Swinging across the room, Jim Clausey fired at Slugs Raffney, and missed. He paused for more certain aim. He had the bead on Raffney this time, but the unexpected surged against him.
Pascual, scarcely understanding, realized only that Jim Clausey was an enemy. The man had come here to seize his master. Clausey, first, had shot Jerry Herston. Senor Herston — Harland Mullrick’s friend.
Springing as he drew his machete, Pascual buried the wicked knife to the hilt in Clausey’s back. The detective staggered. His final shot at Slugs Raffney was futile. Seeing the knife blade deep in his enemy’s back, Slugs waited no longer. He turned and hastened from the apartment.
On the street, things were strangely quiet. Evidently the noise of the firing had not been plain. Slugs Raffney piled into his car and growled an order to the man at the wheel. As the automobile — a sedan — pulled away, a coupe started in pursuit. Harry Vincent had heard the shots dimly. He was taking up the trail.
“Get that guy that’s after us!” snarled Slugs, looking backward.
A fusillade was the result. Slugs Raffney joined in the outbreak. The coupe swerved, and ran up on the sidewalk. It stopped against a wall. Harry Vincent had been too prompt in his pursuit; he had, however, used his intuition when he had seen the gangsters lean from the sedan to fire. The Shadow’s agent lay unscathed, behind the wheel of the coupe. His chase, though, was finished.
IN Apartment 4H, Jim Clausey was crawling pitifully along the floor. Pascual was watching him, with the expression of a faithful mastiff that had slain a trespassing beast. The Mexican had done the duty that he believed he owed to Harland Mullrick.
Jerry Herston lay dead. The shots from Slugs Raffney’s revolver had ended the ex-detective’s picturesque career. Clausey did not seem to see Herston’s body. He was looking for his revolver. Pascual had kicked it underneath the big table. Clausey tried to creep to the telephone.
The detective had dropped the receiver on the hook at the abrupt finish of his conversation with Joe Cardona. The movement had been quite automatic; the sudden finish of the talk might well have been regarded as natural by Joe Cardona.
Clausey wanted to resume that connection. He crawled on, despite the fact that he carried a knife blade in his back, and that his blood was issuing forth upon the carpet in spurting drops.
The telephone began to ring. Pascual stood motionless. Clausey tried to reach the instrument. He collapsed and lay coughing. Pascual suddenly sprang to the telephone and raised the receiver. His face gleamed as he recognized Mullrick’s voice.
“Do not come here, senor,” warned the Mexican, in his jargon of mixed lingo. “Senor Herston — he is dead… I, Pascual, must flee… Si, senor… The police; they are coming…”
A pause. Pascual was listening to hasty instructions over the wire. When the servant replied, his words were uttered in a tone of faithful assurance.
“I shall destroy it, senor,” said Pascual. “I shall leave here to meet you afterward. Adios.”
The Mexican turned to the large table. He stepped over the huddled body of Jim Clausey. The detective, unable to reach the telephone, had tried to crawl in the opposite direction. Pascual pounced upon the big volume which related to the conquest of the Aztecs.
Harland Mullrick had made a most fortunate telephone call. Anxious to learn if Jerry Herston had returned to the apartment, he had made the connection just in time to give important orders to Pascual. He had told the servant to destroy the list that was in the volume of Aztec lore.
As he lifted the huge book, Pascual was momentarily forgetful of Detective Jim Clausey. He did not see the wounded man’s reviving motion.
Stretching forth his right hand, Clausey had managed to regain his lost gun. With a final effort, the sleuth tried to rise. He reached his knees; then, as he weakened, he made a sudden clutch at Pascual with his left hand.
The scene was a grim one. Pascual, holding the book half open, turned to view Clausey with a malignant glare. The detective, the knife still protruding from between his shoulders, was staring up toward the Mexican with a determined look.
Clausey had caught hold of Pascual’s belt. With a snarl, the servant leaped away. As he saw the detective wavering with the gun, Pascual raised his arms to hurl the huge book at his antagonist’s head.
The same instant, Clausey fired. Weakened though the detective was, he managed to find his mark. A bullet entered Pascual’s body.
As the Mexican staggered, Clausey fired again. With a scream, Pascual toppled. The book, hurtling from his hand, missed Clausey’s head, but struck against the detective’s shoulder. Clausey’s unsteady body sprawled upon the floor.
Gasping, the detective viewed the form of Harland Mullrick’s servant. Pascual, dying, was incapable of motion. Clausey, having finished the man who had stabbed him, gave a nervy grin. His misty eyes saw the large book that had struck his shoulder. They also observed a folded sheet of paper on the floor.
Prone, Clausey stretched his arms. He picked up the paper and unfolded it. He clutched its edges between his tightened fists as he tried to read the names he saw upon the paper. A spasm overcame him.
Still clutching the sheet which had fallen from the Aztec volume, Jim Clausey gave a coughing gasp as his head plopped to the floor.
JERRY HERSTON was dead. So was Pascual. Only a few minutes of life remained to Jim Clausey. To all appearances, the detective was dead also. The room of tragedy was silent. Something swished just within the door.
The Shadow, his burning eyes upon the scene, was viewing the slaughter. The black-garbed phantom had arrived in answer to Burbank’s call. The grim events within this room had taken place in a short succession of dramatic minutes.
With long strides, The Shadow reached Jim Clausey’s side. The detective turned his head. He sensed that someone was beside him. He gasped out what little he could say.
“Slugs — Raffney” — Clausey’s words were chokes — “got — away. This — this — paper—”
The Shadow reached for the sheet between Clausey’s hands. The detective’s fierce grip did not relax. On the spread-out paper, however, The Shadow read the list of names. His grim laugh sounded as he saw the one that was as yet uncrossed: the name of Donald Gershawl. His keen eyes saw the book upon the floor. The Shadow knew whence the paper had come.
With a sudden sweep, The Shadow rose from the floor. He could hear footsteps in the hall. Other men were coming. It was time for him to leave.
His long paces carried him to the window beside the telephone. The sash moved upward. Out into the darkness that had replaced the dusk went the tall figure of The Shadow.
The sash had just descended when Joe Cardona burst into the room. The sleuth’s first thought was for his dying comrade, Jim Clausey. Joe reached the other detective’s side.
“Jim!” he exclaimed. “This is Joe Cardona! Tell me, Jim — who got you—”
Blindly, Jim Clausey thought that Cardona was the one who had been here before. He repeated words that he had uttered to The Shadow. They were weakened gasps — barely audible.
“Slugs — Raffney,” was Clausey’s dying statement. “He — got — away. This — paper — from — from the book. Get — Mullrick; Harland Mull—”
The voice broke.
“Merk,” gasped Clausey. “Merk—”
That was all. Jim Clausey lay dead.
Cardona caught the fluttering paper as the numbed fingers relaxed. Mullrick was the name of the man who lived here. Mullrick — Merk -
Clausey, like Burton Blissip, had tried to pronounce the name with a final gasp.
Other detectives were in the room. Cardona turned to a steady-faced man: Detective Sergeant Markham. He ordered him to take charge of the bodies. Then Cardona studied the paper. His eyes lighted.