A LARGE, closed automobile drew up in back of the armored car. Three plainly clad men leaped from it and hurried into the building where the Romanoff wealth had been housed. They stopped when they reached the room where the dead bodies lay. An officer, coming from the door to the stairs, approached them.
“There is gas below, Comrade Motkin,” he said.
The man whom he addressed gave an expression of relief. Motkin was evidently the leader of those present. He was a short, shrewd-faced man, and the scowl which he wore remained, despite the fact that his mind seemed eased.
“Look at these,” remarked one of Motkin’s companions, pointing to the floor.
He was indicating the gas masks. A troubled air came over Motkin. He spoke in low tones to those beside him.
“Put on the masks,” he ordered. “Go down and see if all is well. Call upon the soldiers if you have need for them. If not—”
His two associates nodded. They understood the reason for Motkin’s worry. Gas indicated that the invaders had actually reached the room that they had sought.
Motkin turned on his heel and went out to the street. The searchlight of the armored car had been turned toward the house next door, spotting the windows on the upper floors.
“Who is there?” questioned Motkin, speaking to an officer in charge.
“We have trapped one man,” was the reply. “The soldiers are all through the house. They have been shouting for light.”
“Let them have it.” Motkin’s tone was determined. “Capture that man — alive, if possible. Bring him to me do you understand?”
The officer’s reply was interrupted as a volley of shots resounded from within the house. A soldier appeared at one of the upper windows. He emerged and crawled along a projection to reach the next room.
As the soldier smashed the glass and thrust his body into the window, a flash of flame appeared. The soldier toppled backward, lost his hold, and hurtled head-first to the street. His whirling body struck ten feet from where Ivan Motkin stood.
The scowling man gave the soldier no attention. He was watching that window, signaling to other soldiers who were appearing at the windows of other rooms.
“They will capture him now,” declared the officer, in a tone of assurance.
A group of three soldiers came from the alley, two of them supporting their companion. The middle man was seriously wounded.
Behind them came an officer. He spied Motkin and approached him. The officer held up two garments: a torn black cloak and a bullet-riddled slouch hat.
“The man is a demon!” he exclaimed. “We had him — four of us. He was wearing these. He broke away from us!”
“He is trapped now,” said Motkin, pointing to the upper window.
The head and shoulders of an officer appeared at the very spot indicated by Motkin. The man made a sweeping gesture, to indicate that the trap had closed, but the man was gone.
Curses came from Motkin’s lips. He took the cloak and hat, and gave them to a man seated at the wheel of his automobile.
“Keep these, Gregori,” he said. “Put them in back.”
The chauffeur obeyed.
MOTKIN paced up and down the street, worried and impatient. He turned suddenly as he was approached by one of the two men whom he had sent to make an inspection of the vault.
“All has been taken,” said the man, in a low voice.
A snarl came from Motkin. He clenched his fists ferociously. He drew his informant aside. He listened impatiently while the man gave him the details of what had been discovered.
“The officer in charge was gassed behind a loophole,” said Motkin’s subordinate. “I have closed the door in the floor. Soldiers are bringing out the bodies.”
“Say nothing,” growled Motkin. “Place trusted officers in charge. All the thieves have escaped but one. I have ordered that he be captured, alive, if possible. He must be brought to me.”
“You know the orders,” responded the other man, in a doubtful voice. “He must go to prison first, if he is taken. After that—”
Motkin turned pale as he saw his subordinate shrug his shoulders. Important though he was, Motkin was forced to conform to regulations.
Motkin was in a dilemma. One man was at large; if captured, he might give valuable information when quizzed by Motkin alone; but should he speak to others, his words might prove damaging.
The protection of the rifled stronghold had been Motkin’s duty. Well did the Bolshevist official know the punishment that was meted out to those who failed in their appointments.
“Remain here,” said Motkin. “Do all you can. I must go back. If the man is captured, let me know at once. If he is killed” — the speaker paused thoughtfully — “let me know that, also!”
At that moment, cries came from men standing by the armored car. Soldiers came running up with rifles to aim at a lower window where an officer was pointing. A tall, huddled figure had appeared in plain view!
Before the scurrying soldiers could aim at the unexpected target, a hand stretched from the window. The automatic was pointed directly at the searchlight.
The gun spoke. The light went out. Chaos reigned amid the darkness that was broken only by dim, flickering street lamps.
Officers were shouting out commands. Shots were being fired. Motkin scurried to the safety of the alley.
Wild minutes passed; then flashlights appeared, and suddenly a new but smaller glare lit up the house from which The Shadow had fired the unexpected shot. Several military automobiles had arrived upon the scene; and one of them had turned its searchlight on the building.
Fuming, Motkin strode to his car. He was followed by his underling. The man nodded as Motkin delivered final instructions. Then Motkin clambered into the front seat beside Gregori, and the car pulled away.
MOTKIN was grimly silent as the big automobile rolled through the streets of Moscow. The car reached a broad prospekt, turned into a narrow street, and shot into the courtyard of a pretentious residence. It stopped before a side door, the entrance to Motkin’s apartments.
The scowling official stepped from the car and started toward the steps. Then, as an afterthought, he returned and spoke to Gregori.
“The cloak and the hat,” he said. “Where did you put them?”
“In the back seat, as you told me.”
“Get them.”
Gregori opened the door. He leaned into the car, and stepped back suddenly with a startled cry.
“Look!” he exclaimed. “Look!”
He produced a flashlight and turned it into the interior. There, half on the floor, half on the seat, lay a tall sprawled figure, whose face was turned toward the far side of the car.
“It is the one they were seeking!”
Gregori’s exclamation ended abruptly as a warning hiss came from Motkin.
“Say nothing!” ordered the official, in a low growl. “Stay here. I shall send Prensky to help you bring him into the house.
“He is still alive” — Motkin was bending over the still form — “and I may have need of him. Bring the hat and the cloak also. Above all, say nothing. Do you understand?”
Gregori nodded in obedience.
Motkin strode up the steps of the house and entered. He encountered his aid, Prensky, just within the door. He spoke short, terse words of explanation. Prensky understood and went to join Gregori.
Motkin reached an upstairs room, and slumped into an easy-chair. His face was an enigma. It showed traces of both worry and satisfaction.
Despite his vigilance, Ivan Motkin had failed in his protection of the secret vault. The strong-room had been rifled. That might mean death for Ivan Motkin. But death might also be withheld until he had been given a chance to redeem himself.