Shadowed Millions s-21

by Maxwell Grant

  appeared dead. The killer went to the third victim. Jermyn was alive, groaning monotonously. His eyes

  were closed. The slayer listened. The groaning stopped.

  Now came a disturbing sound that attracted the murderer's attention. It was the clicking of the telephone

  receiver. The killer listened intently. He realized that the shots must have been heard by the central

  operator. That meant that help might already be on the way!

  The beams of the flashlight showed the killer's right hand with its menacing weapon. Beyond the revolver

  was the face of Jermyn.

  The man's eyes opened. They saw the hand in front of the light. The killer, listening, was not watching

  Jermyn. Up came Jermyn's hands. With a wild, renewed frenzy, he grasped the revolver and tried to

  wrest it from the hand that held it.

  The struggle was on again. Dropping his light, the maddened murderer tried to beat Jermyn's hand from

  the barrel of the revolver. He still held the butt, and his finger found the trigger. He fired to no avail.

  Jermyn had turned the muzzle of the gun away.

  With a quick twist, Jermyn managed to yank the revolver from the man who held it. The weapon

  clattered across the floor as Jermyn flung it toward the wall.

  Heavy fists struck downward. The fierce murderer pounded the man beneath him. His fingers clutched

  Jermyn's throat. A thumb pressed deeply into the flesh. Jermyn suddenly relaxed.

  It was not the choking that had overcome him. His wound was a mortal one. He had been fighting on

  nerve alone. Now, his strength was gone.

  The murderer knew that his victim lived no longer. With a low, muttered exclamation, he arose and

  picked up the glowing flashlight. Then he paused and extinguished the light. Some one was pounding at

  the outer door of the apartment, the way by which the killer had entered.

  Help was here. Escape must be made at once. The killer pushed the button of the flashlight. The rays

  turned toward Martin Powell. Beside the investigator lay the automatic which Powell had used so

  ineffectually.

  In the murderer's mind were two thoughts. First to escape; second, to carry a weapon with him.

  His own gun was gone. It was the object of his search. He wanted his own revolver, but the heavy

  beating at the door was alarming. There was no time for either choice or delay. The hand of the killer

  seized the automatic. The man dashed toward a window, extinguishing the light as he went.

  Peering from the window, he saw the balcony of a fire tower. He drew up the sash, swung his body

  clear, and clung to a cornice as he stretched toward the rail. He lost his footing, but his wild, clutching

  hands managed to grasp the rail.

  The escaping killer pulled himself to safety and began a mad flight down the steps of the tower.

  Back in the room where three men lay, all was silent, save for the sound of pounding that came from the

  outer door, far down the hallway. Then the pounding ceased suddenly. The rescuers, thwarted, had gone

  for assistance.

  Silence followed. Then a slight moan. One of the three was not dead. A second moan; then silence. From

  far down the hall came a distant click, as though the lock of the heavy outer door had yielded. A few

  seconds passed, then the silence of the room was broken by a new sound that was scarcely audible.

  Something was swishing through the darkness. A tiny ray of light gleamed along the wall. A spot, no

  larger than a silver dollar, was focused upon the light switch which the murderer had pressed. A hand

  reached forth and pressed the switch.

  Some one had entered this room of death!

  CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW KNOWS

  ONCE again, the office of John Hendrix was flooded with light. This room, the most secluded in the

  apartment, presented a gruesome sight.

  Two of the fallen men were unmistakably dead. One was John Hendrix; the other was Jermyn. Only

  Martin Powell still lived. He was the one who had moaned. Even now, his lips were moving.

  In the midst of the scene of carnage stood a tall man clad in black. The Shadow had arrived too late to

  prevent the killings; now was his opportunity to learn the identity of the murderer.

  One man could tell. That was Martin Powell. The Shadow leaned over the form of the dying investigator.

  The man's eyes were glassy as they opened to stare at the shape in black. A low, whispered question

  came from hidden lips. Powell tried to nod in response. Another question; a second attempt at a nod.

  Powell's lips quivered, but no sound came from them. The investigator was trying to speak. The

  Shadow's left hand peeled the black glove from the right. A slender, pointed fingertip rested upon those

  trembling lips.

  With keen, sensitive touch, The Shadow felt the words that Martin Powell attempted to say. The effort

  ended with a single sentence.

  Gently, The Shadow rested the body on the floor. Martin Powell was dead. In his last moments, he had

  managed to convey a message that was understood.

  A new pounding began at the outer door. The Shadow ignored it. He replaced his glove on his right

  hand. He went to the desk and noted the papers which lay there.

  With calm deliberation, he studied the documents. They disappeared beneath the folds of the black robe.

  These links between John Hendrix and Alvarez Legira would not remain as evidence.

  Crash!

  The outer door was breaking under the power of terrific crashes. The rescuers, returned to their work,

  were smashing their way into the apartment. Still, The Shadow was indifferent.

  His eyes spied the revolver that lay against the wall. The Shadow looked toward the body of Jermyn.

