Again came the repeated rap. Thrusting the mining stock into his pocket, Darryat sidled to the door; there he gripped the knob with his left hand, while he still kept The Shadow covered with his gun.
“It shall have to be crudely done,” was Darryat’s final jeer. “By seizure, not by strategy. Those Scotland Yard men may be waiting for us. So we will coax them from their nests by starting a rampage. Too bad for you, Cranston; but murder is part of our game, when necessary—”
Darryat had turned the knob and was drawing the door inward. He moved back to admit The Harvester; and in that moment of confidence, Darryat let his right hand turn slightly. In a split-second, The Shadow’s languid resignment faded. He remained Cranston in appearance, only; not in action.
THE SHADOW’S long body shot forward with arrowlike rapidity. His left hand shot for Darryat’s right wrist. His right sped to a deep, inner left pocket of his dressing gown.
Darryat tried to leap away; to aim as he did so. He was too late. A viselike fist caught the scoundrel’s wrist. Darryat was whirled about like a helpless puppet.
The crook tugged at the trigger of his gun. His hand, twisted sidewise, no longer held its aim. Spurting flames spat toward the ceiling, where useless bullets found their only target. The Shadow, swinging clear about, had gained the center of the room. Darryat, twisted double by the jujutsu hold, was in his clutch, between The Shadow and the door.
The barrier had swung wide. There, upon the threshold was the figure of a bearded man, stooped no longer. The Harvester still had the facial guise of Sir Ernest Jennup; but be had dropped the pose of the banker whom he was impersonating.
Hissed oaths were coming from the lips that wore the false Vandyke. Savagely, with glaring eyes, the master crook was aiming a revolver of his own.
The Shadow, in turn, had whipped out an automatic with his right fist, while his left hand had hurled Darryat into many gyrations. Sidestepping across the floor with Darryat in front of him, The Shadow was leveling his .45 past the fake captain’s shoulder. Darryat was screaming with helpless rage.
The game was really up. Darryat’s shots had ended it. Those barks of his revolver had been heard; for shouts were coming from a stairway, far below. Through his hopeless thrust, Darryat had precipitated an immediate duel between The Shadow and The Harvester.
Guns ripped booming shots with simultaneous fury. The Shadow was aiming at The Harvester; the supercrook was firing toward his indomitable foe. But in that battle, both had a different disadvantage.
The Shadow’s aim was injured by Darryat’s struggles. The Harvester’s openings were handicapped because The Shadow held Darryat as a shield.
The Harvester’s life seemed charmed as the master crook swung back and forth in the doorway. Each stab from The Shadow’s automatic was jinxed either by a movement of his target, or through a chance twist by Darryat. Yet The Harvester, in his haste, could not find an opening through which to jab a bullet.
Each time that the killer fired, The Shadow was making a shift.
Viciously, fiendishly, The Harvester gave up his first tactics and opened a final volley straight for the intervening figure of Darryat.
A hoarse scream came from the helpless henchman as riddling bullets found Darryat’s body. The Harvester hoped to blast the human shield from The Shadow’s grasp. He counted upon a sag of Darryat’s body to allow a better path toward the fighter in the dressing gown.
The Harvester failed. Not for an instant did The Shadow release his twisting clutch.
Shouts from atop the stairs. With a mad snarl, the false-bearded supercrook dived away from the doorway, just as The Shadow thrust his steadied gun over Darryat’s sagged shoulder. The automatic spoke; its tongued barks were too late. The Harvester had plunged from view, diving straight into the arms of Delka and two Scotland Yard men.
DELKA and his companions were aiming, as they shouted a command to halt. The Harvester crossed their expectations. Swinging his gun hand like a bludgeon, he struck down the closest man and hurled the fellow’s body at the others. As Delka and his remaining aid swung to take new aim, the fleeing crook leaped down the stairway, four steps at a time.
The Scotland Yard men launched wild shots; then took up the pursuit.
The Shadow, springing from his own apartment, made for the front of the hallway. Reaching the door of an unoccupied apartment, he jabbed a master key into the lock. A few twists opened the door. Dashing to a front window, The Shadow opened it and sprang out upon a balcony.
The Harvester had already reached the street. The Shadow caught a glimpse of the Vandyked face as the crook sprang aboard a moving car. Trees intervened as The Shadow aimed. The Harvester had made a get-away.
Still, there was work for The Shadow to perform. Delka and the man beside him had reached the outer steps. At Delka’s call, other Scotland Yard men were rising from secluded spots across the way. Guns began to boom from another passing car. The Shadow caught the glimmer of a machine gun muzzle. So did Delka; and he cried a warning.
Trapped men of the law were diving for hasty cover; they would have been too late but for The Shadow.
Gripping a fresh automatic, he opened a swift downward volley, straight for the portion of the car where he knew the machine gunners must be.
Cries came from within the automobile. The turning muzzle stopped. While revolvers spurted wildly, the driver, stampeded, stepped on the accelerator. The car sped rapidly away.
Pocketing his automatic, The Shadow strode rapidly back to his own apartment. On the way, he saw the slugged Scotland Yard man rising dizzily from the floor. That chap was recovering. The Shadow’s present business was with Darryat. Reaching his apartment, he found the bullet-riddled crook gasping, upon the floor.
Glassy eyes looked up from Darryat’s tanned face as The Shadow stooped above the victim whom The Harvester had sacrificed. Though dying, Darryat could see the glimmer in The Shadow’s gaze. He recognized the countenance of Lamont Cranston; but his ears caught the tone of a strange, awesome voice.
“Speak!” It was a command, delivered in a sinister whisper. “State the identity of your chief. Your life meant nothing to his purpose.”
Darryat managed a nod.
“The Harvester,” he panted. “The — The Harvester. I–I can name him. He— he pretends to be many — but he is only — only one. I know— I know which one he is. His name — his name—”
DARRYAT’S eyes had focused toward the door. There, his blurred stare saw a moving figure, coming closer. It was the Scotland Yard man, groggily entering the doorway to the apartment; but to Darryat’s disjointed brain, that shape meant only the person whom he had previously seen at that spot — The Harvester.
A choking gasp from Darryat’s lips. Still fearful of his murderous chief, the dying lieutenant stayed his utterance. His lips trembled, closing on the name that they were about to utter. Then they unclamped with a final, spasmodic cough.
Darryat’s body slumped. That cough had been his last. Dead weight pressed The Shadow’s supporting arm. Darryat was dead. Chance had worked against The Shadow. Though victorious, he had not gained the one word that he wanted. The identity of The Harvester remained unknown.
Somewhere in London, a supercrook was still at large, prepared to resume a career of baffling crime.
The Shadow, to frustrate The Harvester, must still continue with a blind battle. One more difficult than the first; for tonight, The Shadow had drawn The Harvester through Darryat. Under present circumstances, Darryat was no more.