A mobster swung from the library door as The Shadow arrived at the spot. A revolver barrel glimmered between The Shadow’s eyes. A bulky finger pressed against the trigger just as The Shadow’s right arm swung up.
With a cannonlike roar the gangster’s gat dispatched its hot lead a half-inch past The Shadow’s forehead. The bullet’s swish was felt as the missile sped through the brim of the slouch hat. The Shadow’s left hand pressed the trigger of the automatic. The gangster swayed and began to crumple.
The Shadow’s left arm caught the falling gorilla. With the mobster’s body as a shield, The Shadow aimed his right hand across the fellow’s shoulder. Cold, steely eyes glared from beneath the hat brim toward a trio of mobsters who had backed to the veranda door.
ONE gorilla fired while the others sprang pell-mell through the open doorway. The Shadow, timing his shift to the upraised gun, delivered a weird laugh as the revolver bullet singed his right cheek. His automatic barked. The mobster fell, his finger trembling on the trigger of his gun.
The Shadow dropped the dead gorilla whom he had taken as a shield. Extinguishing the library light, he crouched toward the open door and reached the veranda with his stooped gliding motion. Fleeting mobsters had leaped from the parapet. The Shadow gained that vantage point.
Scattered gorillas, leaderless, had given up the attack on Montgard. Spreading through the darkness, they were closing in on the spot where The Shadow agents lay in ambush. Determined to clear this nest of enemies, they were firing as they approached. Cliff and Harry, prone in a ditch between two bushes, were answering with staccato shots.
The Shadow opened fire. With uncanny precision, he picked the flashes of gangster guns. Snarling cries came from the lawn. Futile shots were loosed toward the veranda.
Open warfare in the dark; such was the battle now. The Shadow, from the parapet, was making a grim fight to protect his agents from the sniping fire of vengeful mobsters. The outcome was in the balance. Harry and Cliff were in a spot from which they could not retreat.
Then came the long glare from headlights as an automobile swept into the driveway. The first car was followed by a second. As the first approached, a searchlight swung across the lawn. It stopped to show a gangster ducking for cover. A rifle shot burst from the car.
The driver stopped short in front of the great house. While he operated the searchlight, his companions piled from the automobile. Sheriff Burton Haggar had arrived with a crew of deputies.
THE fight was ended. Fleeing gorillas were scampering to cover. They were human targets for the rifle fire of skilled rural marksmen. Sprawling figures adorned the lawn, whenever the searchlight picked out a new ruffian.
Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland had lost no time. Coming from their ditch, they made haste off through the bushes, taking a sure path to safety. Unseen by the sheriff and his men, their escape was quick and easy.
A weird laugh came from the veranda. The Shadow, from this spot of security, had watched the defeat of Mallet Haverly’s hordes. His gibing tones indicated that he had foreseen this outcome; that his fight against surpassing numbers had been a battle against time.
Crouching, The Shadow gained the library. He closed the oak door behind him. The black cloak swished as The Shadow groped his way toward the bookcase in the corner.
A few moments later, the light clicked on. The Shadow was no longer visible. In his place stood Lamont Cranston. A smile upon his thin lips, this visitor to Montgard left the library and strolled along the passage toward the turret.
Once more in the guise of the New York millionaire, The Shadow was acting as the host of Montgard. While Jarvis Raleigh and Quarley were cowering in the living room, Lamont Cranston was quietly preparing to meet the sheriff and his men.
The Shadow had waged victorious battle; now it was his purpose to play a new part in the odd events to follow.
CHAPTER XXII
SOLVED SECRETS
LAMONT CRANSTON was standing at the inner door of the turret. His tall form cast a strange, elongated shadow across the tiled floor. Sheriff Burton Haggar, entering with two men behind him, stopped short at the sight of this waiting figure.
“Who are you?” challenged Haggar. “Where is Jarvis Raleigh?”
The two men behind the sheriff came in view. One was a tall, light-haired young man whose face showed perplexity. The other was stocky and swarthy-faced. It was he who hastened forward, with outstretched hand.
“Hello, Mr. Cranston!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing out here?”
“Good evening, Detective Cardona,” returned Cranston, with his thin smile. “I happen to be a guest of Jarvis Raleigh. I am the one who should be surprised to see you here.”
“You know this man?” queried Haggar, turning to Cardona.
“Certainly,” returned Cardona, “Mr. Cranston is a prominent man in New York. He’s a famous traveler. Has a home over in New Jersey.”
Lamont Cranston had stepped back into the house. He was glancing to the right as Cardona spoke to Haggar. He raised his hand and beckoned.
“Here comes Mr. Raleigh now,” remarked Cranston. “He seems to be quite all right.”
Jarvis Raleigh was pale as he arrived by the door. He stared at Cranston as though viewing a ghost. Then, turning to Sheriff Haggar, he spoke in a worried tone.
“Quarley is wounded,” explained Raleigh. “I helped him into the dining room—”
“Here is the physician,” interposed Haggar, as a stout man entered the turret from outside. “Will you attend to Quarley, Doctor Meadows?”
The physician nodded and went along the passage. Jarvis Raleigh, peaked of face, kept shaking his head as questions came to him. He nodded when Haggar introduced Cardona; then stared as the sheriff pointed to the light-haired chap who had come with him and the detective.
“This gentleman,” declared Haggar, “is a relative of yours. Stokes Corvin, recently arrived from England—”
“Stokes Corvin!” gasped Raleigh. “Stokes Corvin is dead! There is his body, by the outer door—”
JOE CARDONA had produced a flashlight. He spread a luminous circle about the face of the man who had called himself Stokes Corvin. The dead visage was staring upward. Cardona growled in recognition.
“One mug that never was in the rogue’s gallery,” asserted the detective. “A smart crook that always kept out of sight — it was just luck that I saw him once so I can identify him. I’ll tell you who he is — Rags Wilkey, the brains behind Mallet Haverly, the racketeer.
“An international confidence man, this fellow. He’s been laying low since I heard he was with Mallet. He’s just the bird who could have passed himself as you, Mr. Corvin.”
Cardona reached down and drew out an envelope that was projecting from the dead man’s pocket. He produced the letter and opened it.
“Get this,” announced Joe, “It’s a note from Mallet Haverly to Rags Wilkey. It says that Mallet got cigarette message sixteen from the lawn; that he’ll be ready with the crew at the front; to leave the side door open—”
“That letter came tonight,” exclaimed Jarvis Raleigh. “Stokes — I mean this crook who called himself Stokes Corvin — knew that he would receive his mail unopened—”
“Here’s more of it,” interrupted Cardona. “It says to look out for The Shadow — maybe he knows what Luskin told us. Luskin” — Cardona paused reflectively — “say, there was a fellow by that name put on the spot not long ago—”
“Luskin was a servant here,” interposed Raleigh. “He was in my father’s employ. He must have learned the secret of this tower. The Shadow — could he be the one who was up there?”
Jarvis Raleigh pointed to the turret high above. He added awed words: