THE CRIME CRYPT
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," June 15, 1934.

From deep within the earth, crime, planned by evil minds, springs forth!

CHAPTER I

A MAN OF MURDER

THE glare of a Manhattan evening flushed Times Square. Standing amid the
brilliant illumination of the Rialto, a young man surveyed the bright lights as
though they were a sight that he had long forgotten.
Lost among the myriads who strolled this dense district, the young man
remained unnoticed by those who passed him. Yet there was something in his
bearing that would have attracted attention had people paused to look at him.
His suave, mustached face; his shrewd, roving eyes; these were tokens of a
clever schemer - a man whose mind was trained to think in crime.
The young man noted a huge clock dial that glittered from the far side of
Broadway. It told the time as twenty minutes after eight. The observer shrugged
his shoulders, strolled leisurely along the street and hailed a taxicab. He gave
the driver an uptown address.
Twenty minutes later, the cab stopped in front of an old brownstone house.
The young man alighted and paid the driver. He ascended the steps and rang the
bell. A solemn-faced servant opened the door. The menial stepped back and bowed
as the young man entered.
"Good evening, Mr. Havelock," said the servant. "Your uncle is awaiting
your arrival. His attorney is here, sir."
"Very well, Calhoun," responded the young man. "I shall join them. Are
they in the living room?"
"Yes, sir."
The young man crossed the hall, opened a door and entered a lighted room.
Two gray-haired men looked up as he came in. One - a stooped shouldered old
fellow - arose to greet the visitor.
"Ah, Martin!" he exclaimed. "We have been awaiting you. This is Jason
Thunig, my attorney" - he was indicating the other gray-haired man as he spoke
- "and this, Jason, is my nephew, Martin Havelock."

JASON THUNIG arose to shake hands with Martin Havelock. To the lawyer, the
young man appeared clean cut. He liked the friendly smile that Havelock wore.
All traces of the schemer had faded from the young man's visage during the cab
ride from Times Square.
"Martin Havelock!" remarked Thunig. "Back in New York, after all these
years. Cecil Armsbury's nephew - in the flesh. You are to be congratulated,
Cecil" - Thunig turned to the stoop-shouldered man - "on having so fine a young
man as your one surviving relative."
"Martin and I have become friends already," asserted Cecil Armsbury, as he
took a chair and waved the others to seats. "I was greatly pleased when he
arrived from Mexico, two days ago. I have seen him but occasionally, however" -
old Armsbury was smiling - "because the lights of Broadway have lured him
downtown each evening."
"New York interests me," admitted Martin Havelock. "I haven't seen the old
town in a good many years. It is quite a change from Mexico. However, Uncle
Cecil, I remembered my appointment. Here I am."
The three men settled back in their chairs. Armsbury and Thunig were
smoking cigars. Martin Havelock lighted a cigarette and puffed it idly while he
surveyed the faces of his uncle and the attorney.
"Your arrival, Martin," remarked old Cecil Armsbury, "has proven a most
fortunate one. I have recently put my affairs in order; and Jason Thunig has
come up to discuss all the matters which concern my estate."
"Not a very complex task," declared Thunig, with a smile. "This home -
your holdings in stocks and bonds - those constitute your entire fortune,
Cecil."
"The value?"
"Between thirty and forty thousand dollars."
"Perhaps a trifle more," remarked Armsbury. "The few curios which I still
possess may bring fair value. Ah!" The old man shook his head sadly. "The
treasures which I once owned! I was forced to sell them, Martin, to finance the
many excursions which I made throughout the world."
"You were always a spender, Cecil," agreed Jason Thunig. "Nevertheless,
you have managed to retain a tidy sum of wealth. Your estate is a well-arranged
one. The securities are sound. This property has held its value."
"You are heir to it all, Martin," said Armsbury, smiling in kindly fashion
as he turned toward his nephew. "You - my one living relative."
"I appreciate it, Uncle Cecil," declared Havelock, in a voice which echoed
the old man's friendly tone. "My one hope, however, is that my inheritance shall
be long delayed. In fact, uncle, chance might make you my heir. All of my
Mexican mining properties are willed to you. They are worth many thousands -
those mines in Hidalgo."
"The old usually die before the young, Martin."
"Perhaps. My father died young - my mother also. However, uncle, my
purpose here is to enjoy a visit with you. I shall stay as long as possible;
after that, back to Mexico. My interests are too extensive to neglect."
"You are wise, Martin," nodded Jason Thunig, sagely. "It is excellent to
know that you have done so well. A stranger in a foreign land, you met with
great success. Commendable, Martin. Commendable!"

THE door of the living room opened as Thunig ceased speaking. It was
Calhoun who entered. The old servant was carrying a tray which bore a glass of
water and a bottle of large white tablets. The three men watched him set the
tray upon a table. Solemnly, Calhoun opened the bottle and poured out three
tablets which he dropped into the glass of water.
"Your medicine, sir," he said, turning to Cecil Armsbury. "About this
evening, sir - do you require me further?"
"No, Calhoun," returned Armsbury. "You may go."
The servant stalked from the room. Cecil Armsbury settled back to puff at
his cigar. His voice took on a reflective tone.
"Years have gone rapidly," he declared. "I have traveled far and often. To
many strange lands. Those days of journeying are ended. I am growing old. My
medicine! Bah!"
The old man scowled as he stretched forward a clawed hand and picked up
the glass. The tablets had dissolved while he was speaking. The water appeared
almost as clear as before.
"Every night," mused Armsbury. "Three tablets in a glass of water. A
stimulus for my weakening heart. I wonder why Calhoun did not put in the
tablets before he brought the glass in here. He usually does so." The old man
paused and frowned speculatively. "Calhoun is sometimes absent-minded. If he
put three tablets in before he entered - and three here - that would be a
double dose."
"Would it be serious?" questioned Thunig, anxiously.
"Probably fatal." Armsbury laughed at Thunig's expression of alarm. "But
do not worry. I can rely upon Calhoun."
"Perhaps it would be best to prepare another glass -"
"Foolishness, Jason," scoffed Armsbury. "If I worried over every
possibility of error that might mean my life, I should live a burdensome
existence. No, no. I have escaped death at the hands of wild African savages. I
have eluded well-aimed Tartar arrows. I passed through the Boxer uprising in
China. Folly, Jason, to think that a servant's error could possibly end my
adventurous career! After these tablets have thoroughly dissolved, I shall take
this medicine as is."
With a quiet laugh, old Armsbury placed the glass upon the table. Thunig
eyed it anxiously; then puffed at his cigar. Martin Havelock, idly lighting
another cigarette, showed little interest in the trend of conversation.
"Do you wish these statements, Cecil?" questioned Jason Thunig, extending
an envelope as he spoke to Armsbury.
"No, indeed, Jason," returned the old man. "You are my attorney. Keep
them."
"Very well." Thunig rose. "I must leave you, Cecil - and you, Martin. I am
expected downtown before half past ten."
Armsbury and his nephew arose. The old man conducted the lawyer to the
door and Martin Havelock followed. The nephew watched while his uncle showed
Thunig to the front door. Calhoun had evidently gone out.
Cecil Armsbury returned to find Martin Havelock standing just within the
doorway of the living room. The old man clapped his nephew on the shoulder.
"Wait here, Martin," he suggested. "I have some papers that I wish to give
you. They will interest you. I must go upstairs to obtain them." Armsbury's eyes
noted the glass upon the table. "I can take my medicine when I return. I shall
not be gone more than ten minutes."
The old man turned and walked from the room. Martin Havelock's lips became
suave as his ears heard the fading footsteps. The young man's face had resumed
its shrewd expression. From an idler, Martin Havelock had become a schemer.
Again, he was that keen, sharp-visaged individual who had stood in the light of
New York's Rialto.

WITH long, stealthy strides, Martin Havelock crossed the living room. His
eyes were fiendish as they gazed upon the bottle of white tablets. His hands
were steady as they uncorked the bottle and removed three of the large white
pills. One by one, the treacherous nephew dropped the tablets into the glass.
Then, as an afterthought, he added a fourth and finally a fifth.
Twisted, leering lips showed him to be a man who contemplated murder.
Carefully, Martin Havelock corked the bottle. He placed it beside the glass. He
noted that it still contained many pills. The fact that more had been added to
the tumbler of medicine would not be recognized.
Three might have been sufficient. Five was better. Dissolved pills could
not be counted. Calhoun would be to blame for this; and Jason Thunig, Cecil
Armsbury's attorney, would be a testifier to the fact that the servant must
have erred.
Martin Havelock's smile was evil. The young man watched the tablets
rapidly dissolve. The water was clearing almost to its original color. Murder
was in the making - murder that would be classed as accident.
Still standing by the table, Martin Havelock drew a cigarette from his
pocket. He placed it between his evil lips. His expression began to change,
turning mild for the part that he was to play upon his uncle's return.
Then came a sudden rigidity. Martin Havelock's changing appearance froze.
His face, half fiendish, half friendly, was caught in the midst of its
transformation. A chuckle from the doorway. Instinctively, Havelock wheeled.
With staring eyes, the young man gazed into the muzzle of a glistening
revolver. The gun was in the hand of Cecil Armsbury. The stoop-shouldered old
man, his lips spread in a gloating grin, had returned with stealthy tread.
Cecil Armsbury had trapped his treacherous nephew in the act of preparing
certain murder!

