The missile landed against Morth’s neck, just below his ear. The professor tripped and sprawled upon the floor. The skull bounced beside him, rolled a few feet and remained teetering back and forth, grinning as though pleased by the part that it had played.
The fall had knocked out Morth for the moment. Though uninjured, the professor had lost his wind. He was lying helpless, trying to recover when The Shadow came up from the overturned shelves.
Rolling skulls aside, The Shadow recovered his automatics and sprang toward the outer door. Nearing it, he stopped short.
Outside was the darkened entrance to stairs that led to the third floor. Uncannily, The Shadow picked those steps as an ambush. He opened fire; a revolver barked in answer. The Shadow loosed a fusillade, then sprang forward.
His present set of automatics was a new brace that he had introduced for the final fray. With these weapons barking, The Shadow attacked with irresistible fury. He had gained the start; his lurking enemy was in flight. Had Professor Morth dashed out into that hall, he would have been slain by the concealed assassin. But The Shadow was a fighter who moved too swiftly for the hiding foe.
This was not Hothan. The escaping prisoner had fled downward. The Shadow was dealing with the man who had crossed his path before — the supercrook who had slain Channing Tobold. Fiercely, The Shadow was driving the killer upward through the darkness. The foe was in flight toward the third floor.
Just as The Shadow reached the top of the stairs, something thumped from above. The Shadow recognized the sound. It was a trapdoor in the room. Clamps were grating into place. The big-shot had fled in time to close the path behind him.
THE SHADOW laughed. Then, swiftly, he turned and descended to the lower floor. He kept on past Mort’s study; down to the ground floor. He opened the front door. He heard the sound of police whistles; he spied bluecoats coming up the street.
Pietro was on the other side, huddled in an alley with his pushcart. The Shadow knew that the crooks must have come in through the front; but Pietro had been unable to give warning. Nor had he been able to stop the flight of numerous gorillas.
Shutting the door, The Shadow turned back into the house. He spied Logan, bound and gagged upon a couch in a side room. The raiders under Flick Sherrad had rung the doorbell, then had overpowered the servant. Logan was all right. The police would release him.
The Shadow moved swiftly through the house. He found the rear door still bolted. He opened it and moved out into the darkness. This street was quiet. No mobsters had fled by this route. That was to be regretted.
Jericho, across the way, might have dealt with some of them. That was why The Shadow had placed him here, the rear being the most likely exit. But the mobsters had crossed the dope in fleeing by the front.
A foolish course, that flight to the front street; but it had worked well for Flick Sherrad, since Pietro had been there alone. The fruit seller was not one of The Shadow’s first-line fighters. Pietro had been wise in keeping out of it.
Off through the dark. A block away, The Shadow paused, by the blackness of an obscure Village street.
His keen eyes looked back, toward the outlines of houses in the block where Morth lived. A solemn laugh escaped The Shadow’s lips.
The master crook had gone, fleeing atop those roofs. Once again, The Shadow had failed to stop that unseen slayer. But The Shadow’s laugh, though grim, betrayed a note of triumph.
It was still stalemate: The supercrook had gained nothing through the futile fray. Though his two best workers, Hothan and Sherrad, were still at large, the big-shot had played another useless hand.
The Shadow had saved Professor Tyson Morth. The anthropologist was not the custodian of Hildrew Parchell’s hidden wealth. The game of crime was scheduled for resumption. Again, The Shadow would encounter his unknown foe.
CHAPTER XV. FACTS RECOUNTED
“LET us have your complete statement, professor. I want these gentlemen to hear it.”
Detective Joe Cardona was the speaker. He was standing in Professor Morth’s study. About the room were grouped persons whose presence Cardona had requested: Weldon Wingate, a trifle irritable; Doctor Raymond Deseurre, almost expressionless; Selwood Royce, keen with interest.
Roger Parchell was also present. He had come with Wingate. Tristram, too, was present. Cardona, himself, had brought the old servant. For the ace detective was reopening discussion concerning the death of Hildrew Parchell.
“Well, gentlemen,” began Professor Morth, “last night’s experience was a most remarkable one. You see the remains of it” — he waved his hand to indicate the cupboard, now upright, but containing battered skulls — “and all this chaos was brought about with bewildering quickness. In fact, the trouble began very shortly after I had arrived home from Philadelphia.”
The professor paused. His eyes fell on the cabinet with the mechanical skull. Morth smiled wryly.
“Logan announced a visitor,” resumed Morth. “A man who introduced himself as Homer Hothan—”
A hoarse exclamation from Tristram. The old servant’s face was tense. Cardona motioned him to be quiet. Morth proceeded.
“Homer Hothan,” said the professor, “represented himself as having been Hildrew Parchell’s secretary. Inspector Cardona tells me that the man actually served in that capacity. But Hothan did not stop there. He said he had been sent to me by Weldon Wingate.”
“He lied!” exclaimed Wingate, indignantly. “I never saw the scoundrel after Hildrew Parchell discharged him. Hothan lied, I tell you!”
“I believe he did,” stated Morth, with a nod. “He seemed a bit disturbed when I mentioned that I had a letter from you. But he explained it by saying that you wanted information from me regarding matters of Hildrew Parchell’s estate.”
“That much is true,” admitted Wingate. “I have believed it possible that some friend of Hildrew Parchell might know of certain funds which are not in the visible estate. Funds, you understand, which may be mythical — for there is no proof that they exist—”
“Hothan seemed sure that they did,” put in Morth. “He mentioned that Hildrew Parchell had told him they were with the skull.”
“With the skull!” exclaimed Wingate, in surprise. “You mean—”
“Wait a moment,” injected Cardona. “Don’t get ahead of your story, professor. Tell how Hothan happened to talk.”
“VERY well,” chuckled Morth. “First he spoke about papers. I said I might have some letters from Hildrew Parchell. So I went into the bedroom; while I was there, I heard a cry. When I came back, I found Hothan trapped by my mechanical skull.
“You see it there” — Morth pointed to the squat cabinet — “that artificial reproduction of a mesaticephalic, mesognathous skull!”
“One moment, professor,” interposed Cardona. “Tell what you had the skull here for.”
“I had it made originally.” explained Morth, “to represent an articulating skull that I could use in lecturing. It is mesaticephalic and mesognathous; it is made in sphenoid shape because I prefer the sphenoid to the ooide—”
“I mean,” interrupted Cardona, “what did you do with the skull after you decided not to use it with your lectures?”
“I had it made into a thief trap,” replied Morth, coming to the point. “I mounted it on that cabinet, with a knob beneath it, directly under the coronal surture of the skull. Hothan decided to open the cabinet during my absence. The teeth of the skull closed upon his hand.”
“That’s it,” prompted Cardona. “And then?”
“I deprived Hothan of a revolver,” chuckled Morth. “I told him that I intended to call the police. That was when he talked about wealth being with the skull. I made him open the cabinet, to show him that he was mistaken. I had no wealth here. Neither my own nor Hildrew Parchell’s.”