt, The Shadow acted.
Long tongues of flame spat from his extended hands. The roars of twin automatics came cannonlike from the echoing hollow of the vault.
Lapone’s finger wavered. Frenchy lost his hold upon his gun. Side by side, these crooked pals went slumping to the floor. They had shared the spoils of crime in life. They had gained their reward — death — together.
Frenchy and Lapone had found the contents of the vault. They had split fifty-fifty, in a hurry, and in a rough way that they had not expected. Each, instead of stolen jewels, had received a hot bullet from an automatic.
It was Hurnor, roused by the shots, who provided the most startling opposition. Wildly, the false importer leaped forward as his companions fell. Lunging through the door of the vault he hurled his huge bulk upon The Shadow.
As Hurnor grappled for an automatic, his adversary whirled in his grip. Together, The Shadow and his bulky antagonist came spinning from the vault. Gloved fists opened. Automatics clattered to the floor. Hurnor screamed in triumph as The Shadow’s form sank beneath him.
Then came a wild gasp from the big man’s lips as the black-garbed form shot upward like a massive spring of steel. The Shadow’s hands gained their grip. Hurnor rose struggling toward the ceiling. His body did a cartwheel as snapping shoulders acted beneath the black cloak.
Landing flat on his back, Cyrus Hurnor lay stunned. He did not hear the ring of a distant alarm; the response of a whistle from the streets. But The Shadow heard. He knew that a watchman in the building had caught the sounds of the fray.
Whirling toward the wastebasket, The Shadow stooped and gained the pieces of the cable message. Yellowed paper disappeared beneath the black cloak. Swiftly, the black-clad figure, clearly outlined in the lighted office, moved toward the outer door.
THREE minutes passed. Cyrus Hurnor moved. He came up to a seated position and rubbed the back of his neck. He stared at the prone forms of Frenchy and Lapone. Footsteps were pounding along the corridor. Wildly, Hurnor looked about him. He saw that The Shadow was gone. These were human enemies who were arriving!