“IT is obvious that three men — Selbrig, Blissip, and Cooperdale — were murdered by the design of one man. He was the man in the taxicab; the man who visited the Hotel Goliath; the man who went to Cooperdale’s home.
“Mullrick, in attempting to accuse me, only renders his situation more hopeless. He had reason to murder these three men. He bases his alibis on the testimony of Jerry Herston, who is now dead. There is only one possible way for him to prove his innocence.”
“Which is?” questioned Cardona.
“To produce,” declared Gershawl, “a person who will admit that he was the one who wore the gray fedora; a person who can prove that fact; one who is willing to face the charge of murder in Mullrick’s own place!”
Gershawl’s voice was triumphant. He stared with a smile upon his lips. Then, in a firm tone, he added:
“Mullrick can never perform the task required of him. He, himself, is the murderer. He dares not admit that he was present at the deaths of Selbrig, Blissip, and Cooperdale. There is no living being who would make the admission in Mullrick’s place. No one will ever admit himself to be the person who wore the gray fedora!”
As Gershawl’s tones ended, a sudden hush fell upon the gathered throng. It was like the hush of strange doom. Upon it came the eerie tones of a sinister, mocking laugh that broke like a wave of mighty mockery.
All eyes turned toward the doorway. Donald Gershawl stood transfixed, in the middle of a turn. Joe Cardona sat as rigid as a statue. Harland Mullrick stared with blurred eyes. The two servants who guarded him did not budge a muscle.
There, within the open portal, stood a terrifying form in black. A cloak of sable hue enshrouded the visitant’s body. The upturned collar of the cloak; the broad brim of a black slouch hat; these hid all save a pair of fiery eyes that flashed with commanding light. Black-gloved fists held huge automatics, which covered every man within the room.
Joe Cardona was the only one who recognized the weird master the instant that he saw him. Cardona had seen The Shadow before, but never so amazingly revealed as this. From the detective’s gasping lips came the startled cry of recognition:
“The Shadow!”
CHAPTER XX
THE GRAY FEDORA
IT was a full minute before The Shadow spoke. During that period of tenseness, every witness of the strange being’s presence trembled. Backed by his powerful weapons, The Shadow constituted a weird figure that seemed something more than human.
When words came from The Shadow’s hidden lips, they were the hissing throbs of a sinister sneer — a voice so sepulchral that it added to the eerie presence and brought new shudders to all who heard it.
“It has been said,” whispered The Shadow, in his sardonic tone, “that no living being would dare admit himself to be the one who concerned himself with the deaths of Roy Selbrig, Burton Blissip, and Sidney Cooperdale.”
The names were pronounced with a scornful touch that foretold an amazing revelation yet to come.
“There is one who enjoyed the privilege,” resumed The Shadow in a mocking voice, “of ensnaring those three in traps of death. You are staring at him now. The Shadow!”
Joe Cardona’s notebook dropped from his hand. The detective gazed in dumbfounded wonder. The Shadow laughed.
“My statements,” he hissed, “need not go on record. They stand upon their own truth. I am the one whom you seek; but I am not the murderer of the three whom you call victims. They died from their own vile schemes!”
Joe Cardona waited tensely for the next words. Harland Mullrick stared in amazement. Donald Gershawl’s face twitched; his hands, however, remained as though paralyzed.
“Four men,” pronounced The Shadow, “were banded to deal death. Through their gangster minion — Slugs Raffney — they disposed of Luis Santo. He was a man who had betrayed a trust. Luis Santo sold out to the four whose names he gave to Harland Mullrick!”
The Shadow paused. Instead of words, he emitted a sardonic laugh which turned to a gibing burst of reverberating merriment. The walls of the room echoed The Shadow’s taunts.
“Roy Selbrig was the first appointed,” sneered The Shadow. “He was to lead Harland Mullrick to his doom. It was I — disguised as Mullrick — who met him at the Club Galaxy.
“He gave me a doped cigarette” — The Shadow’s voice turned to a momentary laugh — “which I returned to him without his knowledge. It was I who left that cab. Slugs Raffney was there to slay the man who remained. Thus” — The Shadow’s tone denoted scorn — “did Roy Selbrig, potential murderer, die!”
DONALD GERSHAWL’S face was ashen. His very countenance proved the truth of The Shadow’s words, so far as Roy Selbrig’s intentions were concerned.
Again, The Shadow spoke. His voice held a peculiar echo that made its sound a weird monotone, unlike the utterance of any human throat.
“Burton Blissip was the second appointed,” resumed The Shadow. “He had a map of Mexico. He had pins for it. It was I — disguised as Mullrick — who visited him at his hotel. A certain pin was resting upon the spot marked Metatitos. I removed it — unwatched by Blissip — to the point designated Guadalajara. Blissip pressed that pin head of his own volition. Thus” — The Shadow paused — “did Burton Blissip, potential murderer, die!”
Joe Cardona was as rigid and expressionless as any judge who ever held court. Harland Mullrick was staring with eyes opened wide in hope. Donald Gershawl was trembling.
“Sidney Cooperdale,” revealed The Shadow, “was the third appointed. He sent himself a cane — a Penang lawyer. It contained a snake — a naja haje. His servant placed it in his curio room. Cooperdale removed the head of the cane and closed the door.
“It was I — disguised as Mullrick — who arrived. I entered the door on the right — not the door on the left. I opened the door between the bedroom and the curio room. The snake hissed. I departed by the same way that I had come.
“Sidney Cooperdale returned. He entered his bedroom. The snake was waiting. Thus” — again the pause — “did Sidney Cooperdale, potential murderer, die!”
The Shadow’s eyes were burning toward Donald Gershawl. The financier was slumping; yet under that hypnotic stare, he seemed unable to fall.
“There is a fourth,” accused The Shadow, “who was self-appointed. He felt satisfaction when the others died. That left him alone to gain the wealth that the secret of the lost mines would bring.
“Though he knew Harland Mullrick to be innocent — for the others were the ones who plotted murder — he has sought to lay the crime on that one man. He has failed. It is not necessary to pronounce his name.”
The truth of The Shadow’s words was evident. Donald Gershawl was staggering. Backward, like a man in a daze, the guilty financier toppled toward the wall. His arms were outstretched. His fingers writhed feverishly against the paneling of the room. His eyes were staring straight ahead; from the side wall where he stood toward the windows opposite.
FREED from The Shadow’s gaze, Gershawl looked appealingly toward Joe Cardona. He saw that the detective was convinced of his guilt. He saw Harland Mullrick’s wild-eyed gaze. He saw his servants, cowed by The Shadow’s presence.
“The proof!” screamed Gershawl, turning toward The Shadow. “The proof! Prove that your statements are not lies—”
His voice broke as he heard The Shadow’s laugh. The Shadow’s right hand passed beneath the black cloak. The left, with its single automatic, remained as a sufficient threat. The right hand reappeared. It carried a shapeless object of gray.
“The proof,” sneered The Shadow, “is not for you, Donald Gershawl. It is for the man who was to be the victim of your evil plotting — whose wealth was to be shared by you and those who have died by their own devices. That Harland Mullrick may have the assurance of my words, I, The Shadow, present this proof!”