Gaining his feet, Hurnor grabbed Frenchy’s revolver. Hurnor knew that the police investigation would uncover the wealth in stolen gems that lay within the opened vault. Caught with the goods, Hurnor swung to the door just as a policeman hurled the barrier open.
Hurnor fired. The excited shot went wide. The policeman responded. Hurnor fired again, but he was slumping. The bluecoat, pumping lead into the big target before him, had gained the edge in the fight. Hurnor’s spasmodic, dying shots were useless.
The Shadow had broken the jewel ring. He had dropped two enemies who had sought his life. He had left the third to meet the law. His hand remained unseen. By the cards, tonight should have ended The Shadow’s work.
CROSSING trails, however, had changed the story. While the police were studying the scene of death in the import office, The Shadow was studying the clue to other crime. A bluish light was burning in a black-walled room. Its rays, focused upon a table, showed hands that held torn sheets of paper.
The Shadow was in his sanctum — a hidden abode which he alone could enter. Before him, on the table, his hands placed the fragments of Lapone’s cable to Rio de Janeiro. The message read as follows:
GUYON, RIO:
DISCHARGE EXECUTIVE BEFORE REPRESENTATIVE ARRIVES.
LAPONE.
To The Shadow, this cable, apparently addressed to a concern in Rio de Janeiro, was the tip to crime. “Executive” meant some one to be eliminated; “representative” signified a person en route to Brazil.
The Shadow recalled words uttered by Duprez, in questioning Lapone. Frenchy had made it plain that the instructions were not for the man to whom the message had been sent — Guyon — but for another whom Frenchy had named.
Upon a blank sheet of paper, The Shadow inscribed the name that he had heard Frenchy mention; with that name, the address:
Warren Sigler
Hotel Nacional
Rio de Janeiro
A soft laugh whispered through the sanctum. The writing faded from the paper — a peculiar phenomenon due to the special ink that The Shadow used in transcribing written thoughts.
Hands stretched forward and gained earphones. A little light glowed on the wall. A quiet voice came over the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
In a weird, clear whisper, The Shadow began to speak. To Burbank, his contact agent, he was announcing his intended plans. Danger — joined with crime — lured The Shadow. He was responding to the beck.
The Shadow was setting out for Rio de Janeiro. On the morrow, a swift plane would be carrying him en voyage to the Brazilian capital. The master who hounded men of crime was ready to take the course that Edwin Berlett had already begun.
Twenty-four hours behind the corporation lawyer, The Shadow would be on the trail of crime! The Shadow had entered the field where insidious evil lurked.
CHAPTER III
THE LAST GASP
“I DID not expect you so soon, Mr. Berlett.”
The speaker was a crafty faced man who was seated in an armchair in the corner of a small but luxurious living room. He was looking toward Edwin Berlett who was standing by the curtained window.
The lawyer did not reply. He was staring from the window, out into the night. From this suite in the Hotel Nacional, he could view the brilliant lights of Rio de Janeiro. Beyond a balcony outside the window, he spied the long, curving twinkle of the crescent waterfront that seemed to dwindle endlessly in each direction.
“I supposed,” said the man in the chair, “that you were coming by boat. Mr. Curshing, when he sent his cable, announced that you were on your way. I did not expect you, Mr. Berlett, for a few days to come.”
“Quite right.” Berlett was terse as he swung from the window to face the man who was hunched in the chair. “I would have come by steamship, Sigler. It was Curshing who insisted that I come by plane. I thought that he would send a second cable. Evidently he decided it was unnecessary.”
There was a tinge of annoyance in Berlett’s tone. It brought a response from a third man who was seated in another corner. This man was a gray-haired Brazilian. He spoke in English, with barely a trace of Portuguese accent.
“It is well, Senhor Berlett,” he announced, “that you did come by air. The doctor does not think that Senhor Dilgin will live past midnight. His sudden illness is most unfortunate.”
“It is,” agreed Berlett. Then, swinging to Sigler, he ordered, brusquely: “Give me the exact circumstances.”
“The cable came from Curshing,” explained Sigler. “Mr. Dilgin had not been well; nevertheless, I showed him the message. I have been his secretary for seven years; I did not expect that so simple a cable could produce a shock.
“Mr. Dilgin began to worry. He said, sir, that the message meant trouble with the corporation. He wanted me to cable to New York. I restrained him, assuring him that you were on the way.”
“I see.”
“Mr. Dilgin called in the physician. The doctor seemed worried. Mr. Dilgin then insisted upon an attorney. That is why I summoned this gentleman” — he indicated the gray-haired Brazilian — “Senhor Dario.”
Berlett nodded. He again returned to the window. Staring out toward the crescent beach, he inquired:
“So you sent no cable to New York?”
“None, sir,” responded Sigler, with emphasis. “I went to the cable office; but merely to learn if other cables had come.”
“And you received no message outside of Curshing’s cable?”
“None, sir.”
“All right.” Berlett swung to Dario. “I have heard Sigler’s statement. Tell me your connection with the case, Senhor.”
BERLETT was looking squarely at Dario. The Brazilian was facing the American attorney. Warren Sigler relaxed. A slight smile showed on the secretary’s crafty face.
“Senhor Dilgin was very ill,” declared Dario, seriously. “I thought he wanted to make a will. He said no. He wanted to speak to you, he said, so that you could help his company.”
“Exactly,” returned Berlett. “That is why I have come here, Senhor. But since he wanted to talk to me, why did he send for you?”
“To have a witness,” explained Dario. “I handled some legal matters — of a slight sort — for Senhor Dilgin. He placed reliance in me.”
“I understand. Then you have, as yet, learned nothing?”
“Nothing. Up to last night, it was not alarming. But this morning, Senhor Dilgin became very bad. He has not been able to speak all day. We were sure that he would die.”
As Dario concluded, a door opened. A tall Brazilian, obviously the physician, came into view and looked toward Berlett. The lawyer returned a bushy gaze as he saw a smile upon the doctor’s lips.
“The patient has awakened!” exclaimed the physician, in English. “He has come from his coma. He can talk, Senhor. He has asked for you!”
The doctor held his hand upon the door knob, expecting Berlett to respond. The bushy-browed lawyer shook his head.
“Not yet, doctor,” he declared. “Let him recover his strength. He may have much to say.”
“No, no!” exclaimed the physician. “You do not understand, Senhor. The patient is not improved. He may die at any time. There is no chance for him” — the speaker paused with a sad shake of his head — “but it is possible that he will talk to you if you come quickly.”
“What do you think of it, Sigler?” inquired Berlett, turning to the secretary.
“I agree with you, Mr. Berlett,” returned Sigler. “Mr. Dilgin is apt to weaken when he sees you.”