The Shadow paused. The men who stared at his vague form were realizing his logic. Defiant as he stared, Dolver was realizing his mistakes.
Inconsistencies. Two men slain at Ralgood’s; one spared at Shurrick’s. A murderer pressed for time lingering to bind and gag a victim. But to these had been added Dolver’s own statement of the slamming door. It had proven his story a lie; but the police had missed the slip. Not so The Shadow.
“You were under surveillance, Dolver,” stated The Shadow, “from the time that you left the guardianship of the law, the morning after Shurrick’s death. I was at your home on Long Island, waiting in case you chose to fare abroad.
“While you were watched, there could be no murder. Meanwhile my trap was closing. You were being forced to a deed that would reveal your double part. To strengthen your story, you were forced to feign an attack against yourself.”
DOLVER gaped. The Classic story had been inspired by The Shadow! The fakery in which Lessing had aided could have been turned into a betrayal. The Shadow had given the law an opportunity to prove a case against Dolver; and thereby clear Dave Callard. Odd circumstances alone had prevented that result.
“Dave Callard suspected Mallikan,” declared The Shadow. “He came to Long Island and was seen there. That spoiled your self-betrayal, Dolver, for betray yourself you did. In murdering your victims, you used many shots. Yet only one bullet was fired when you lingered at the window.
“That was the shot of a marksman. One who was calculating; one who would have fired again had he sought to slay you. He found his target; it was not your heart. It was the candelabrum which you clutched so tightly. Another proof that you expected the bullet that was to come.”
The Shadow’s steady eyes were on Lessing. The marksman cringed; he knew that his part had been revealed.
“You were not watched after that night,” concluded The Shadow, his gaze indicating Dolver. “Detectives were with you. While they were present you dared not move. When I learned of Hungerfeld’s arrival, I protected him. While doing so, I learned that Cardona had told you of the final ribbon.
“I saw that ribbon. From it, I gained the full secret. I learned the final facts. Every detail of your game was plain, including the murder of Basslett, which I had correctly attributed to you, even before I knew you by sight and name.”
Dolver’s face was livid. He had been balked at every point. Clenching his fists, the archfiend looked ready to pounce forward. The looming guns caused him to change his wild desire. Each .45 seemed trained squarely upon him.
The Shadow’s speech had ended. Of Dave Callard, The Shadow had no criticism. The Shadow knew that Leng Doy had befriended Dave. The hiding tactics which both had used were merely an effort to enable Dave to clear himself. As for Roger Mallikan, no further thought was necessary.
Dave had suspected Mallikan falsely; Dolver had ignored the shipping man because Mallikan knew nothing. Had Mallikan been of any importance, other than that of ignorant intermediary, Dolver would have eliminated him prior to killing Ralgood and Basslett.
THE SHADOW’S eyes were commanding. His words had told Dave and Jund that he was here in behalf of justice. As he gazed straight toward the delivered men, they realized what they were to do.
Drawing their revolvers, they forced Dolver and Lessing into a corner. The Shadow lowered his automatics and stepped into the strong room.
Two paces; then he whirled. Whatever his plan had been, circumstances had forced a change. Footsteps were coming from the passage. Cray and Partridge were returning. The Shadow sprang out to surprise these arrivals.
Had darkness cloaked The Shadow, all would have been well. During their present approach, however, Partridge and Cray saw no reason for caution. They still believed that Dolver was master of the strong room. Hence it chanced that Cray pressed the button of a flashlight, just as The Shadow sprang into the passage.
The cloaked warrior came squarely into the flashlight’s beam. A springing figure, whirling as he came, The Shadow was recognized as a foe. Not only by Dolver’s two servants; but by others who followed them, a quartette of rowdies who belonged to the shore band that Dolver had subsidized for the attack on the Xerxes.
Cray dropped the flashlight. He had no time to aim with his rifle; nor had Partridge. Together, the pair swung forward, swinging their long-barreled guns like clubs. Completely blocking the passage, they fell upon The Shadow, trying to beat him down in the darkness just outside the strong-room door.
The Shadow swerved. One rising arm diverted a swinging rifle, Cray’s. Fiercely, the servant seized upon his antagonist, while Partridge tried to deliver a blow in the dark. Another flashlight clicked, in the hand of a following thug. Partridge saw The Shadow and swung to club him with the rifle.
An automatic spoke. Partridge’s swing went wide. The servant toppled, sprawling sidewise; Cray, taking advantage of The Shadow’s diverted action, clutched fiercely at his antagonist’s throat.
The Shadow wavered backward; then pressed the trigger of his second gun. A muffled report: Cray slumped to the floor. The Shadow jolted back against the passage wall.
Arms outstretched, automatics momentarily useless, The Shadow lay revealed within the flashlight’s glare.
Beyond the flattened shapes of Cray and Partridge were the four hoodlums who had witnessed the opening of the fray.
They recognized The Shadow. Crooks wanted by the law, ruffians who had chosen the ghost fleet as a hideout, they knew of this master fighter whose garb of black was his mark of identity.
Had these hirelings come down the hatchway expecting sudden fray they would have gained their chance for murderous work. The Shadow was actually within their grasp, unable for the moment to cope with them.
But Cray and Partridge had told the rowdies that they were not needed for battle. The servants had held the rifles; these others had not drawn weapons.
They were making up for that mistake at present. Two scoundrels were yanking revolvers from their pockets; one thug was pulling out a blackjack, while his companion — the man with the flashlight — was bringing forth a steel wrench that he had stolen from some abandoned ship.
THE four came forward in a surge, whipping their weapons into play. As the attack swept toward him, The Shadow dropped from the wall. Toward the floor, below the beam of that high-held flashlight, just as the first of the crooks opened fire.
Bullets sizzed above The Shadow’s hat. Automatics thundered as two would-be killers stopped short to fire downward. One managed a shot; his bullet skimmed The Shadow’s cloaked shoulder. Then he, like his pal, began to slump. The Shadow had given them hot lead, straight up from the floor.
Over the falling crooks came the last pair, hurdling those sinking bodies. The Shadow met them coming up; their instant attack sent him reeling backward. One swung the blackjack; The Shadow stopped it with a sideswing, his automatic striking the hand that swished the leather-covered weapon.
Then, with a twist, The Shadow jolted back the rowdy with the wrench. His forearm did that trick; his hand chopped downward and the second automatic thudded the blackjack wielder’s skull. That thug sank.
Viciously, the last crook swung the wrench. The Shadow was still twisting. The metal bludgeon struck his arm, glanced off and hit the side of the slouch hat.
Only the thickness of the felt served against the final stroke of this angled blow. The Shadow staggered past the man in the passage, zigzagging toward the stairway to the deck, reeling with every stride.