“But that bell boy, Cady, arrived most opportunely. It struck me immediately that if I tried Barthue’s tactics, I would be top dog in the jolly old game. Jed Barthue was going to pretend himself Eric Delka. Why should Eric Delka not masquerade as Jed Barthue? For the benefit of such persons as this bounder.”
Delka nudged a thumb at Clink, who growled a savage retort.
“Lay off the smart stuff, Delka,” ordered the crook. “You don’t have to tell us any more. You couldn’t tell Cardona and Marquette or maybe you’d have run into some court hearings, to settle the identity of Jed Barthue.
“You were right. You were working with them best by keeping your trap shut. But you’re no use to us now, any more than they are. With Barthue dead, there’s no reason for finding out how much you knew about him, like Rigger was supposed to do on board the Zouave.”
“Keep these mugs covered” — Clink shot the command to his henchmen — “while I work the combination on this vault. After we’ve got the swag, we’ll shove them in there and hand them the works.”
CLINK strode to the vault. He began to turn the dials. Delka and Cardona watched him silently. The Scotland Yard inspector was puffing nervously at his cigarette; the New York detective was stolid as he stared.
It was Vic Marquette who began a protest. The secret service operative was resorting to argument that he hoped would he effective.
“Murdering us won’t help Jollister,” reasoned Vic. “It’s only going to add a death penalty to any of you who get caught. Jollister included.”
Clink laughed raucously, as he finished with the combination.
“What of it?” he sneered. “Jollister’s on his way. Nobody’s ever going to hear from him again. We don’t have to bother about covering up; that passage will be found anyway.
“Listen, you saps. If these bozos of mine weren’t around, I might spill something that would knock you silly. Something none of you have figured. Something that would make you know how dumb you’ve been.
“Maybe I will let you in on it” — he paused as he swung back the huge door — “after you’re all stowed away, ready for the works. All right, fellows” — this was to the gang — “there’s the swag. Get busy.”
As crooks sprang forward, Clink turned a key in the inner grating, to open that last barrier. He stepped back beside one lone henchman who still held the prisoners covered. Clink, too, had a gun in readiness.
“When I’m ready to rub you out,” he promised, “I’ll give you something to think about. You won’t worry over it long; that won’t be any use. It’ll be the last word — the last word the three of you will ever hear.”
Clink stopped short. A sudden sound pervaded the strong room. It was a ghoulish chuckle, a hideous tone of mirth that came like a presagement of doom. With a fierce cry, Clink spun about, his henchman with him.
Staring at the door of the open passage, the two crooks saw a being in black. Clink had left two guards back in the garage. They had failed to stop this formidable foe who had arrived to follow crooks along their path to crime.
The Shadow had delivered a surprise attack. He had found the passage that led into the strong room. His fierce, outlandish mirth was rising to a shivering crescendo.
It was a challenge to men of crime. A proof that the last word did not belong with evil fiends who contemplated murder. The last word would be The Shadow’s. Automatics would voice his argument.
CHAPTER XIX. A MASTER’S DOOM
NEVER had The Shadow chosen a more timely instant to strike against great odds. His advent here had occurred some minutes before — at the time when Eric Delka had been so boldly announcing the part that he had played.
The Shadow could have entered then; but he had chosen to wait. He had foreseen that crooks would be deliberate; Clink Huron’s decision to massacre victims in the vault had been proof of The Shadow’s wisdom in delayed action.
Until the vault was opened, The Shadow had hesitated. As henchmen had advanced at Clink’s bidding, The Shadow had seen the moment of opportunity. Two guards — Clink and another — were all who had actual control over the three doomed prisoners.
The Shadow’s laugh had been delivered for surprise as well as challenge. His purpose was to startle those two foemen; to make them swing about in his direction. His creepy intonation, ghoulish in the metal walls of the strong room, had accomplished The Shadow’s desire.
Wheeling, Clink and his pal saw The Shadow on the instant. That, too, was The Shadow’s design. He had stepped into light as he laughed. He wanted guns to aim in his direction. He was ready as the two crooks sprang to fruitless action.
As snarling rogues pressed fingers hard to triggers, The Shadow’s automatics flashed as one. The double roar was thunderous in the square-walled room. Tongues of flame were reflected in myriad flashes from shining walls.
Two bullets found their designated targets. Point-blank, The Shadow had stabbed these thrusts at the wheeling crooks. He gave no opportunity to Clink and the other thug. The Shadow’s shots were straight to the hearts of murderers.
Both rogues toppled. They sprawled like clay figures on the steel-sheathed floor. Their revolvers clashed, unfired, upon the metal. The Shadow, swinging inward, wheeled toward the opened vault. He was ready for others. As Clink and his pal rolled to the floor, three men sprang to instant action. Vic Marquette dived for Clink’s bounding gun. Eric Delka sprang forward to snatch up the other free weapon. Joe Cardona, just behind the others, made a leap for the outer door. He yanked the inner fastening and shoved the barrier outward.
His move was to bring aid from above. Unarmed, he could not aid in the fray. He knew that with the door opened, the sound of battle would be heard above.
Crooks were no less responsive than the rescued prisoners. Half in, half out of the opened vault, Clink’s underlings reacted to The Shadow’s double-barreled outburst. Like a tribe of swarming banditti, the crooks sprang from the vault.
They knew their common foe. Fierce oaths told that they had identified The Shadow. Revolver muzzles swung for common aim. Weapons spat as the cloaked warrior made a swift move for the passage that led to the garage.
Then came a sudden feint. With an unexpected twist, The Shadow whirled toward the center of the room. Some aiming killers fired wide; others, scattering, took new aim at the elusive targets. In that one instant of their indecision, The Shadow loosed new fire.
Crooks sprawled. Others dropped savagely back to the protection of the vault. Revolvers barked; despite The Shadow’s swiftness, shots were due to stop his weaving course. But before the accurate aimers could fire, two men were piling in from the flank.
Firing like madmen. Vic Marquette and Eric Delka jabbed bullets from close range. One crook sagged groaning, unable to take advantage of the aim that he had gained. Another fired, staggering. His perfect bead was spoiled. The slug that he delivered went whistling through The Shadow’s hat brim.
Two aiming crooks swung about to meet these new attackers. Vic and one rogue fired simultaneously; the crook’s shot clipped the operative’s shoulder and Vic rolled to the floor. But Vic’s bullet, too, had found a mark. His opponent sprawled writhing at the entrance of the vault.
Delka beat his foeman to the shot. But the Scotland Yard man’s aim was wide. His snarling adversary rasped a vicious oath as he aimed before Delka could deliver a second bullet. The curse died suddenly as an automatic thundered from the other end of the strong room.
Delka’s foeman jounced upward; his ugly face contorted; his revolver clattered to the floor. Then the crook followed the weapon downward. Face foremost he flattened, writhed, and lay still.