HARRY VINCENT had not been idle. With drawn automatic, he had rendered an accompaniment to the staccato melody of The Shadow’s smoking weapons. His bullets, too, were headed toward that door where death was coming to men who deserved the end that they received.
The Shadow’s fire ceased. Harry Vincent’s automatic, far behind the rapid fire of his chief, delivered two blasts that sounded puny after The Shadow’s fierce barrage. Harry suddenly realized that he stood alone; that The Shadow had swept back to that darkened doorway by the passage.
Doctor Wesley Harlow had dropped into the corner. The handcuffed physician had been safe. No mobster had gained a chance to aim at his seated form. Harry saw a glint of satisfaction in Harlow’s eyes as the physician saw the huddled form of Tex Lowner.
The torturer was dead. No more did Harlow need to fear his threat. Tex Lowner was the only man who had known the whereabouts of Harlow’s brother Merle — otherwise Lefty Yates. The fraternal cause for which Wesley Harlow had striven would never be subject to betrayal.
Then Harry saw Joe Cardona, standing above the prostrate form of Folsom Satruff. The detective had beckoned to Bartlett Okum. The old secretary was by his side. Cardona thrust a gun into Okum’s hand and leaped to the doorway to fire at the fleeing mobsters.
Harry joined Joe Cardona. He had seen the detective place Satruff in Okum’s charge. Then came a shriek that made Harry turn. Folsom Satruff, with a sudden twist, had risen from the floor. He was yanking the revolver from Bartlett Okum’s tensing hand!
A sweep of Satruff’s arm — the weapon caught Okum a glancing blow on the head. The secretary sprawled. Satruff, with a fiendish cry, was ready to aim to kill. Harry, responding to the emergency, aimed his automatic to fire at the fiend. The gun was empty. Harry, as on another night, had loosed his entire charge in the fray.
Joe Cardona whirled. Satruff was ready. His first shot, Harry knew would be directed toward the detective, for Cardona held a gun. The next would be a bullet for Harry; then Wesley Harlow, handcuffed, would be the final victim.
In one stroke, with three shots of timely aim, Folsom Satruff could clear his way to freedom! Harry, with only moments at his disposal, sprang forward to prevent Satruff’s deeds of death. The Shadow’s agent caught the villain’s arm.
The revolver roared as the flame shot past Harry’s ear. The shot went above Cardona’s head, for Harry had spoiled the aim. Then the barrel of the gun thudded sidewise against Harry’s head; The Shadow’s agent dropped, groggy from the blow. He saw Satruff’s gloating face.
Cardona had dropped to cover. Satruff, with a croaking cry of triumph, whirled toward the room. Harry saw the gloating expression vanish. Weakly, The Shadow’s agent followed the quick aim of the revolver as the villain turned its muzzle straight across the strong-room.
The Shadow!
HARRY saw the phantom master in the doorway; he heard the peal of taunting laughter that came from obscured lips; he heard the mighty thunder of the black-garbed fighter’s gun. A gasp came from Folsom Satruff. The villain’s revolver dropped from his clawing fingers. Harry Vincent thrust up an arm to ward off the toppling weight as Satruff’s body came sprawling straight down upon him.
Eerie echoes died. The Shadow’s laugh had marked his swift departure. The master of the night had completed his mission. He was gone through the passage by which he had entered to begin the desperate fray.
Harry Vincent, rolling to his feet, was startled by the sound of distant shots. They came from the direction of the Sound — from far across the spreading lawn in front of the great mansion. Seizing Satruff’s gun, Harry leaped to the side of Joe Cardona. The detective was standing just within the outer door, his eyes on Folsom Satruff’s dead form.
In alarm, Harry and the detective looked out toward the lawn. They heard the shrill blast of a whistle.
Then came quick shots. Scattering forms were doubling back toward the house. Tiny spurts of flame marked the positions of the men who were pursuing them.
Flashlights gleamed. A man came running up toward the house. He cried out to Cardona, framed in the light of the doorway. Cardona recognized the voice and answered. The man shouted to those men who were following behind him.
“It’s Markham!” exclaimed Cardona. “Detective Sergeant Markham! He’s got a squad with him—”
Four detectives came surging into the strong-room. They saw that Cardona was in charge. Markham began to puff his congratulations. He stopped as two more detectives arrived. Cardona’s jaw dropped as he saw the man behind them.
Commissioner Ralph Weston! Cardona was too astounded to utter a word. It was fortunate for him that he did not speak. The commissioner was advancing with extended hand toward the detective.
“Great work, Cardona!” The commissioner’s tone was filled with admiration. “I knew you would be on the job. That’s why I followed your instructions to the letter.”
Before Cardona could make a remark, Weston added:
“You worked it just right. When you called and told me to have a squad posted along the Sound at eleven o’clock, I wanted to know more. I was annoyed, Cardona, when you ended the conversation so abruptly. I realized though, that calling from here, you might have to be short in your statements.
“We saw the raiders enter from the distance. Just caught a glimpse by the light of the door. We were ready when you scattered them. Who’s this one — the leader?”
Weston was pointing to the body of Tex Lowner. Joe Cardona nodded.
“Yeah,” said the detective. “He was the leader of the mobsters—”
“Ah!” Weston had spied Harlow in the corner. “So you caught the real crook?”
“Yes.” Cardona’s reply was grim. Striding over, the detective unlocked Harlow’s wrists. He turned and pointed to a body crumpled face downward. The gray hair meant nothing to Weston until a detective rolled the corpse upon its back.
“Folsom Satruff!” gasped Weston. “You let him—”
“He got what he deserved,” broke in Cardona. “He was the real crook, commissioner. We have the goods on him. Harlow and Okum are innocent. Here is the evidence!”
The detective stepped across the strong-room and swung the door of the vault fully open. He pulled out boxes and other detectives moved to aid him.
BUNDLES of bank notes, crisp and new as they had been when rifled from vaults by Satruff’s henchmen; packages of valuable securities; stacks of gold coins; drawers filled with pilfered jewels — these were obvious evidence of Satruff’s crime.
No man, other than a criminal who feared discovery, would have kept such hoardings in his own house.
Millions of stolen wealth — these were the spoils of Folsom Satruff — millions beside which the vaunted gifts of Dorand, the false philanthropist, were but puny offerings.
Leaving this discovery to the eager police commissioner, Joe Cardona rubbed his hand to his forehead.
The rushing sequence of events had dazed the star detective. He wanted air — fresh air — and he went to get it, through the door that led to Satruff’s front lawn.
He found Harry Vincent standing there with Doctor Wesley Harlow. As Cardona joined the pair, Harry spoke congratulatory words in which Harlow joined. These came as a relief to Joe Cardona. He realized that the two must have come to some agreement. They would stand by Cardona and let him hold the credit which he had received.
Cardona did not worry about Bartlett Okum. He knew that the old servant would say nothing. The detective smiled grimly as he realized that he was to receive full approval without question; that his report would be accepted without mention of The Shadow.
For Police Commissioner Ralph Weston would have doubted all veracity had Joe Cardona been forced to include The Shadow’s name. The commissioner, away from the active crimes in which The Shadow brought such able aid to the law, had never gained the proof of The Shadow’s prowess as had Detective Joe Cardona.