“I saw you, Monsieur L’Ombre, during the fray in the Montmartre. I guessed the part that you were playing. I knew that when I called Monsieur le Prefet tonight, he might in turn call you. He did; and you cooperated. So we are here, in Zemba’s headquarters, our quest completed, so far as stolen goods are concerned. Our next step, Monsieur L’Ombre, is to capture Gaspard Zemba!”
The real Robeq extended his hand to the false Robeq, who smiled and received it. Harry and Cliff put away their automatics, for the agents were in charge. The Shadow’s agents stepped over to join the former Robeq, whom the real detective had identified as The Shadow.
“Your version of the story, Monsieur L’Ombre,” suggested the police prefect. “It may have details which Monsieur Robeq has not given us.”
“Quite true.” Drawing himself a full inch taller, the former Robeq faced his listeners. “However, Robeq has told enough. I have another matter to discuss. It concerns Gaspard Zemba!”
Listeners were intent. None were glancing toward the far curtain; but glances to that spot would have been futile. The face of Gaspard Zemba had withdrawn. His form could no longer be seen beyond the drapes.
“Gaspard Zemba” — keenly, the listeners harkened to the pronouncement of the name, since it came from The Shadow’s lips — “Gaspard Zemba is a man of many devices. But even he was deceived by your strategy, Robeq. He thought that you — as Herbert Balliol — must actually be The Shadow.”
Robeq nodded, pleased at The Shadow’s corroboration.
“Zemba believed that you were The Shadow,” resumed the speaker, “and, therefore, he wondered what had become of Etienne Robeq. What do you suppose that Zemba decided? I can answer. He came to the conclusion that Robeq had taken to the underworld; that there — on certain occasions — he actually showed the boldness of pretending that he was Gaspard Zemba!
“So Gaspard Zemba connived a scheme of his own. He decided that he could play a similar game. If Robeq could be Zemba; then Zemba could be Robeq. Like yourself, Robeq, Zemba made the mistake of supposing the game to be a double one. But that was incorrect. The game was played three ways!”
A sudden startlement flickered upon the features of Robeq as he surveyed this speaker whom he thought was The Shadow. The others saw the look and understood it. Before any could make a move, the climax came. The man whom they thought to be The Shadow began to speak again. This time his voice took on an insidious snarl; his square face instantly displayed a hideous leer.
“Fools!” he challenged. “You never guessed my game! You thought first that I was Robeq! Now, you take me for The Shadow! I am neither! I am Gaspard Zemba.”
WITH that, he swung his left hand upward, spreading thumb and fingers. All were straightened stiffly, a peculiarity that Eric Delka had often noticed with this man who he thought was Robeq.
“You want proof that I am Zemba?” came the snarled query. “Look! At this third finger! I no longer have use for it!”
With the second finger of his right hand, the revealed Zemba snapped the third digit of his left. The top portion of that third finger popped away. It struck bare floor beyond a rug and clattered there, an empty shell of metal that had been fitted to the stump which now showed upon its owner’s left hand.
“You saw that finger often,” snarled Zemba, to Delka. “But you never suspected it to be a fake. The coloring was perfect. It fitted tightly, held by suction. It filled my glove, which it wore often. But enough! Come, Rusanne! Show these fools how helpless they are.”
Grinning like a little ape, Sergeant Rusanne swung to the agents. He barked an order. The entire squad used their revolvers to cover Robeq. Clandine, Delka and The Shadow’s agents. The four prisoners who had been trapped by Harry, Cliff and Robeq, were automatically freed!
The odds had twisted about. Instead of fifteen holding four; fourteen now covered five. The picked squad of agents was composed of crooks. Sergeant Rusanne, the prefect’s trusted aid, was a tool of Gaspard Zemba!
A laugh came from the supercrook.
“How did the underworld know that Robeq was in Paris?” jeered Zemba. “Through Rusanne! How were documents stolen from the French government? Through Rusanne! Yes, Rusanne, with Zemba in back of him!
“How did I know everything? Why did I play the part of Robeq with security? Because I had Rusanne. Remember, Monsieur le Prefet — when I first appeared as Robeq, we arranged that all contact should be through Sergeant Rusanne!
“That was how I learned of meddling tonight. Because you heard from Robeq directly — and not through Rusanne. Of course, you called me; you did not know me to be Gaspard Zemba. So I told Rusanne to have his picked agents ready.
“These are Apaches whom Rusanne summoned from their caveau, where I have kept them in readiness. There are no agents anywhere about. Fools, you fell for everything that I proposed. To-morrow, Delka was to meet with Zemba, to transfer the money and receive the plans. Certainly, he would have met with Zemba. For he would have met me. No chance for any interference, while I — accepted as Robeq — was arranging the details.”
A MOMENTARY pause. The ex-prisoners had been frisking the new captives. The five helpless men were thrust back toward the fireplace. Zemba ordered Rusanne to send the false agents into the hall. He had enough men to hold these prisoners helpless.
“To-morrow,” scoffed the supercrook, “I shall gain my millions. It will be easy. Rusanne and I shall arrange it. Monsieur le Prefet has gone from Paris, so Rusanne will say. I shall state that Delka is at my hotel.
“We shall keep you as hostages until we gain the millions. After that — death. All of you will be useless. There will be no one to trouble me.” Zemba’s face hardened suddenly. “None except The Shadow. Peste! I had forgotten him — that masquerader who has tried at intervals to pass himself as an imitation of Zemba. Bah! He could never succeed with it. Not while he has this finger!”
Zemba leered and pointed to his left hand, to indicate the single-knuckled stump. Contemptuous grins showed on the faces of the crooks whom he had rescued. Suddenly, Zemba’s expression changed.
“Wait!” he exclaimed. “The Shadow — as Zemba — those guards below—”
He darted a look at Robeq, who was minus the blue-tinted glasses that he had used as a device to cover the fact that his eyes lacked the keenness of The Shadow’s. Robeq blinked slightly. Zemba scowled.
“The guards below!” he stormed. “You did not capture them as I had supposed. You captured no one except the men within this room. Perhaps The Shadow—”
Zemba stopped, abruptly interrupted. A taunting sound was rising from the far corner of the room. A burst of sinister mirth that came as a counter challenge to the devices of a supercrook. Shuddering laughter broke with quivering echoes. Gaspard Zemba wheeled.
Curtains had parted by the farther door, at the left. There, cloaked in his garb of black, stood The Shadow!
CHAPTER XXII
THE LAST RECKONING
A LONE fighter, faced by a horde of foes. Such was The Shadow’s status, here in the headquarters of Gaspard Zemba. The Shadow had penetrated to a spot of utmost danger. He was faced by double duty. A battle must be won; five prisoners must be rescued.
Ever since that night when Zemba had circled Paris aboard the blue cars of the Mediterranean Express, The Shadow had been playing a dangerous role. Previously, he had spotted the caveau where Georges and Bantoire met with Jacques. Bantoire had been right. The Shadow had been watching their hide-out, spying on them, even in its depths.