CHAPTER II

CROOKS OF A KIND

MARTIN HAVELOCK made no move as he stared into the muzzle of his uncle's
gun. The young man knew that he was caught; and in the face beyond that
revolver, he saw no mercy. Cecil Armsbury, like his nephew, had undergone a
change. The placid face of the old man had become the countenance of a fiend.
Again the chuckle. Havelock paled. He thought that he had previously
deceived his uncle. Now he knew that he was the one who had been fooled. There
was something monstrous in Armsbury's evil gloat.
"Sit down."
The command was accompanied by a gesture of the revolver. Martin Havelock
obeyed. Cecil Armsbury pocketed his revolver, taking it for granted that his
nephew was unarmed. The old man strode across the room, showing unusual agility
in his paces. With a cackling laugh, he picked up the glass of medicine and
drank it at a single draught. He set down the glass with a thump.
"Harmless," he chuckled. "White tablets of sugar. A little bit of by-play
performed by Calhoun at my order. It deceived you - as I expected. Well - what
do you have to say, Martin?"
"Nothing very much," returned the nephew, in a tone which showed a
resumption of his indifferent attitude. "I suppose this changes the will.
That's all."
"The law can deal with you."
"Hardly. You have drunk the evidence."
"A clever thought." The old man chuckled. "Well, Martin, I have put you to
the test. You played for thirty thousand dollars - perhaps forty - and you lost."
Martin Havelock merely smiled sourly and shrugged his shoulders. He did
not feel concerned by his uncle's malicious glare. Cecil Armsbury laughed.
"Thirty thousand. Quite a loss, Martin. Not much to a man who owns large
interests in Hidalgo silver mines, perhaps. But to a man who merely pretends to
own such wealth -"
Martin Havelock stared at his uncle; paused. The old man drew a large
envelope from his pocket.
"This contains the documents that I promised to show you," he declared. "I
had them in my pocket all the while. They contain proof that Martin Havelock
owns no mining interests in Mexico. They prove, moreover, that Martin Havelock
has not been living in Mexico. They tell a great deal, in addition, regarding
the affairs of a certain international crook who is known as Duke Larrin -"
With a furious cry of interruption, Martin Havelock was on his feet. His
spring toward Cecil Armsbury was stopped only by the old man's quick action.
Like a flash, Armsbury brought out his revolver and pointed it at his leaping
nephew. Havelock halted six feet from the old man's chair.

CECIL ARMSBURY cackled. He seemed to enjoy this turn of affairs. Martin
Havelock, seeing the threat in his uncle's eyes, retreated to his chair.
"Duke Larrin," announced Cecil Armsbury. "That is the name you have been
using. You are Duke Larrin - smooth crook who has worked in Paris, Berlin,
Vienna, along the Riviera.
"Like most men who have turned to crime, you have spent all that you have
made. Europe is no longer open to you. But you remembered that your old self -
Martin Havelock - had an uncle. You thought that you might be my heir. You came
to find out.
"Thirty thousand dollars! Bah! A paltry sum for a crook like Duke Larrin.
I lost my respect for you when I saw you, as a vulture, hovering by to wait for
me to die. That is why I put you to the test - to see if you would deal in
murder."
Martin Havelock stared as he heard these words. A new expression had
appeared upon his uncle's face - a look that showed a strange approval. Before
the young man could voice a question, Cecil Armsbury spoke again.
"You were my heir," declared the old man. "Thirty thousand dollars would
some day have been yours - had you balked at the chance to murder me and lay
the blame on someone else.
"But you made good in the test. You showed that murder was in your
category of crime. You are my heir no longer, Martin. You will be my partner -
an equal sharer in a sum that will exceed a million dollars!"
Armsbury's face was gleaming. Martin Havelock wondered if his uncle had
gone insane. The cunning look on the old man's face might be that of a maniac;
on the contrary, it showed amazing craft.
"To kill me, Martin," resumed the old man, with a cackle, "would be folly.
Your crime would rest upon you. Whatever you might reap would be lost. There are
reasons. But to become my partner - ah, there lies opportunity.
"I have been awaiting your arrival from Mexico ever since I gained this
information." The old man tapped his envelope with his revolver. "For I had
need of a partner of Duke Larrin's caliber. I merely required a test of your
nerve."
With a gesture of new friendship, the old man placed both revolver and
envelope upon the table. Each had been a threat - one of death; the other of
exposure. Martin Havelock, however, ignored them. His uncle smiled approvingly.
"You are with me, Martin," he stated.
"For half a million?" The young man laughed. "Sure thing. How did you find
out that I was Duke Larrin?"
"A friend who went to Mexico discovered that you were not living there. I
thought, perhaps, that crime was in your blood. The friend learned that you had
been in three European capitals. Through another man, I checked what was known
about the famous international crook, Duke Larrin. I learned sufficient to
identify him as you."
"I quit the Duke Larrin stuff for a while."
"Because you knew it was becoming unsafe."
"Yes. I landed back in Mexico - my hide-out - nearly broke. That's why I -"
"Why you came here. It was clever of you. A wise step, Martin. It has
paved the way to wealth for both of us."
"Through theft?"
"Yes. Murder, also."
"What is our game?"
"To acquire objects," smiled Armsbury, "that are worth nothing."

HAVELOCK stared. Again he felt the impression that his old uncle had lost
his mind. Armsbury saw the look and chuckled.
"Articles worth nothing," repeated the old man. "That is why they must be
gained. You may think that you are clever, Martin. You cannot match your uncle.
I have left a trail of strange swindles in my path. Once it is covered, our way
is clear to tremendous gain. Theft and murder are required."
The old man arose with surprising agility - a further proof that his
presumed illness had been a pretense. He crossed the living room and locked the
door. Striding to the far wall, he reached into the huge fireplace and pressed a
hidden switch.
Martin Havelock stared as he saw the rear of the fireplace slide upward
like a panel. The space revealed was of considerable size. Stooping, the old
man entered. He turned and beckoned. Havelock joined him. Armsbury pressed
another switch. The floor of the fireplace descended like an elevator, into
blackness.
Then came light - a dim glow that showed a small vaulted room. An iron
door lay beyond. Armsbury led the way. He pressed at the side of the door. It
slid away and showed a crypt beyond.
Into this larger chamber went uncle and nephew. Their footsteps awoke
hollow echoes in the dim crypt.
Each wall had a door. Cecil Armsbury opened the farther one. His nephew
gasped at the sight of gleaming objects that flashed even in this dull light.
Golden Buddhas with glittering emerald eyes; strange scrolls of yellow metal;
these were samples of the treasure that lay revealed.

"STOLEN goods," chuckled Cecil Armsbury. "Spoils from Chinese palaces;
from Hindu temples; from Persian mosques. Some are worth much because of the
precious metal and jewels which they contain. Others have value because of
their rarity. The time has arrived, Martin, to turn the contents of this crypt
into cash. But before we can do so, we must steal - and slay!"
"Why?"
"Because of my past!" Armsbury gripped his nephew by the arm and spoke in
a cackle that was harsh within the confines of the crypt. "I have sold
treasures in the past. I have gained fame as a discoverer of unknown relics.
But in my dealings with men who had wealth to spend, I used cunning methods.
"I sold them fakes! The jeweled Vishnu from Hyderabad" - the old man
paused to raise one finger - "was the first. The golden panel from the Temple
of Heaven in the Forbidden City. That was the second. The sacred scroll from
Kaaba, in Mecca" - Armsbury was chuckling - "was the third. Last of all, the
collection of antiquities which I sold to the Egyptian Museum.
"All are impositions. I manufactured those supposed treasures. I gained
large sums through their sale. I kept my real treasures for myself. Now,
however, I am faced with exposure. Should my swindles be discovered, all would
be lost. My reputation would be ended."
The old man paused in solemn fashion. Martin Havelock nodded with
understanding.
"You mean," declared the nephew, "that your first step must be the
regaining of the fraudulent items that you have placed in other hands."
"Exactly," stated Armsbury. "More than that: the fake treasures must be
destroyed and their owners eliminated. Theft and murder must come from someone
other than myself. The first three items that I have named are owned by
individuals. Those men must die when their treasures are taken.
"The antiquities in the museum can be regained last of all. No one need
die when they are stolen; but there, Martin, we can play a double game. With
the fake items, we can also steal real treasure - objects of fabulous wealth -
which are in the Egyptian Museum along with the fake antiquities. The trail
will be ended. The road to millions will be ours!"
Martin Havelock was sober. His uncle watched him narrowly, as though
divining the young man's thoughts. A smile flickered on Cecil Armsbury's face
even before the nephew spoke.
"Suspicion," declared Havelock, "is to be kept from you. Yet I - as your
nephew -"
"Cannot commit the crimes," interposed Armsbury, with a cunning grin. "But
as Duke Larrin, the international crook, you have every opportunity. Your task
will be to form a band of clever workers. This crypt will be your headquarters.
Here, as the leader, you can give your orders and send the henchmen forth upon
their work!"

STRIDING across the crypt, Cecil Armsbury opened a door at the side. He
pointed to a darkened corridor which formed a long tunnel leading from the
crypt.
"This will be the mode of entrance," declared the old man. "The shaft to
my living room will remain unknown to your band. I shall not appear. You will
live quietly in my home, as my nephew, Martin Havelock.
"But as Duke Larrin, crook supreme, it will be your part to launch crime
so baffling that no one in all New York can ever suspect its source!"
Chuckling, Cecil Armsbury faced his nephew in the crypt. A leering smile
appeared upon Martin Havelock's lips. Uncle and nephew - both were crooks of a
kind. They saw alike. The time had come to act.
Amazing, baffling crime was in the making; its font was to be this hidden
crypt where only men of evil could assemble. Cecil Armsbury had found the man
he needed. Lives were at stake and the schemes of these potential murderers
were buried as deeply as the crypt itself!

