Justin Craybaw was glaring from the wall. He knew that The Shadow must have entered here to-day, to place the envelope in the safe. But his denial of The Shadow’s statements would have served him naught.
Instead of such procedure, Craybaw snarled his known guilt.
“Yes, I am The Harvester,” he sneered. “I disguised myself as others; so why not as myself? I let my men fake an abduction, so that Cuthbert would testify that it was genuine.
“I came back. I acted oddly for your benefit.” He glared from Sir Ernest to Sidney Lewsham. “I wanted you to believe afterward that I had been kidnapped on that trip to Hayward’s Heath. That an impostor had come here in my stead. Then this morning—”
“You made the mistake of shaving,” interposed The Shadow. “Odd that no one noticed it tonight.”
Cuthbert, in the corner, rubbed his stubbly chin and blurted a surprised cry. The others realized that they had missed a perfect clue. It was proof, in itself, of Craybaw’s ruse. His beard had not begun to grow during his supposed imprisonment.
“We know the rest,” snapped Lewsham, angered by his own slip of previous observation. “You went to your offices and behaved oddly there. You refused to sign a receipt; as you had refused to sign letters last night, when Hervey brought them to you.”
“All part of the game,” smiled The Shadow, “to build up your illusion that The Harvester must be some one other than Craybaw.”
“And you came out here with Delka and myself!” exclaimed Sir Ernest, facing Craybaw. “You had Hervey bring in the bag. In this study you transferred the money to the safe—”
“And put some form letters into the bag,” interposed The Shadow. “One bundle of them; after that, two bundles of pink blanks; then one of green, to add the final weight—”
He stopped. Craybaw was staring in astonishment. So was Sir Ernest.
“I chanced to be close by,” remarked The Shadow. “I came into the house and watched the operation from outside this door. You see, Sir Ernest, I was concerned about your money. That was why I took a walking trip to-day, so that I might make positive that Craybaw — if he gained the funds — would place the money here in the safe.”
Eric Delka, too, was staring. He realized, at last, that Lamont Cranston was the rescuer who had come out to the conservatory. He saw also that Justin Craybaw’s escape had been permitted by that rescuer.
Delka was right. Once Craybaw had deposited the money, The Shadow had preferred to let him flee.
Not only had that process exposed the full game, it had also assured Cuthbert’s safe release. For Craybaw needed the honest chauffeur as an alibi witness.
Moreover, it had given Scotland Yard a chance to deal with those ruffians who had occupied the cottage. Knowing the ways of Justin Craybaw, alias The Harvester, The Shadow had divined that he would sacrifice his last henchmen to the law.
MEN were moving from the study, at Sidney Lewsham’s order. All were to leave except those who represented the law. Delka had bundled up the money. He was coming along with Sir Ernest Jennup.
Justin Craybaw snarled a parting as he stood guarded.
“You’ll find the pigskin bag in the well behind the cottage,” he sneered. “Covered with a blanketing of stones, that we threw down after it.”
Delka grinned.
“Cheeky chap,” he remarked. “Bold to the finish.”
“Quite,” rejoined Sir Ernest.
Harry Vincent and others had followed; all were going to the living room. The Shadow did the same; but while the crowd was clustering about the money, he strolled through the doorway to the darkened conservatory.
From there, he saw the Rajah of Delapore, Lionel Selbrock and Jed Ranworthy, exchanging congratulations in the living room. Dawson Canonby was apologizing to the rajah. Thaddeus Blessingwood was helping Sir Ernest Jennup count the recovered bank notes.
In the darkness of the conservatory, The Shadow opened his knapsack. Laying it aside with the walking stick, he donned his cloak and slouch hat. Peering from darkness, he saw Sidney Lewsham and a squad of Scotland Yard men conducting Justin Craybaw out through the front hallway.
The Shadow waited; then stole softly forward, to the front door of the conservatory. From that vantage point, he heard voices about the cars out front. The Harvester was being thrust aboard an automobile.
Then came a snarl that only Justin Craybaw could have uttered. Shouts from the C.I.D. men; a high-pitched call from Craybaw as he scrambled free from captors. Before the Scotland Yard men could down him on the gravel, shots echoed from the trees past the house.
The Harvester had ordered reserves to be present here tonight. Thugs down from London, they were ready. As their guns flashed, they came charging forward. Scotland Yard men dropped to cover.
Massed foemen ripped to the attack.
The Shadow had drawn automatics. With pumping jabs, he opened a flank fire. Fierce shouts changed to wild yells as The Harvester’s crew received the fierce barrage. Figures tumbled to the turf, while others scattered.
Flashlights gleamed. Gaining their torches, ready with their guns, the C.I.D. men swooped upon the spreading crooks. Lewsham shouted orders. Two of his men — Turning and Burleigh — had grabbed Craybaw and were dragging him, writhing, into the house.
The law had gained the edge. Turning, The Shadow moved back through the conservatory. There, he heard a shout from the front hallway. Thudding sounds as overpowered men sprawled to the floor. Then, into the living room, came The Harvester.
With final frenzy, Craybaw had thrown off Burleigh, gaining the man’s gun. He had slugged Tunning.
Free, he was leaving the outside battle to his henchmen, while he dashed in, alone, upon the men in the living room.
DESPITE their number, The Harvester was not facing odds. Only one man was armed. That one was Eric Delka.
While others dropped for cover of chairs and tables, Delka whipped out his revolver. One hand against the table where the money was stacked, the Scotland Yard investigator was making a belated draw. The Harvester, gun already aiming, could have dropped him where he stood.
A laugh changed Craybaw’s aim. It came from within the door to the conservatory. Its fierce burst made The Harvester swing in that direction. Upon the threshold, Craybaw saw The Shadow. In a trice, the master crook recognized that this must be a guise of the supersleuth who had unmasked him.
The Shadow, too, was aiming. His cloaked shoulders dipped as he pressed the trigger of an automatic.
Craybaw, his hand moving, fired simultaneously. Tongues of flame stabbed across the room. A snarl came from Craybaw as his right hand drooped. A crash of glass resounded from beyond The Shadow.
The cloaked fighter had clipped The Harvester’s wrist. Craybaw’s bullet, singing past The Shadow’s shoulder, had ruined another pane of glass in the much-damaged conservatory.
Despite his wound, Craybaw rallied. Dropping back, he tried to aim again. Then, springing in his path came Eric Delka, snapping the trigger of his revolver. Flame thrusts withered the murderous Harvester, thanks to the bullets that issued with them. Delka, with other lives at stake, had taken no chances.
The Shadow, ready with new aim, could have dropped Craybaw but for Delka’s intervention. Wisely, he stayed his trigger finger when the Scotland Yard man blocked his path. From the doorway, he saw Delka stop short; then stoop above the caved body of Justin Craybaw.
The Harvester was dead.
Harry Vincent, first to stare toward the door to the conservatory, was the only one who caught a fleeting glimpse of a vanishing form in black. But others, wondering, heard the sound that followed — a strange, uncanny tone that crept in from the night.
Shots had ceased about the house — for the law had won the outside battle. The Harvester was dead; that sound, despite its taunting echoes, might have been a knell. It was a strident, eerie peal of mirth that rose to shivering crescendo, then faded as though passing into some sphere that was unearthly.