The gorilla sagged. Duster, wide-mouthed, stood as a dumfounded target for The Shadow’s next shot. Again, luck saved the big murderer. As a weird laugh came from The Shadow, Wickroft sprang into sudden action.
With surprising boldness, the treacherous secretary leaped straight for The Shadow. He came plunging squarely upon the black-clad fighter. His pummeling arms beat down The Shadow’s wrists.
Grappling with his cloaked foe, Wickroft fought like a fiend. He and The Shadow locked in a sudden struggle. Duster, at the door, emitted a loud triumphant snarl as he aimed for The Shadow’s blackened shape.
Here was his chance to kill, with steady aim. Duster leveled his gun; but he fired an instant too late. The Shadow, knowing the menace, had whirled struggling with Wickroft. The traitor’s body came as a shield between The Shadow and Duster.
Bullets found Wickroft’s body. Sagging, Wickroft would have fallen to the floor but for the grip that The Shadow still retained. An automatic muzzle shoved up beneath Wickroft’s limp arm. Flame tongued toward Duster; a bullet sizzled past the big crook’s head.
Wildly, Duster dived for the doorway. Again The Shadow fired; his second bullet skimmed Duster’s shoulder. The big man fled headlong. Dropping Wickroft’s body, The Shadow sprang forward in pursuit.
A shot came from the hallway door. The Shadow wheeled as the bullet whined close by his ear. Tully Kelk had entered. He had fired at The Shadow, alone save for Tilton, who was cowering by Wickroft’s body.
The Shadow aimed with swiftness and precision. But his automatic was slow in its reply. Kelk had counted upon one shot alone; he was diving for cover the moment after he had delivered it. The Shadow’s bullet zipped inches wide as Kelk’s long figure sprang beyond the door to the hall.
SHOTS from the rear of the house; The Shadow paused in his pursuit of Duster; he headed out along the path that Kelk had taken. He saw the front door closing. He continued down the stairs.
Kelk was gone when The Shadow reached the street. A passage between two houses across the way was the path that he had chosen. The Shadow did not pursue.
Instead, he stood in darkness. He heard new shots in back of the house. A pause; then figures came scudding through. The Shadow hissed a sharp command. Two men stopped beside him. Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye — agents whom The Shadow had summoned.
“Report,” whispered The Shadow from darkness.
“It was Duster Shomak,” returned Cliff, half out of breath. “Hawkeye recognized him. We opened fire; but he managed a get-away. A patrol car’s coming.”
“Go with Shrevnitz,” hissed The Shadow.
Cliff and Hawkeye hurried to the taxi. The cab pulled away. While he watched it, The Shadow heard sirens from the rear street; then shrill whistles. The police were on the job.
Swiftly, The Shadow crossed the street and merged with the blackness of the opposite passage.
Two minutes later, a patrol car rolled up to the front of Tilton’s house. No signs of trouble there. Two policemen leaped out; one spied the open front door of the house. The two entered.
Shouts from the back. Other officers were coming in from the rear. They joined their comrades; the group headed upstairs as they heard a quavering call. They arrived in Tilton’s study. Perkins had joined his master. The servant had been on the third floor; he had come down after the gunfire. The two were supporting the dying form of Wickroft. Crawler and two gorillas had died in the fray; but Wickroft, though mortally wounded, was still alive.
“The chief!” gasped Wickroft. “He — he double-crossed me. I–I was here — here — for a blind but he — he didn’t tell me.”
“Who’s the chief?” demanded a policeman.
“I–I don’t know,” returned Wickroft. “Tall — tall, with a mustache. Dark face. Smooth — smooth when he talks. He wanted — the manuscript. The Cellini—”
The gasp was final. Wickroft’s body slumped. The traitor rolled dead as Perkins loosed his hold upon the sinking shoulders.
New crime had struck tonight. Men of murder had come here to kill and rob. The Shadow had met them; beating down odds, he had prevented their work of evil.
Wickroft had died with Crawler and two gorillas. Yet The Shadow had disposed of tools alone; he had not managed to stop Duster Shomak, the murderous mob leader who had headed the violent raid.
Nor had he disposed of Tully Kelk. The mustached man had made a rapid flight. By swiftness, Kelk had evaded the law; the only clue to his identity lay in the dying words from Wickroft’s lips!
CHAPTER XI
CRIME DISCUSSED
AT ten o’clock the next morning, a limousine stopped in front of Silas Tilton’s brownstone home. Other cars were parked there already; the chauffeur of the limousine was forced to draw up behind them. That done, he alighted and opened the rear door of the limousine. He spoke to a languid passenger who was half dozing in the back seat.
“This is our destination, Mr. Cranston,” stated the chauffeur.
The passenger sat up. A slight smile appeared upon his thin lips. He stepped leisurely from the limousine, looked about and pointed down the street.
“Park over there, Stanley,” he told the chauffeur, “and wait for me. I do not believe that I shall be here long.”
With almost idling gait, The Shadow ascended the steps and rang the same doorbell that he had approached the night before. But his manner today was different. He was carrying his pretended guise to the limit — ready to play the full part of Lamont Cranston, millionaire who took life comfortably and without hurry.
The Shadow’s ring was answered promptly. Not by Perkins, but by a bulky chap who was obviously a plainclothes man. He growled a challenge; The Shadow responded by quietly naming himself as Lamont Cranston. The dick nudged his thumb inward.
“Go on upstairs,” he remarked. “The commissioner said to send you up.”
Strolling up to the second floor, The Shadow found a group of four persons assembled in Tilton’s filing room. Tilton himself was there; also Perkins, the butler. Detective Joe Cardona was also present. The last man of the group was a dynamic, military-looking man who wore a sharply pointed mustache.
This was Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. The important official swung about as The Shadow entered. Recognizing the hawk-like face, he advanced with extended hand. For Ralph Weston acknowledged Lamont Cranston as a friend.
“HELLO, Cranston,” greeted the commissioner. “I’m glad you finally arrived here. We’ve been discussing last night’s business.”
“Which I was fortunate enough to avoid,” returned The Shadow, in an easy dry tone that suited the character of Cranston. “I saw the account of the battle in the morning newspaper. Unfortunate, Mr. Tilton,” — he turned to the old collector — “that your guest was slain in the struggle. What was the chap’s name? Wickford?”
“Wickroft,” corrected Weston. “But there was nothing unfortunate about that, Cranston. The fellow was a crook.”
“Indeed! That is surprising news. I saw nothing to that effect in the morning papers.”
“We managed to keep it from the press, until after we looked into the case. We couldn’t suppress the fact, though, that Wickroft was Stanton Treblaw’s secretary. And the newspapers have scented a link between the two cases.”
“Most interesting, commissioner.”
A pause. Weston turned to Cardona. He asked what questions the detective had. Cardona turned to The Shadow.
“I had a hunch, Mr. Cranston,” he said, “that you might have spotted something wrong hereabouts. Mr. Tilton tells us that you left just after Wickroft arrived. Did you notice anyone lurking about outside?”