CHAPTER III

THE MEETING

DAYS had passed since Cecil Armsbury and his nephew had formed their plot
of crime. New night had come to Manhattan. The metropolis was again aglow.
There was one spot, however, that no illumination reached. This was a room
in which pitch-darkness reigned, irrespective of day or night. Somber silence
marked the strange abode, until a slight swishing sounded faintly through the
gloom.
Something clicked. The rays of a bluish light appeared in the corner of
the room. The flickering glare was focused upon the surface of a polished
table. Beneath that glow appeared two long white hands. From a finger of the
left sparkled a brilliant gem, that displayed a range of mystic, ever-changing
hues.
The Shadow was in his sanctum. Those hands were his. The flashing gem - a
priceless girasol - was the emblem of this master being who balked all men of
crime. An unseen visitant to a lost abode, The Shadow was studying reports that
concerned the underworld.
All crookdom knew of the existence of The Shadow. In the badlands, the
very name of this weird creature was pronounced with awe. Time and again, the
mysterious figure of The Shadow had arrived to foil the plans of master
criminals.
A being clad in black - a fighter whose mighty automatics blazed a trail
of death to skulking fiends - such was The Shadow. Those who recognized his
existence knew that The Shadow held the balance between crime and order. When
evil threatened to gain power over right, it was The Shadow who could turn the
tide.
Long white hands were opening envelopes. Report sheets and clippings
fluttered to the table. These were from The Shadow's agents - faithful workers
who aided their master in keeping tabs on the pulse beats of crime.
Strange hands - those of The Shadow! When the mighty fighter fared forth,
his hands were gloved in black, in keeping with the spectral attire that
clothed him from head to foot. Crooks who had met him had never seen the hands
themselves. Long white fingers and the sparkling girasol were tokens of
recognition that none had ever gained.
Coded report sheets glistened with bluish ink. The Shadow read the word
that his agents had reported. The writing faded in uncanny fashion. Such was
the way with all messages between The Shadow and his agents.

THE SHADOW'S right hand brought forth a pen. Upon a sheet of white paper
it inscribed a name that remained in liquid ink of blue.
"Duke" Larrin!
This was the name that The Shadow had written. From two of his agents, he
had learned that the famous international crook was in New York. Yet neither
informant had picked up Duke Larrin's trail.
Cliff Marsland, The Shadow's agent who played the part of a gangster in
the underworld, had heard whisperings that Duke Larrin had come to the
badlands. No descriptions of the man had been given; it was merely rumored that
he was somewhere in Manhattan.
Clyde Burke, reporter on the New York Classic, had gained the same
information. Clyde was in touch with Joe Cardona, ace detective at Manhattan
headquarters. Through stool pigeons, Cardona had heard the rumors of Duke
Larrin's presence in New York. The ace sleuth was looking for the international
crook.
So far, nothing tangible had been learned. The Shadow divined the answer.
If crime happened to be in the making, Duke Larrin would be forming secret
contacts. With whom? That was the question to be considered.
Black gloves slipped over the long-fingered hands. The light clicked out.
A soft laugh sounded in the gloom. The swishing of a cloak; then silence.
The Shadow had fared forth. His destination was the underworld. There he
would seek the undiscovered connection between Duke Larrin and men of the
badlands.

AT the precise time when The Shadow was departing from his sanctum, a man
was strolling along an uptown Manhattan street. The walker paused to study the
entrance of an old apartment hotel. He saw the name above the doorway:

RIDGELOW COURT

With a hasty glance up and down the street, the man entered the doorway of
the building. He went through a deserted lobby until he reached the obscure
stairway. Another glance came from his dark eyes; his crafty, heavy-browed
features showed a cunning scowl. The man moved to the stairway. Instead of
going up, he took the downward steps.
No one had seen this visitor arrive. His identity would not have been
suspected, even if he had been observed in the lobby of Ridgelow Court. But in
certain sections of Manhattan - particularly where gangsters were wont to meet
- this dark-browed man would have been promptly recognized. He was "Brodie"
Brodan, a gang leader who had ostensibly retired from the business.
Reaching the basement of the old hotel, Brodan passed the entrance to a
furnace room and continued on until he reached the rear wall of the cellar. He
drew a key from his pocket and unlocked a door. He took a flight of steps that
went down to the little-used sub-basement.
All was dark below. Brodie's flashlight flickered in the darkness. The
illumination showed the doors of old storage rooms. Brodie picked one and
unlocked it. He closed it behind him and pushed his way past stacks of
furniture until he reached the rear wall. He stopped in front of a wooden wall
that had apparently been erected to offset the dampness from the stone in back
of it.
Brodie's flashlight showed a projecting nail-head. The gang leader pressed
it, like a button. The nail came back. Brodie waited. A slight clicking sounded.
Brodie pressed upward. A portion of the woodwork rose. Brodie went through the
opening. He used his flashlight to find his way along a narrow corridor. The
wooden barrier slipped down after he had entered.
The passage was more than a hundred feet in length. It terminated in a
metal door. Brodie Brodan stopped at the barrier and gave four short raps. The
door slid aside. The gang leader's flashlight clicked off.
Brodie Brodan stepped into a dimly lighted chamber. A strange room -
vaulted - with doors on every side. Deep in the earth, this crypt had been
reached through the cleverly concealed opening into the old storeroom of
Ridgelow Court.
The iron door clicked shut after Brodie Brodan had entered. Quizzically,
the gang leader surveyed three men who were seated on stools within the crypt.

THE dark-browed arrival knew them all. One - a smooth-shaven, languorous
fellow - was "Fingers" Keefel. A safe-cracker of remarkable skill, Fingers
specialized in artistic crime. He was a crook who looked for big jobs when he
needed them.
The second, a tall man with firm-set jaw and cold, evil eyes, was
"Croaker" Mannick. With Croaker, murder was a pastime; yet this dangerous
criminal was wary in his ways. He killed when people paid the price and each
scratch on his .38 represented the life of some big shot whom Croaker had
assassinated at another's order.
The police had never pinned a murder on Croaker Mannick. The underworld,
however, knew his ability. Brodie Brodan, cagey gang leader, felt that he was
in select company with Fingers Keefel and Croaker Mannick.
Yet it was the central figure of the group - the third man of the trio -
toward whom Brodie finally looked. He saw a young man of good appearance, whose
face wore the faint flicker of an evil, satisfied leer. This was the leader of
the four; the man who had summoned Fingers, Croaker and Brodie to the secret
crypt of crime. Brodie Brodan was gazing at the international crook, Duke
Larrin.
Cecil Armsbury's nephew opened the proceedings. He looked from man to man;
then spoke in a firm, harsh tone that marked him as a man who accepted
leadership.
"We're all here," he announced. "I've picked the three of you because you
are the men I want. You know the terms. They're the same to all. Ten grand
apiece."
The other men nodded to show their satisfaction.
"Three jobs for two of you," resumed Duke Larrin. "Fingers gets the swag.
Croaker does the bumping. Keep apart. You'll never see each other except when
you do the jobs. You've got your instructions. You know the exact times and
places.
"Each of you will be washed up after the third job. We'll work fast,
because the fifteenth of the month is the deadline. That's the time you're each
due back here. The pay-off comes on the fifteenth - and if all goes right,
there'll be more than the ten grand each."
Fingers and Croaker grinned. They felt that their parts were set. Duke
Larrin turned to Brodie Brodan.
"Fingers has his job," declared the international crook. "So has Croaker.
You're the cover-up man. You have your instructions; wherever Fingers and
Croaker hit, you be there with your mob.
"These two fellows will have to make clean get-aways. We want it to look
as though the mob did the trick. That's your job, Brodie."
"Leave it to me," agreed the dark-browed gang leader.
"There's a fourth job scheduled," added Larrin. "It will come on the
fifteenth. We'll need a picked crew for it - and it's up to you to get them,
Brodie.
"None of your regular mob are to be in that crew. Get your special crowd
in advance. Have them laying low - doing nothing - until you call them on the
fifteenth. They can show up where they're due - and they can pull the job like
clockwork. After that, they're through. They can scram out of town, with one
grand each for their work."

DUKE LARRIN arose. From his pocket, he drew three typewritten lists. He
handed one to each of the crooks. They were detailed instruction sheets. Each
read his part. Grins appeared upon satisfied faces.
"Got it all?" questioned Larrin, after the men had finished their reading
by the dim light of the crypt.
Nods were the replies. Duke Larrin gathered in the lists. He tore them
into fragments and dropped the pieces in a small antique urn that rested on the
floor. He applied a match. The flame of the burning paper showed the harsh scowl
on his face.
"You are the three whom I have chosen," declared Larrin, "because you
accepted my indefinite terms. There were others whom I considered. They were
rejected when they wanted to know more before the secret meeting. I told them -
as I told you - that I could consider no conditions.
"Each of you agreed to follow my instructions. That is why I gave each of
you a key that would enable you to reach this crypt. It is known, perhaps, that
Duke Larrin is in New York; but with this crypt as my headquarters no one can
find me. I have planned my crimes so that all investigators will be baffled."
Shrewdly, Duke Larrin eyed his trio of subordinates. He noticed sober
glances on their faces. Duke Larrin smiled.
"I said all investigators," he repeated. "I know what you are thinking.
You are wondering if I have included one of whom we all have heard - The Shadow.
"Yes. The Shadow is included. Perhaps you think that I underestimate his
power. You are wrong. I have heard of The Shadow in cities other than New York.
He has been in Paris, London, Berlin, Moscow, Madrid - yes, and in Rome. He has
struck at crime in all those capitals; and he has vanished as quickly as he has
arrived.
"New York, they say, is where The Shadow makes his headquarters. The
chances are that he is in this city at present." Duke paused; then smiled as he
noted anxious looks on the faces of his companions. "Let The Shadow be here. He
can never fathom the secret of this buried crypt. Each of you has dealt in
crime. None of you have met The Shadow.
"Our plans are perfect. The police will cut no figure. While The Shadow is
on the trail of one job, the next will be under way. Three in swift succession;
then the fourth, in which none of you will be actively concerned.
"The Shadow will be thwarted. In all his fighting against crime, he has
never crossed Duke Larrin's path. Even though he may know that I am in New
York, he will never find me nor my crypt."
The voice of Cecil Armsbury's nephew rang with confidence. It brought nods
from the men whom he had chosen as his aids.
Crossing the crypt, Duke Larrin opened the door to the long passage. One
by one, the chosen crooks left, each shaking hands with his chief. When the
last of the three had gone, Duke closed the barrier.
The leering look faded from the shrewd crook's lips. Duke Larrin's face
assumed the quiet manner which characterized Martin Havelock.
Crime had been launched from the crypt. Martin Havelock - otherwise Duke
Larrin - had no qualms. He was sure that even The Shadow would fail to thwart
his schemes.
Turning, the young man opened the barrier that led to the secret elevator
in Cecil Armsbury's fireplace. He entered the lift and rode upward through
darkness until he reached the light of Armsbury's living room.
As he stepped from the fireplace, Martin Havelock heard his uncle's
chuckle. With shrewd eyes, old Cecil Armsbury had spied his nephew's face. That
one glance told the old man that the meeting had served its intended purpose.
Men of evil had sallied from the crime crypt. When they met again,
successful deeds of lawlessness would lie behind them.