  Visualizing the scene, he realized that this must be the murderer's gun.

  Advancing to the wall, The Shadow carefully raised the weapon by the barrel and held it in the light. A

  soft laugh came from his concealed lips as he replaced the revolver where it had lain.

  Now he was looking for something else, searching in the vicinity of the spot where Martin Powell lay.

  The Shadow was hunting for the investigator's gun. His search ended abruptly. Again, The Shadow

  laughed.

  The driving blows were louder, now. Men were pounding their way through the outer bulwark. The

  Shadow, ever calm, leaned close to the body of Jermyn and noted the marks upon the dead servant's

  throat. Now, he was at the door of the room, picturing the scene from its beginning.

  WITH rapid strides, the man in black crossed the room and looked at the raised sash of the window. His

  keen eyes were close to the woodwork. There he spied new marks.

  Back at the desk, The Shadow paused to make a final inspection. While there, he noted a tiny edge of a

  sheet of paper projecting from beneath a blotting pad. The Shadow drew out the sheet. It consisted of

  memoranda made by John Hendrix.

  Legira—Cody—nine o'clock—these words stood out among the others. The Shadow glanced at the

  clock on the desk. It registered twenty-two minutes after nine.

  Now came a bursting crash from the distant end of the hall. It was followed by a terrific thud and the

  excited shouts of half a dozen men.

  Swiftly, The Shadow reached the wall and extinguished the light. Scarcely had the room been plunged in

  darkness before footsteps came pounding down the hall.

  The black cloak swished as The Shadow strode to the window. The light of a bull's-eye lantern threw its

  beams upon the floor as the first of the rescuers ente
red. The light turned toward the wall. Had its sweep

  continued, it would have shown The Shadow at the window.

  But at that instant, a shot rang out. From beneath his cloak, The Shadow had drawn an automatic. The

  position of the man who held the lantern was such that the light extended before him. The Shadow, firing,

  had taken its glare as a target.

  With the crack of the gun, the lantern was shattered. Confused cries sounded in the darkened room.

  Some one pressed the wall switch. By the door stood a group of uniformed men—police and attendants

  connected with the apartment building. Near the wall was a man in plain clothes.

  It was Joe Cardona, the detective. He had arrived to direct the smashing of the door. It was Cardona

  who had held the lantern. Now he was fuming at the man who had pressed the wall switch. The action

  had made targets of these rescuers.

  Cardona was noted for his quick response in time of danger. Even while he uttered his wrath because of

  the folly of a subordinate, he was turning toward the window from which the unexpected shot had come.

  He caught only a fleeting glimpse of a form that was swinging out through the window. Cardona pointed

  his revolver and fired—a fifth of a second too late.

  “Come on! Get him!”

  Cardona was leading the pursuit. Outside the window, The Shadow, swinging invisibly through the

  darkness, gained the rail of the fire tower. He was out of sight when Cardona reached the window.

  “Below there!”

  Cardona's shout was answered. A light gleamed upward to show the detective's face. Cardona, upon

  arriving with his squad, had ordered men to surround the apartment house.

  “See any one?” called Cardona.

  “No!” came the reply.

  “He's going down the fire tower,” shouted the detective.

  “We'll get him then”—the call was filled with confidence—“two men are on their way up.”

  “I'm coming along,” called Cardona, grimly.

  The detective swung from the window. He pulled himself along the cornice and clambered over the rail.

  He remembered then that he had no flashlight. Nevertheless, he boldly followed the path that he knew the

  fleeing man had taken.

  DASHING down the steps, the detective saw the glow of a light as he neared a corner. Cardona

  stopped abruptly, realizing that this must indicate the presence of the police coming from below.

  As he lingered, Cardona was startled by the roar of a revolver shot that sounded with cannonlike

  intensity. There was the sound of a scuffle on the steps. Cardona rushed to the fray. He saw a flashlight

  glimmering on the steps. He picked it up and the beams showed two men sprawled on the stairway.

  Their revolvers lay useless beside them. Both men appeared half stunned.

  More shots came crashing from below. Cardona hurried to the bottom of the steps. He encountered a

  policeman there. The officer recognized Cardona by the light that hung from the top of the fire-tower exit.

  “They're after him, chief,” exclaimed the policeman. “He busted out of here before we could stop him.

  Didn't know he was on us till he cracked Hickey over there—”

  The officer indicated another uniformed man who was seated, half dazed, against the wall opposite the

  fire tower. Cardona, his face red with anger, heard distant shots that indicated the pursuit was continuing.

  He knew that at least half a dozen men must be on the trail of the fugitive. He motioned to the policeman

  to follow him and started back up the stairway of the fire tower.

  Not for one moment did Cardona suspect that this amazing adversary had been The Shadow. The

  detective had been astonished to find a man still on the ground where three murders had been executed.

  Nevertheless, his mind ran to the obvious explanation: that the fugitive, whom he had scarcely seen, must

  be none other than the murderer.

