The secret-service men spread toward the enemy. It was their only course. The entire squad was in the room, all men firing. Tony Cumo went down with a bullet in his body. Foulkrod Kendall aimed at Vic Marquette.
Before the millionaire could fire, a shot rang from the doorway. The millionaire collapsed. No one realized whence the shot had come.
In the heat of battle, furious men were facing one another. They did not see the figure of The Shadow, in the blackness of the open doorway.
Vic Marquette clipped Cyrus Barbier through an open space of the machine. Other secret-service men were aiming at Doctor Guyon, who had reached the old counterfeiter’s side. One operative fell wounded. Silk Elverton, between the open door and a barricade of coin-filled bins, was the man who downed the secret-service man.
Guyon aimed to kill. He was safe, he thought, behind the machine which still pounded away, although no silver strips were sliding into its maw. Again, The Shadow’s automatic dispatched a leaden messenger. The desperate physician fell. The Shadow had picked a narrow opening, and his bullet had found its mark.
With that shot, all gunfire ended. Vic Marquette uttered a shout of triumph. His men were falling upon the wounded counterfeiters. Rogues at bay had been trapped in their lair! The evidence was here, in tremendous quantities.
VIC was dispatching operatives to the corridor. The Shadow’s tall form disappeared from the doorway. It glided along the corridor to a turn some distance from the outer door. There, The Shadow waited. He had divined well tonight. His timely aid had saved the lives of men who sided with the law.
But all the men of crime had not fallen within the lair. One still remained — a canny fighter who had stayed his fire because he, alone, had observed the spurts of flame that had issued from the doorway. Silk Elverton had realized that the way was blocked. He, alone, had scurried to a spot where The Shadow could not see him.
Shots had been fired in Silk’s direction. The Shadow knew where the smooth crook had gone. The cessation of fire, however, had caused The Shadow to retire. Silk Elverton, alone, could not conquer Vic Marquette’s capable squad. The Shadow knew.
Silk, however, realized his own incapability. He knew that his first shot would make him a target for half a dozen marksmen. The crook was waiting for another opportunity. It came. The doorways were momentarily unguarded. Leaping over the barrier of fraudulent coins, Silk dived for safety.
Shots broke out. The crook was ahead of them. Into the corridor he leaped. There, chance favored him. A target for The Shadow’s distant aim, Silk plumped squarely into the arms of a secret-service operative. They grappled and staggered along the corridor toward Kendall’s office, past a corner which put them out of The Shadow’s view.
Safe while grasping a man whom The Shadow would not shoot, Silk gained another break. His antagonist stumbled. Silk broke away and fled for safety. Shots pursued him. All but two of the secret-service squad were on his trail. Still Silk ran on. He gained the office unscathed.
The pursuers were on his trail as he dashed from the building. Flashlights glimmered. Silk was running for a parked car — the one in which he and Doctor Guyon had come here. Harper, standing by the automobile, opened fire on the approaching lights, while Silk leaped to the wheel.
An operative’s shot felled Harper. The man dropped dead with a gargling cry as Silk shot the car into gear.
Before the secret-service men could get to their own cars, Silk would be far away. Vic Marquette had parked the automobiles half a mile down a side road. A chase would be futile. The balked operatives hurried back to get instructions from their leader.
SILK ELVERTON was gloating as he rode along the highway. Doctor Guyon was dead; so was Harper. He had seen both men fall. Not one witness to his restoration from the grave now remained! Silk was sure that in the confusion of the fight, his face would not be remembered.
What if it was? Silk did not care. Through his mind were speeding the details of a daring game which he could play with surety — a game of perfect bluff. He knew that he had time to gain his objective — a goal which no one could possibly suspect!
In his final surmise, Silk was wrong. While the baffled operatives were back within the factory, a silent figure was stealing from the building. A phantom shape entered a hidden car. Far behind the fleeing crook, it started on the chase.
A futile effort? Not to the personage who drove that second automobile. The Shadow knew the identity of the man who had fled. His master brain divined the place where Silk, in need of immediate funds, would go.
The Shadow was on the trail of Silk Elverton — the murderer who had come from the dead to plot new deeds of crime!
CHAPTER XXIII
THE LAW OF THE SHADOW
CLAYTON LANDOW was seated in his office. This was an important night at the Kendall Theater. The general manager of the theater circuit was making entries in his large book when he looked up in surprise to see a man watching him.
Clayton’s expression of astonishment changed to a gasp of incredulity. It was not the fact that the visitor held a revolver; it was the face of the man before him that was so amazing. Clayton Landow was looking at Silk Elverton, the murderer who had died in the electric chair!
Young Landow remembered Elverton from that night at Foulkrod Kendall’s home. He seldom forgot a face. His lips now framed the name of the man who stood before him:
“Elverton!”
“I thought you would remember me,” said Silk suavely.
“You’re dead!” gasped Clayton.
“So they say,” said Silk, with a grin.
The governor’s son was at a loss. He could not imagine what course should be followed, even when he saw Silk Elverton pocket his revolver. Silk, noting Clayton’s expression, supplied answer.
“There is nothing you can do, Landow,” he said. “I have paid the penalty. I am dead. If a thousand people recognize me, It means nothing. I can declare myself as some one else. I am talking to you because you are alone. Your testimony can mean nothing. I can shout from the housetops that I am Ronald Elverton. It does not matter. I am dead — executed for murder. I am above the law!”
“What do you want here?” gasped Clayton Landow.
“Money,” said Elverton calmly.
“You will not get it!” retorted Clayton. “If you threaten me with a gun, you can be arrested, under your new identity. If you kill me — you will be a new murderer.”
“I need no gun,” returned Silk, with a knowing smile. “I have put my revolver away. You will give me the money that I require.”
“You are wrong.”
“I am right. Landow, your own books prove you guilty of embezzlement. Look!”
With a strange familiarity, Silk walked to the desk and dug up an old record book from one of the chain theaters. He opened it, found a page, and laid the volume in front of Clayton Landow.
“Look at this column. Add the receipts.”
Wondering, the governor’s son obeyed. He noted, to his surprise, that the figures totaled more than the amount listed at the bottom of the page.
“Where is the balance?” questioned Silk, with a laugh. “In your pocket, Landow — that, at least, is what the world will say. Other records show the same falsity.”
Clayton Landow sank back in his chair.
“I forged these records,” resumed Silk calmly. “As Ronald Elverton, you understand. Now, as a new identity, I can accuse you openly. I can take this matter up with Foulkrod Kendall.”
“No one will believe you—”