CHAPTER IV

CRIME BREAKS

"A GENTLEMAN to see you, sir."
Perry Trappe looked up as he heard the servant's words. There was a
puzzled expression on his face. Perry Trappe was a man who seldom received
visitors. Here, in the living room of his secluded apartment, he was wont to
spend his time alone.
"Who is it?" he questioned.
"Here is his card, sir," replied the servant.
Trappe took the card. It bore an odd name. The inscription beneath was the
portion that awakened his interest:

DARWIN BASIB
CURIO DEALER

"Where is the man?" questioned Trappe. "In the anteroom?"
"Yes, sir."
"Show him in. I shall talk with him."
The servant departed and returned shortly afterward, followed by the
visitor. Perry Trappe waved the arrival to a chair. The servant left as the two
men were studying one another.
Perry Trappe had expected a human oddity, for he was familiar with curio
dealers, especially those who had foreign names. Darwin Basib, however, was not
at all the type that he had anticipated. The man was tall, smooth of features
and languorous in expression. His dark hair was glistening in slickness.
The man who had introduced himself as Darwin Basib, curio dealer, was none
other than Fingers Keefel.
The false curio dealer was studying Perry Trappe. Fingers had expected to
find an elderly man, for he knew that Trappe was a collector who lived alone.
Instead, he noted that Trappe was of middle age and a brusque, businesslike
fellow. Stocky, full-faced and of somewhat challenging eye, Trappe looked like
a test for the subtle strategy of Fingers Keefel.
"A curio dealer, eh?" questioned Trappe. "What have you to offer?"
"I am not selling curios," responded Fingers, in an indifferent tone. "I
am buying them."
"None of mine are for sale," snapped Trappe. "What I collect, I keep."
"I understand that you are wealthy," declared Fingers. "That is why I have
come to see you. Most of my purchases are made from wealthy men. I have done
some rather odd buying, Mr. Trappe."
"Of what sort?"
"Of all sorts. Always at the same price which the purchasers originally
paid - and my offers have been accepted very quickly."
Perry Trappe appeared puzzled. This smooth-speaking individual had him
guessing. He noted a shrewd look in his visitor's eye. The explanation followed.
"The curios that I buy," declared Fingers Keefel, in a cautious tone, "are
the ones which have been unloaded on their present owners. In other words, Mr.
Trappe, I show people a way out - after they have been swindled."
"You mean" - Trappe's voice was incredulous - "that you pay money for
stuff that is worth nothing?"
"Exactly," said Fingers, with a smile.

PERRY TRAPPE was on his feet. With arms akimbo, he was studying his
visitor, wondering if the man could possess his proper senses. Leaning back in
his chair, Fingers Keefel laughed.
"Here is my system, Mr. Trappe," he explained. "Suppose a swindler should
try to sell you a fake curio. Suppose he found you biting. What would be his
natural action?"
"To meet my price," returned Trappe, promptly.
"That's right," declared Fingers. "He would let you have a thousand dollar
item for less than five hundred. Why? Because he would be selling something
without being able to guarantee its genuineness.
"Suppose that you learn your curio is a fake. You would be tickled to sell
it to me for five hundred dollars and give me a certificate that I had made the
purchase. Am I correct?"
"Certainly," agreed Trappe.
"All right," resumed Fingers. "I take the curio and the certificate. I go
to another collector. I ask the full price of one thousand dollars. I have what
appears to be a guarantee of its genuineness - the proof that I bought it from
you, a recognized collector. You get rid of a fake without a loss; I make the
profit that I want."
Perry Trappe rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He saw the game. It was
crooked; yet attractive. Fingers Keefel smiled as he saw the trend of the
collector's mind.
"There's no comeback," remarked the fake curio dealer. "My sales appear so
bona fide that they are never questioned. You cannot be held responsible after
the item has left your hands."
"I agree," declared Trappe. "The only point is that my collection of rare
curios contains no fakes."
"You are sure?"
Trappe was startled by the suddenness of his visitor's question. Though he
nodded his head, the collector seemed a bit perturbed.
"I should like to see your collection," purred Fingers. "I can pick out
fakes where others can't. I'm an expert in that line, Mr. Trappe."
"So I infer," stated Trappe, dryly. He drew a big key from his pocket.
"Come along. I'll show you the curio room."

FINGERS KEEFEL followed as Trappe led the way to the rear of the living
room. The crook coughed slightly as they neared the far door. Trappe entered a
hallway and turned to the right. He reached a door at the end of the passage
and unlocked it. He and Fingers stepped into a room that looked liked a small
museum.
Tapestries hung from the walls. A suit of armor stood in one corner. Glass
cases were filled with objects that varied from ancient coins to earthen jars.
Fingers Keefel surveyed the medley.
"Is this all?" he questioned.
"Yes," replied Trappe.
Fingers strolled across the room, to the only wall that had no windows. He
calmly lifted a tapestry and revealed a door that bore a huge lock.
"Another room, eh?" he questioned, suavely.
"Drop that tapestry!" roared Perry Trappe. "This is outrageous! You act as
though you owned this place!"
"Perhaps I do," returned Fingers, with a grin. "Suppose you open that
door, Mr. Trappe."
With clenched fists; Trappe sprang toward the crook. He stopped suddenly
as he heard a sharp word from the outer door. He turned to see a tall,
square-jawed man standing with leveled revolver. It was Croaker Mannick.
"Stick 'em up!" ordered the killer.
Perry Trappe obeyed in sullen fashion. Fingers Keefel, grinning broadly,
approached the curio collector and frisked his pockets. He found a ring of keys.
Going to the rear door, Fingers ripped the tapestry from the wall. He
tried the keys until he found the one he wanted. He unlocked the door and
pushed it inward. The light from the larger room showed a large closet. Set
upon a low, square-topped table was a four-armed golden idol.
The headdress; the objects in the statue's hands - all were studded with
sparkling jewels. Fingers picked up the statue of Vishnu and carried it into
the curio room. The jewels glittered. Fingers laughed.
"Heavy," he remarked. "Maybe it's gold - maybe not. Perhaps these
sparklers are really rubies. Maybe they're only glass. Anyhow, it's what I came
for - the jeweled Vishnu from Hyderabad."
"Thief!" gasped Perry Trappe. "Thief -"
A threatening gesture by Croaker Mannick stopped the collector short.
Fingers Keefel, holding the small but heavy idol, spied a cloth covering upon
one of the curio cases. He laid the Vishnu upon it and formed the cloth into a
sack, which he loaded on his left arm.
"All aboard," he said to Croaker Mannick. "I may have trouble with the
flunky. If I do" - Fingers pulled a stub-nosed revolver from his pocket - "I'll
drop him and leave the finish to you."
"He must have gone to his room," returned Croaker. "He wasn't around when
I sneaked in from the hallway. I waited till I heard you cough. I followed you
in here without any trouble."
"O.K.," said Fingers.
With a snorting, disdainful laugh at Perry Trappe, Fingers hurried along
the passage. His footsteps ended. Perry Trappe stared anxiously, wondering if
the thief had found a clear way. Croaker Mannick listened. His keen ears heard
the outer door close.
"There goes your funny looking idol," growled the killer. "Don't feel too
bad about it - you're only losing a phony."
"What!" gasped Trappe. "You mean -"
"That the thing is a fake," snarled Croaker. "But you're not going to blab
about it. That's what I'm here for - to shut you up so you'll stay shut up for -"
The glare in Croaker's malicious gaze struck home. Perry Trappe gasped. He
realized that death had been planned for him. This man had covered the thief's
get-away. Murder was the step to follow!
"Help!" howled Trappe, hoping that his distant servant would hear. "Help!
Harvey - quick! Help! Murder!"
As he shouted, Trappe leaped forward with lunging arms, in an effort to
prevent Croaker's shot. The square-jawed killer wore an evil grin. He timed his
trigger pull with Trappe's plunge. The revolver spurted flame.
Trappe's cry ended in a choking gasp. The curio collector collapsed upon
the floor. His body sprawled sidewise at Croaker's feet.
The single shot had done its work. Perry Trappe was dead.