  The men on the steps sheepishly gave their story. Sweeping like an avalanche from above, the man had

  dashed upon them from a corner of the stairway. They had fired in hope of hitting him, but had been

  unable to stop his savage attack.

  In all his experience with killers, Cardona had never encountered a man who had exhibited such

  successful daring. He had smashed his way through a cordon of police without firing a single shot. The

  only hope of capturing him now lay in the vigilance of those who had traveled in pursuit.

  The detective was disgruntled as he reached the floor upon which the death apartment was located. He

  was positive that the murderer had been within his clutches, only to elude him by a mad dash for safety.

  Blocks away, a trim coupe was whirling through traffic. Behind it came a siren-blowing car, with police

  hanging from the running board. The distance was too great for revolver fire.

  The coupe suddenly turned a corner. The police car reached the spot and swung after it. Down a narrow

  street the pursuers whirled; then swung left at a dead end.

  Hardly had the tail light disappeared before the coupe backed out from a narrow alley that ran between

  two high walls. Its lights had been turned out; now they came on and the coupe headed back the way it

  had come.

  The man at the wheel was invisible in the darkness of the car. As he drove leisurely along, he laughed

  softly and his mocking tones awoke strange echoes. The Shadow had eluded his pursuers. He was

  bound on new adventure.

  To-night, The Shadow had accomplished much since his arrival and departure from the apartment of

  John Hendrix. He had learned facts from the dying lips of Martin Powell. He had taken away documents

  that linked Alvarez Legira with John Hendrix. He had created the impression that the murderer was still

  on the premises when the police had arrived.

  What was the purpose of these actions? Was The Shadow protecting the man who had done the triple

  killing or was he subtly thwarting some scheme of evil? Had he, by his uncanny intuition, already

  discovered the identity of the murderer?

  Only one man in all the world could have answered those questions. That man was The Shadow himself.

  Cross-purposes had caused the death of three men. Crime was rampant, and to-night marked but the

  beginning of a series of evil deeds. Wealth and lives were at stake. Schemes were veiled by secrecy.

  What the future held was something that only The Shadow knew.

  The Shadow alone could avenge these deaths and prevent the dire results which crafty minds had

  planned!

  CHAPTER XIV. LEGIRA PROCEEDS

  “MR. LEGIRA to see you, sir.”

  The speaker was a watchman at the Baltham Trust Company.

  Roger Cody, the quiet-faced representative of John Hendrix, nodded and told the watchman to bring the

  visitor into the office. Cody sat back quietly in his chair and waited for Legira to appear.

  The suave South American entered and bowed, smilingly. Behind him was the stalwart form of his

  manservant, Francisco.

  Legira took a chair at Cody's invitation and Francisco stood silently in the corner of the little office.

  Cody and Legira had met before, so that introductions were unnecessary. To Cody, this evening's

  negotiation was no more than a matter of routine. Often, before, he had handled large affairs as

  representative for John Hendrix.

  There was only one point that caused doubt in Cody's mind. That was the lateness of Legira's arrival.

  The clock on the desk showed half past nine.

  “I ex
pected you before nine o'clock, Mr. Legira,” said Cody. “I thought you were not coming.”

  “I was unavoidably delayed,” returned Legira. “My man here”—he indicated Francisco—“did not meet

  me as I had intended. I was forced to wait for him a half hour.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Cody. “I see. However, it does not matter greatly, Mr. Legira. My instructions are to

  deliver to you a box which is in my possession. Owing to the nature of its contents, I was also told to

  have at your disposal a suitable method of transportation—namely an armored car—”

  “That is unnecessary, Mr Cody,” declared Legira, in a suave tone. “I am fully prepared to take care of

  the box in question. That has all been arranged with Mr. Hendrix.

  “It also accounts for my delay. I could not well come here without Francisco, as he is my trusted man

  who will help me with the transportation.”

  Roger Cody felt uneasy. He knew the general nature of this transaction. At the same time, he was used to

  obeying orders received from Hendrix.

  The financier had told him specifically that he should deliver the funds to Legira unless he heard to the

  contrary before nine o'clock. Cody had received no word from Hendrix, though he had supposed that

  the financier would call to let him know that the deal should proceed.

  Cody wondered whether or not he should call back to Hendrix, and was on the point of reaching for the

  telephone when he noticed the clock.

  It was half an hour after the stipulated time. Surely, Hendrix would have called if any change in plans had

  been made. The financier was a man who demanded obedience to the letter when he gave his orders.

  Legira sensed Cody's indecision. He spoke in a suave, easy tone that served to relieve the man's doubts.

  “I am late, Mr. Cody,” he said. “Suppose we complete this transaction as quickly as possible. I believe

  that Mr. Hendrix gave instructions to that effect?”

  “Very well,” said Cody.

  HE went to a safe in the corner of the room and opened the combination. Waving through the glass

  partition, he summoned the watchman.

  The bank attendant, aided by Francisco, drew forth a metal box, which was both bulky and heavy.

  “You will sign here, Mr. Legira,” said Cody, extending a paper.