CROAKER turned. He faced the hall and waited. He heard footsteps. The
white-faced servant, Harvey, came into the hallway. The man was holding a puny
automatic - a .22. He raised it quickly as he saw Croaker Mannick covering him
with the revolver.
Croaker fired. Harvey had no chance. Like master, the servant dropped.
Croaker hurried along the hall and took a look at the body. His second shot had
been as good as his first. Both Perry Trappe and his lone servant, Harvey, were
dead.
Hastening through the living room, Croaker reached the outer door. He
bobbed into a hallway and leaped for a flight of stairs. A shout came from a
turn in the hallway. Croaker fired at a man who had evidently hurried in this
direction after hearing the shots from Trappe's apartment.
Down the stairs dashed Croaker. He reached a small lobby two floors below
and ran uninterrupted to the street. His arrival on the sidewalk, however,
brought a shout.
This was a quiet district of Manhattan. The revolver shots from Trappe's
third floor apartment had been heard outside. Two men were pointing upward as
they beckoned to an approaching policeman. One of them spied Croaker.
The killer dashed toward the nearest corner. Shouting, the two men began
to take up the chase. The officer drew his revolver and shouted a command to
halt. Not one of the three pursuers noted a sedan that was parked across the
street.
As the policeman leveled his revolver, a fusillade of shots broke from the
darkness of the sedan. The policeman sprawled upon the sidewalk. The first
pursuer staggered; then his companion dropped.
Croaker had reached the corner. From the sedan came a growled order - the
voice of Brodie Brodan. The sedan leaped forward and sped along the narrow
street. The three victims of gangster bullets lay upon the sidewalk in front of
the apartment house.
Fingers Keefel - Croaker Mannick - Brodie Brodan. The trio had worked
together tonight. The first of Duke Larrin's scheduled jobs had been
accomplished. The orders from the crypt had been obeyed!

CHAPTER V

TWO MEN MEET

"GOT anything, Joe?"
The question came from Clyde Burke, the Classic reporter, as he entered
the office of Detective Joe Cardona. It was addressed to the stocky,
swarthy-visaged sleuth who was seated behind a desk.
"Nothing new, Burke," growled Cardona, as he looked toward his visitor.
"We know it was a gang job - that's all. We're looking for the fellows who were
in it."
The detective glanced at his watch. It showed four o'clock. This was the
afternoon following the murder of Perry Trappe and his servant, Harvey Diker -
a crime which had preceded the slaying of a policeman and the wounding of two
men who had tried to apprehend the murderer.
"The fellow who ran away," questioned Clyde. "Anything on who he may be,
Joe?"
"Nothing," admitted the detective. "He was one of the mob and there may
have been others in the apartment house. It was nine o'clock when he beat it
out of the place. We figure he joined up with another car around the corner.
"You know the story, Burke. Where there's a gang, there's a leader. That's
the guy I'm looking for. I'm going the rounds to hear the alibis. That's the
only system."
The reporter sat down. Cardona, paying no attention to his presence, began
to check half a dozen names on a list that lay upon his desk. These were the
names of mob leaders whom the shrewd sleuth intended to question.
Joe Cardona studied the topmost name. He picked up the telephone and
called a number. Clyde Burke heard the clicking of a voice; then came Cardona's
questioning:
"Hello. Hotel Spartan?... Brodie Brodan there?... This is a friend of
his... Out of town, eh... I see... Wired to have a room for him... I'll see him
later..."
Joe hung up the receiver. He looked at the names on the list, then folded
the sheet of paper and tucked it in his pocket.
"Six thirty," he remarked. "That's when I'll see the first guy on the
list. I'll pick up the others in the evening. Hear what they have to say for
themselves. I'll let you know, Burke, if we get anything new."
"Thanks, Joe."
The reporter strolled from Cardona's office. Reaching the street, he
approached a cigar store and entered a telephone booth. He called a number. A
quiet voice responded.
"Burbank speaking."
"Burke," returned Clyde. "Report. Cardona checking on gang leaders. Going
the rounds. First stop Hotel Spartan, six thirty, to see Brodie Brodan."
"Report received."

CLYDE BURKE left the booth. His assigned task was completed. He had
informed Burbank, contact agent of The Shadow, of the steps that Joe Cardona
was taking to apprehend the murderer of Perry Trappe. Reports that went to
Burbank were telephoned immediately to The Shadow, wherever he might be.
Burbank represented the hidden link between The Shadow and his active agents.
Clyde Burke was speculative as he strolled toward the Classic office. He
knew that Brodie Brodan was a figure in the underworld. Like others of
gangland's elite, Brodan lived at the Hotel Spartan when in New York. That
hotel was a decadent structure on the East Side - a meeting place between
would-be big shots and the lesser of gangdom's minions.
Brodie Brodan, Clyde had heard, made frequent visits to Chicago. He was
supposed to be friendly with big shots of that city. The fact that a telegram
had arrived indicated that Brodan might have paid a visit to the Mid-West
metropolis.
It was nearly six o'clock when Clyde Burke reached the Classic office. At
that precise time, a man appeared in the concourse of the Grand Central
Station. It was Brodie Brodan. Strolling amid the crowd, the heavy-browed gang
leader approached a package room.
Tendering two tags to the attendant, Brodie received a pair of suitcases.
He carefully detached the stubs that the package man had left on the bags.
Picking up his burdens, Brodie walked toward a train gate. He stopped in an
inconspicuous spot by a broad stairway and waited there.
Six o'clock. The gate opened. A throng of passengers came forth. Brodie
watched them from a distance until he spied a man in a loud tan overcoat who
was carrying a black suitcase. Picking up his own bags, Brodie strolled after
the arrival. As the man reached the exit from the concourse, Brodan was beside
him.
"Hello, Fritz," growled the gang leader. "Keep on strolling, I'm with you."
"O.K., Brodie," mumbled the man with the black bag.
The pair moved from the terminal. They reached the taxi tunnel and entered
a cab. Brodie told the driver to take them to the Hotel Spartan. Settling back
in the rear seat, the gang leader spoke in a low voice to his companion.
"Give me the ticket stub, Fritz."
The other man brought the required object from his vest pocket. Brodie
studied the car number and the berth.
"I checked out of the Hotel Spartan five days ago," he said, in a low
tone. "Been living in a joint where they don't know me. Packed up today and
left my bags in the baggage room at the Grand Central.
"Here's our story. You met me in Chicago, yesterday. Hotel Drury - where
you were stopping. We pulled out on the Starlight Limited ten o'clock last
night. I've used that train before. I know it. Twenty-one hours from Chicago;
came in on schedule. Anything else happen?"
"Nope."
"Where did you see the New York newspapers? The ones with the story about
a guy named Perry Trappe getting the bump?"
Fritz raised his eyebrows. He knew the game now. Until this moment, he had
not known the purpose of the alibi which he was to establish.
"Evening newspapers came on the train at Albany," he said. "I was in the
club car."
"We were in the club car."
"O.K., Brodie."

THE taxicab had reached a dingy district. It was rolling along beneath the
superstructure of an elevated line. Brodie Brodan peered from the window.
"Here's the hotel," he stated. "Come in with me, Fritz. Check in for the
night. I might as well have a mug from Chicago along with me."
The two alighted after the cab had reached the curb. The driver passed the
bags into the lobby and a loafing bell hop carried them to the desk. Brodie
swaggered in with Fritz at his heels and waved his hand to the clerk.
"Keep a room for me?"
"You bet," returned the clerk. "Got your wire, Mr. Brodie. Room 406."
The bell hop carried the bags to the elevator. Brodie started in that
direction. It was then that a man arose from an obscure corner. Brodie did not
see him until he blocked the gang leader's path, Brodie raised his heavy
eyebrows in feigned surprise as he faced Detective Joe Cardona.
"Just a minute, Brodie," declared Cardona, soberly. "I want to talk to
you. Where are you going?"
"Up to my room," returned Brodie.
"All right," agreed Cardona. "I'll talk to you there."
"Come on up, Fritz," said Brodie, turning to his companion. "You can check
in afterward. I'll phone down to the clerk."
The three entered the elevator. The door closed. The clerk stared
quizzically as the lift ascended. Thus he failed to see a motion which occurred
in a corner of the lobby where a little used passage led to the rear of the
hotel.
Someone had been watching from that spot. Keen eyes had witnessed Brodie
Brodan's arrival. They had seen Joe Cardona interrupt the gang leader's
progress. While the clerk still stared at the door of the elevator shaft, a
figure came openly into view.
A tall being clad in black; such was the appearance of this unnoticed
visitant. With easy, stealthy stride, the shape that had come from the gloom of
the passage edged toward the stairway that led to the upper floors.
For a moment, the sinister figure stood revealed. Blazing eyes flashed
from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. The upturned folds of a long, black
cloak obscured the lower features of the stealthy stranger. Hands were gloved
in the same sable hue.
Then the phantom being blended with the darkness of the stairway. The
clerk, shifting his gaze blankly toward that direction, saw nothing. The
Shadow, like a being invisible, had followed Joe Cardona and Brodie Brodan to
the fourth floor of the Hotel Spartan.

CHAPTER VI

THE ALIBI

"Do you know Fritz Fursch?"
Brodie Brodan put the question to Joe Cardona. At the same time, he
gestured toward Fritz, the man whom had met at the Grand Central Station.
"Never met him," answered Joe.
"Meet him now, then," suggested the gang leader. "Fritz, this is Detective
Cardona. Joe Cardona - a good guy."
Cardona shook hands with the man from Chicago. They had reached Brodie
Brodan's room and the gang leader was placing his bags upon the bed. He turned
to switch on a light, for dusk had brought gloom to this narrow-windowed room.
"Thought you was a dick," confided Fritz Fursch, speaking to Joe Cardona.
"You looked like one when we seen you in the lobby."
Joe Cardona made no response to the comment. He turned and spoke to Brodie
Brodan.
"Where've you been, Brodie?" he asked.
"Me?" returned the gang leader. "Chicago."
Cardona stared steadily. The gang leader was unstrapping his suitcases.
Brodie stopped as he noted Cardona's gaze. For a few moments, they stood facing
each other, without a word.
Fritz Fursch watched the tableau. His eyes went from man to man. All three
were engrossed. None saw the motion that occurred on the other side of the room
- behind Fritz's back. A door was opening slowly. It was a connecting door to
an adjoining room. Inch by inch it moved until it allowed a narrow crevice
through which a keen eye peered.

THE SHADOW had entered the next room. Silently, he had gained this vantage
post. He could see and hear all that transpired between Cardona and Brodan.
"Chicago, eh?" questioned Cardona. "When did you get in from there?"
"Six o'clock this afternoon," returned Brodie, promptly. "I came in with
Fritz. Chicago is his town. We rolled in on the Starlight Limited."
"When did you leave Chicago?"
"Say" - Brodie's tone was challenging - "what's the idea of this third
degree? I thought you was a good guy, Joe. You heard what I just told Fritz."
"Never mind the good-guy stuff. I want to know where you were last night.
That's all."
"O.K., Joe. Suit yourself. Fritz and I pulled out on the Starlight. Left
Chi at ten o'clock."
"What were you doing in Chicago?"
"Say - that's a mean one, Joe. If I had been doing anything, I'd think you
were working along with a bunch of Chicago dicks. I wasn't doing anything,
though, so I'll tell you. I was staying at the Hotel Drury, trying to put
through a deal with some birds who want to start a night club in New York.
"That's where I met Fritz. Found he was coming on to New York, so we came
along together. I wired here yesterday. Told them to hold a room for me. That
was before I bumped into Fritz."
Fritz watched Joe Cardona closely. It was Fritz who had sent the wire from
Chicago. He looked to see if the detective suspected the truth. Cardona gave no
inkling.
"Starlight Limited, eh?" quizzed Cardona. "Got anything to show for it -
outside of this guy's say-so?"
"Ticket stub," grinned Brodie, producing the article from his vest pocket,
as though the idea had just occurred to him. "There it is, Joe."
"You got one too?" quizzed Cardona, turning to Fritz.
The Chicago man produced the required stub. Cardona examined it along with
Brodie's. The gang leader began to unpack his bags. Clothes were in a state of
disarray.
"Look at that, Joe," said Brodie, with a grin. "I threw everything into
the bag in a hurry. This other bag is just as bad. Say - I didn't get it shut
until we were on the cab to the station in Chicago. Lucky I never opened it on
the train. Maybe I wouldn't have got it shut."
The second bag was bulging. Shirts fell out as Brodie opened it. The gang
leader unpacked a suit, which needed pressing. He found a razor and shaving
cream. He laid them on the bed beside the bag.
"So you came in from Chicago, eh?" Cardona was persistent. "Then you don't
know anything about Perry Trappe?"
"Perry Trappe?"
"Yeah. The curio collector who was murdered in his apartment, last night."
Brodie Brodan looked up from the suitcase. He stared at Joe Cardona; then
laughed.
"You mean the guy who was bumped off with his servant? All about him in
the evening papers? Say - have you gone goofy, Cardona?"
The detective did not reply. Brodie guffawed and shook his head.
"That's hot," pronounced the gang leader. "Remember, Fritz, you showed me
the paper in the club car - the one with the dead guy's mug on the front page?
Coming in from Albany, wasn't it?"
Fritz nodded.
"Is this the paper?" Brodie pulled a folded journal from Fritz's pocket.
He saw that it was a Chicago newspaper. "No - that isn't it. I guess we left
the New York paper on the train. Say, Joe" - Brodie's voice became earnest as
the gang leader addressed Cardona - "you're following a wrong steer. If you're
after the bird that killed this guy Trappe, why waste your time?
"I came in with Fritz on the Starlight Limited. That's that. You know me
well enough to know that I don't chase around collecting curios. I'm in the
night-club business - building it up from a side line. They used to try to pin
rackets on me - but never any hokum like this. Grabbing off curios - say, I'll
be cutting up paper dolls before I go into that line."
Brodie bent over the suitcase and pulled out the few remaining objects.
One was an excellent desk clock. Brodie set the time piece on the bureau and
noted the dial as he did so.
"Ten after seven," he remarked. "I want to get up to the Club Madrid at
eight. So if you've got any more questions, Joe, shoot 'em. But I've given you
the straight dope. Fritz will vouch for it."

JOE CARDONA shrugged his shoulders in a fashion that was a trifle
sheepish. To cover up his lack of composure, he drew his watch from his pocket.
"Ten after seven," he confirmed. "Well, Brodie, I'm moving along. I just
picked you as the first person to see because I had a hunch you've been laying
too quiet lately. But this night club business of yours sounds straight. Lay
off the racket boys and maybe you can make an honest living - if fleecing
customers can be called that."
With a gruff laugh at his own weak jest, Joe Cardona turned toward the
door. Brodie Brodan was peeling shirt and vest. He picked up his razor and
spoke to Fritz Fursch.
"Ride down to the lobby with Cardona," suggested the gang leader in an
affable tone. "Take your bag along - check in and get a room for yourself. Kind
of an old joint, this hotel, but it's not bad."
Fritz picked up his bag and followed the detective. The door closed behind
the pair. Brodie Brodan did not show the slightest elation. His poker face
remained the same. The gang leader turned to cross the room.
The door opposite slid tightly shut, just before Brodie glanced in that
direction. The Shadow had heard Joe Cardona's quiz. Like the detective, he was
leaving.

RIDING uptown on the elevated, Joe Cardona checked his list of names. He
crossed out Brodie Brodan. The gang leader's alibi stood, so far as Joe was
concerned. The Chicago story had the ear-marks of a correct one, one Joe could
not dispute.
There had not been a flaw in any of Brodie's statements, so far as Cardona
could see. Everything had stood the test. A man riding eastward on a limited
would have no thought of preparing an alibi. Joe Cardona had picked Brodie
Brodan on a hunch. That hunch was fading - it was out.
In retrospect, Cardona recalled each statement that had been made; he
defined Brodie's actions and formed the final conclusion that there was not a
single shred of evidence to indicate falsity in the gang leader's story.

SUCH was Cardona's conclusion. The detective thought that it was thorough.
He was sure that nothing had escaped his keen attention. But Cardona was not the
only investigator who had viewed Brodie Brodan at the Hotel Spartan.
There was another - The Shadow. He, the mysterious supersleuth, had been
there also. He had heard Cardona's quiz. Like the detective, he had analyzed
the statements of Brodie Brodan and had witnessed all of the gang leader's
actions.
The Shadow, like Cardona, had an answer. It differed, however, from
Cardona's. It came, shortly after Cardona had formed his final decision
regarding his suspect.

THE light clicked in The Shadow's sanctum. Long white hands appeared
beneath the bluish glare. The Shadow's right hand wrote a name upon a sheet of
paper; beneath the name went two short statements:

Brodie Brodan.
Clock in bag.
7:10.

A laugh sounded from the gloom on the near side of the bluish light. That
laugh betokened keen understanding. It told of a clew which Joe Cardona had not
noticed; one, however, which had not escaped The Shadow.
Brodie Brodan had been in Chicago for three days or more. He had told
Cardona that he had packed his bags in a hurry; that he had not opened the
second bag upon the train. Therefore, the clock had not been touched since it
was packed.
Ten minutes after seven! A clock packed in Chicago - hurriedly - had
registered New York time! There could be but one answer. Brodie Brodan had not
packed that desk clock in Chicago. Had he done so, it would have shown ten
minutes after six, allowing for the difference in time between Chicago and New
York.
Brodie had packed his clock in New York. He could not have gone to
Chicago, as he stated. There was a chance that he might not have changed its
time during his sojourn in the Middle West. That chance; however, was slight.
The clew was sufficient for The Shadow. It was the thread which marked
Brodie Brodan's alibi as a doubtful one. With that thread as a starting point,
The Shadow was ready to trace Brodie Brodan's activities in the immediate
future.
A long hand reached across the table. A tiny bulb flashed from the wall as
The Shadow drew a pair of earphones toward him. A quiet voice came over the wire:
"Burbank speaking."
"Instructions to Marsland," ordered The Shadow, in a low whisper.
"Ready," was Burbank's answer.
The sinister tones of The Shadow's eerie voice clung to the lighted corner
of the room as the master worker gave his orders. When Burbank's final
corroboration came, The Shadow placed the earphones back upon the wall. The
little bulb went out. The blue light clicked. The sanctum was in complete
darkness.
Then came a whispered laugh. It rose to a strain of shuddering mockery
that awoke ghoulish echoes from the hidden walls of blackness. When the
reverberations had died, deep silence reigned.
The Shadow had departed. His orders had been given. The Shadow had taken
the first step to trail Brodie Brodan - the gang leader whom he suspected was
concerned with the death of Perry Trappe.
Where Joe Cardona's hunch had faded, The Shadow's inkling had begun. From
keen deduction, The Shadow had picked up the trail which Cardona had lost.
Crimes like the murder of Perry Trappe were due to fall in sequence.
Through his agent, Cliff Marsland, The Shadow would gain the word he
needed. When crime next struck, The Shadow would be there!

CHAPTER VII

MOBSTERS MOVE

"OFF for Chi, eh?"
The speaker was Brodie Brodan. He was seated in his hotel room, on the
second evening following his arrival at the Hotel Spartan. The man to whom he
was speaking was his alibi artist, Fritz Fursch.
"Yeah. Leaving at nine o'clock," replied Fursch. "Anything you need done?"
"Not a thing, Fritz. You did your job. Say - Cardona fell for that gag
like a punk. We'll work the stall again, some time."
"What - on Cardona?"
"No." Brodie snorted. "Not a chance of that, Fritz. Next time we'll use
it, we'll work from New York west. If I've got a job to pull in Chi, I'll plant
you here and let you come out there with a couple of tickets."
"And a newspaper in my pocket."
"Yeah. That clinched it."
Fritz Fursch looked at the clock on the bureau. It showed quarter after
eight. The alibi man stretched himself and strolled about the room, intending
to spend a last few minutes with Brodan.
"I'm set for my next alibi," remarked the gang leader, in a casual tone.
"I've got Lobo Ruscott all fixed - he's the guy that's running the Club Madrid."
"Another job coming, eh?"
"Pretty soon." Brodan's reply was noncommittal. "I just took another bird
into the outfit - and he's a swell worker, too."
"The fellow up here this afternoon?"
"Yeah. Cliff Marsland. Say - he's cagey, that guy. Everybody knows he's as
good as half a dozen gorillas; but there's nobody can lay a finger on any jobs
he does. I met him up at the Club Madrid two nights ago - and he let it out
that he was on the loose."
"There's lots of gorillas on the loose these days."
"Not guys like Cliff Marsland. He gets dough when he works. Needs some
cash - that's all. I picked him up at a bargain and promised to keep mum about
the price. Just the guy I needed."
Brodie Brodan paused to light a cigarette. Fritz Fursch noted the clock
again. He decided it was time to leave for his train.
"So long, Brodie," he said. "Get me at the Hotel Drury when you need me."

FIVE minutes after Fritz's departure, there was a tap at the door. Brodie
Brodan issued a summons to come in. A husky, well-attired young man appeared.
Brodie Brodan recognized Cliff Marsland and waved his visitor to a chair.
Brodie held a high opinion of his new recruit. Cliff Marsland was a
different type than the average gangster. His face showed intelligence. His
appearance was clean-cut. Yet with it, Cliff possessed a firm chin and a
straight-featured face that showed self-confidence and ability. Brodie Brodan
classed him as one mobster in a thousand.
"All set, Cliff?" questioned Brodie.
Cliff Marsland nodded.
"O.K.," decided the gang leader. "We've got a job tonight - and I'm
picking you as my right hand man. We've got to spread. I'm putting you in
charge of part of the crew. Get that?"
"What's the lay?" questioned Cliff, in calm fashion.
"I'll give it to you," declared Brodie. "We're going out to Long Island. A
big house near the Sound - home of a millionaire named Tyler Bogart. There's
three entrances to the place - front, side and back.
"Bozo Griffin will handle the front. Just for emergency - that's all. I'm
taking the side - because that's where someone's going in. The back is yours -
and there may be a get-away in that direction. That's why you're there. To
cover.
"I'll be on the job. When you hear three quick shots from the side, pile
in. That means the get-away has been made by the side and I want a quick fuss
at the back. Get it?"
Cliff nodded.
"If you see anybody duck out in your direction," added Brodie, "you pass
out three quick shots. That lets me pile in from the side. There'll be two guys
coming out - if they come your way. Let them ride."
"I've got it."
"There'll be shooting in the house, maybe," remarked Brodie. "That doesn't
mean anything. Forget it. If I give the signal, you kick up the fuss, then scram
with your part of the outfit. If you give the signal, beat it right away. That's
all."
Cliff repeated the instructions in methodical fashion. Brodie nodded his
approval. He arose and motioned his new lieutenant toward the door.
"Come along," he ordered. "We're meeting the mob out back. Wait a second -
I want to phone the lobby. Better see who's down there."
Brodie made the phone call. It was evident that he had fixed the clerk.
Brodie's signal to leave was proof that no unknown loiterers were in the lobby.
Brodie led the way to the stairs instead of the elevator. At the bottom,
he pushed Cliff toward the passage that went through to the rear of the hotel.

REACHING a darkened alley, Brodie uttered a low, hissing whistle. Whispers
came from the darkness. Members of the mob had assembled. Brodie drew Cliff over
toward the wall; a confab began between the gang leader, Cliff and the other
lieutenant, "Bozo" Griffin.
"I'll take these gorillas," decided Brodie. "You take the car out in the
side street, Bozo. What about the bunch over by the Pink Rat? Did you tell them
to wait for Cliff Marsland?"
"Yeah," answered Bozo. "I told them he'd be along. I'll be driving past
there and they can follow. Hunky Wikell is driving Cliff's car. He'll know me
when I go by."
"Give me a few minutes to get there, Bozo," interposed Cliff. "I'm not
going on the run, you know. Some smart copper might ask me why the hurry."
"Give him ten minutes," decided Brodie. "That'll make it sure. All right,
Cliff. Get started."
Cliff sauntered from the alley. He was smiling to himself as he reached
the side street. He made a turn into an alley beyond; then quickened his pace.
Ten minutes! That was a lucky break. He could make the Pink Rat locality
in five.
On the next street, Cliff spied a small store. He entered and picked a
telephone in the corner. The place was deserted except for an old man behind a
counter. Cliff called Burbank's number. He heard the voice of The Shadow's
contact man.
"Marsland."
Cliff's lips were close to the mouthpiece.
"Report."
In brief terms, Cliff fulfilled Burbank's order. He told the contact man
all that he had learned. Under ordinary conditions, Burbank would have
instructed Cliff to stand by and await a return call. This was impossible under
the circumstances. Cliff was due at the Pink Rat in five minutes.
However, both Cliff and Burbank saw the situation. That was the way with
The Shadow's agents. Trained to obey their master, they were also capable in
dealing with emergencies. Cliff, as he explained matters to Burbank, saw that
tonight's episode could offer but one of two possibilities.
Either The Shadow would seek to enter the home of Tyler Bogart, or he
would require Cliff for some definite duty outside. Perhaps both. Cliff could
prepare for either circumstance. Keenly, he visualized a back door that he had
never seen.
"I'll post my squad thirty feet to the right," he informed Burbank. "I'll
have them far enough from the house. I'll be ten feet to the left of the back
door - and as close to the house as possible."
"Report received," returned Burbank.
Cliff hung up the receiver. He glanced to note that the old man at the
counter had heard nothing. He hurried from the store and dodged through alleys
to gain time on his way to the Pink Rat.

A CAR was waiting near the spot designated. Cliff approached and gave a
low whistle as he observed dim forms within the car. Before any of the
gangsters could reply, he announced himself in a single word:
"Marsland."
"O.K." The voice belonged to "Hunky" Wikell, the man at the wheel. "Climb
in with me."
Cliff joined the driver. They waited for a full minute. Then a car rolled
into the narrow street and passed the sedan in which Cliff and Hunky were
waiting, with gangsters in the rear. Hunky started the motor and followed. He
was taking the way that Bozo Griffin showed.
The cars headed for an East River bridge. They crossed and moved rapidly
along a highway. Cliff, silently watching from Hunky's side, felt qualms at the
speed that they were making.
Brodie Brodan had moved sooner than Cliff had anticipated. That meant that
the raid on Bogart's home would begin shortly after the mob arrived. Brodie had
said that men would enter. Did that mean some of Brodie's crew, from the side?
Or were others on the job?
If the latter case existed, the men appointed to enter - whoever they
might be - would probably be outside of Bogart's house at present. The Shadow,
swift though he was, would have to travel at unusual speed to anticipate this
raid, unless some fortunate delay occurred.
Cliff began to see another possibility that he had not suggested to
Burbank. If The Shadow needed time, a fracas outside of Bogart's could produce
it. Perhaps that would be necessary. Cliff decided to be ready - even to the
point of spoiling the raid - should The Shadow not appear.
Half an hour after the start from Manhattan, Bozo's leading car turned
into a side road. Cliff fancied that Brodie Brodan must be up ahead of the
lieutenant. A mile of side road; then Brodie swung into the deserted driveway
of an abandoned house. Wikell followed.
Lights went out; but just before the glow failed, Cliff noted a third car
up ahead. With his mobsters close beside him, Cliff alighted from the sedan. He
heard the voice of Brodie Brodan.
"All right, Cliff," said the mob leader in a low tone. "There's Bogart's
house - through that hedge. We're at the back of the place. Bozo's going around
to the front. I'm going through to the side. You come along last and cover the
back."
Men shuffled through the darkness. Cliff held his squad in readiness. When
all was silent, he led the way through the hedge. He could see the home of Tyler
Bogart - a looming mansion of gray stone. There were lights in upstairs windows;
a glow from a broad veranda on the side toward the Sound showed that people were
at home.
There was no light at the back, except a shaft that came from a curtained
room on the second floor. This gave a faint glow above the back door. Cliff
drew his men thirty feet to the right and posted them.
"Lay here," he whispered. "I'm casing over by the back door to see what's
what. No shots - until I give the order."
Mumbles of understanding came from the gorillas. Cliff moved to the left.
His plan was working. It was natural that he should circle in aiming for the
back door. Cautiously Cliff crept through the darkness until he found a spot
not more than ten feet from the back door. There Cliff waited.

LONG minutes passed. Cliff was not nervous, but he could feel the tension.
His eyes were glued to the whiteness of the back door. He felt that the time for
trouble was imminent. He feared that The Shadow had been unable to arrive in the
brief time allowed.
Then, as Cliff blinked, he fancied that he saw the back door moving
inward. The motion itself was imperceptible. It seemed that a vertical strip of
blackness was working its way from the side of the door. The strange phenomenon
continued; then stopped. Gradually, the widened strip of black began to fade.
Cliff suppressed a gasp. He realized the amazing truth. The Shadow, with
ample space between the gangsters and the house, had approached the back door.
With stealthy, unseen hand, he had picked the lock. He had opened the door inch
by inch; the blackness had been from the interior of the house.
Through the crevice, The Shadow had passed. The narrowing shaft of
blackness was all that marked the silent closing of the door. Cliff - not more
than a dozen feet away - had seen no sign of a living form!
The gangsters, farther from the house, could not have seen a single token
of The Shadow's arrival - not even that moving strip of black. Subtle had been
The Shadow's entrance; yet Cliff realized that it could have been made even
less visibly. He saw that The Shadow had deliberately left his trace that
Cliff, himself, might know that his chief had entered!
There had been no signal; no whispered words from the dark. Cliff knew the
answer. He was to play the role to which Brodie Brodan had assigned him. The
Shadow could take care of his own departure as effectively as he had attended
to his arrival.
Cliff smiled grimly, as he drew his revolver from his pocket. The climax
of this episode was on the way. Silent and placid, the home of Tyler Bogart was
due for a startling eruption. Crime was ready to break loose.
This time, consequences would differ from those which had occurred at
Perry Trappe's. The Shadow, the master who battled crime, was on the scene to
meet the fiends within the silent house.

CHAPTER VIII

WITHIN THE HOUSE

THREE men were seated on the enclosed veranda of Tyler Bogart's home. The
millionaire and two friends formed the trio. The night was mild and ice clinked
in cold glasses as the three conversed.
This was the side of the house that faced the Sound. A spacious lawn, with
widespread trees, formed a pleasant, dimly-outlined vista beyond which sparkled
the moving lights of vessels that were passing this portion of Long Island.
The atmosphere was one of serenity, with no menace of approaching danger.
Hence the three men, as they chatted, gave no thought to the unexpected. Not
one of them saw the door that slowly opened from the house; nor did they
observe the keen, brilliant eyes that watched them.
The Shadow, studying this scene, saw that Tyler Bogart and his companions
were set to remain on the veranda. This formed a temporary refuge. Brodie
Brodan and his crew of mobsmen were on the other side of the house. Cliff
Marsland at the back; Bozo Griffin at the front; neither of their squads would
appear at this spot.
The one method of attack, should Tyler Bogart's life be sought, would come
directly through the house. Stealth would be the method chosen by the crooks
tonight. The Shadow held a key position; from this door he could block anyone
who tried to come to the veranda.
The Shadow, however, was on the watch for dual crime. He had linked this
approaching trouble with the affray at Perry Trappe's. Theft, as well as
murder, must be the motive. Cliff had informed, through Burbank, that two men
would be in the house. The Shadow, now that he had established the point of
contact between house and porch, had other work to do.
Somewhere in the house, criminals might already be at work. The Shadow,
when he battled crime, forestalled his enemies. Such was to be his plan
tonight. From the darkened doorway, The Shadow moved inward. He reached a
gloomy hallway. There he stood in mystic outline, a tall black-garbed figure of
sepulchral appearance.
Keen, burning eyes stared along the hall. The Shadow saw a passage at the
rear. It led deeper into the house. It formed the natural path to search. The
Shadow moved from the blackness of the wall; then stopped short.
Footsteps were coming down a flight of stairs. The Shadow eased back into
the gloom. His keen eyes watched as a servant appeared. The man walked within
five paces of The Shadow. He did not see the singular form of blackness that
stood so foreboding. The Shadow, however, studied the man's dull, passive
features. He saw that this menial was no minion of crime. He watched the man
pass onward toward the porch.

SWIFTLY, The Shadow moved out into the narrow hall. He reached the
corridor that turned left. He followed it until he came to a blocking door. The
side of the broad-brimmed hat pressed against the barrier. The Shadow listened.
His keen ear detected the sound of whispers.
Two men were in the room beyond. Crooks were at work. The Shadow had
discovered them.
Slowly, a black-gloved hand turned the knob of the door. The barrier did
not yield. A tiny metal pick clicked almost inaudibly as The Shadow applied it
to the keyhole. The lock gave without a sound. With black form pressed against
the door to mask the slight gloom from beyond the turn in the passage, The
Shadow opened the door by inches.
Clicking footsteps came faintly from the house. The Shadow waited, knowing
that the servant had come back from the veranda. The Shadow heard the footsteps
die. The door was open wider now. With keen eyes, The Shadow studied a circle
of light that was shining upon the door of a safe.
"Got it, Fingers?" came a whispered query.
"Not yet, Croaker," was the cautious reply. "Easy. Keep a watch on the
door. We want it clear to get out by the side - where Brodie is."
"Right. I'll do a sneak to see that you can make it. I'm just waiting
until you get this tin box open. You make a get-away. I'll do the rest."
"All set for Bogart?"
"You bet. He's the fat bimbo. I got a squint at the three of them on the
porch. I'll plug him and then cut out the way you went."
Momentary silence. Fingers was working at the dials of the safe. A soft
click sounded; then came a low expression of satisfaction from the lips of the
smooth-fingered crook.
"Got it!"
The door of the safe opened. Fingers threw the rays of his flashlight into
the interior. Croaker, somewhere in the darkness behind the safe-cracker, saw
the same object that Fingers had spied - a square panel of gold engraved with
Chinese characters and studded with sparkling gems.
It was the second of Cecil Armsbury's fake treasures which the old man had
unloaded on unsuspecting collectors. The golden panel that had supposedly come
from the Temple of Heaven in the Forbidden City of old Peking.

THE SHADOW, from the spot where he was standing, could not see into the
safe, for the door was opened in his direction. Fingers Keefel clicked off his
flashlight. The Shadow could hear the safe-cracker dragging a clanking object
from the safe. Then came a whispered buzz.
"Stick here." Croaker was the speaker. "I'm going out to see that it's all
clear. Wait -"
"Naw." Fingers put a protest. "I'm sliding straight out, Croaker. There's
nobody around. You stick here by the safe. Wait until I'm clear. Then you can
head for the porch. Savvy?"
"All right," agreed Croaker.
Pitch-darkness reigned. The Shadow was edging through the door that he had
opened. His action was a careful one. The doorway was low; The Shadow's tall
form covered the opening between door and post. The blackness of his shape
killed all light from the distant hall.
Crooks in the dark! The Shadow was entering with them. Despite the
blackness, he could tell the exact positions of the men. Fingers Keefel was
sneaking toward a farther door. Croaker Mannick was on the other side of the
opened front of the safe.
Theft was reaching its accomplishment. Murder was due to follow. The
Shadow, from his strategic position, was ready to frustrate them both. Fingers
- a moving target - would be the first. He could be stopped when he reached the
door; for that was a spot which he must certainly pass. Croaker, the potential
murderer, could come second.
"I'll give you time, Fingers." Croaker's hoarse whisper was coming from
the other side of the blocking door of the safe. "I'll finish Bogart and beat
it for the side line, after you've made a good get-away -"
Fingers sent an answering growl from near the farther doorway. That, and
the clank of the object which he carried, drowned other sounds. Then came a
muffled exclamation. Fingers had encountered something in the dark.
Click!
The room was flooded with light. Standing within the doorway, his hand
upon the switch, was a portly, grim-faced man who held a glistening revolver.
It was Tyler Bogart. Some unexpected suspicion had brought the millionaire
to the strongroom. His gun was pointed toward Croaker Mannick.
Beside the millionaire, almost at the doorway, was Fingers Keefel,
crouching as he held the flat shape of the golden panel close against his body.
By the little door stood The Shadow, revealed as a tall, sinister figure
in total black. He was the fourth member of this unexpected tableau.
Crooks were at bay; yet the sudden change that had brought the present
emergency was to their benefit. Tyler Bogart, by his unexpected arrival had
produced a strange dilemma.
The millionaire who had come to protect his property had, by his
appearance, thwarted the plan of The Shadow!

CHAPTER IX

GUNS BARK

TYLER BOGART, standing by the doorway of the lighted room, had every
opportunity in his favor. The millionaire had come with loaded revolver. He had
aimed at the safe as the logical objective. He had Croaker Mannick covered.
Fingers Keefel, though close to the millionaire, was handicapped by the
burden of the panel which he carried. He had no revolver ready, although one
hand was free. Counting on Croaker's protection, Fingers had left his gat in
his pocket.
Circumstances, however, had caught The Shadow in an unfortunate position.
The master from the darkness had moved into the room; but he was not beyond
that projecting door of the safe. Fingers Keefel, his first target, was in
plain view. Croaker Mannick, crouching behind a steel barrier, was not within
The Shadow's range!
Tyler Bogart had his chance. He fired. The millionaire's own excitement
was his undoing. His shot went wide. Even while the revolver roared, an
answering bark came from the safe. Croaker Mannick, replying with a single
shot, found the millionaire's body as a target. Tyler Bogart crumpled.
The Shadow, had not been inactive. With the shots, his tall form was
sweeping toward the wall away from the safe. The black cloak whirled as The
Shadow swung to aim at Croaker Mannick. The killer's gloating eyes became
transfixed. A gasp came from Croaker's lips as the murderer saw the weird shape
that had arrived to cover him with deadly automatic.
Too late to save Tyler Bogart's life, The Shadow was ready to avenge the
murder. Gun to gun, he was facing Croaker Mannick. The quick-fingered crook was
aiming instinctively to meet The Shadow's swinging weapon.
Then came an unexpected break. Fingers Keefel had not seen The Shadow. His
eyes had been on Tyler Bogart. As the millionaire crumpled from Croaker's
bullet, his hand dropped away from the light switch. At that instant, Fingers
acted with clawing clutch.
Just as The Shadow and Croaker swung gun to gun, Fingers yanked the switch
and plunged out through the door of the room, carrying the stolen panel with him!

DARKNESS - as fingers were pressed to triggers! The Shadow and Croaker
Mannick, each seeking to beat the other to the shot, were blotted from view by
pitch-black gloom. Instinctive fighters, the terror of the underworld and the
famous marksman of the badlands, both adapted themselves to the unexpected
change.
Each shifted as he fired. Automatic and revolver blazed simultaneously,
each at a target that had dropped away. Those bursts were but the first of a
succession. Through the strongroom where Tyler Bogart's body lay came flash
after flash, each from a new and unexpected quarter.
The Shadow was fighting it out with Croaker Mannick. The master battler
was weaving through the darkness to meet an enemy whose craft was worthy of his
own. Flashes were targets; but each marksman was on the move as he fired.
A burst of flame came from near the door. It brought a quick response from
the other side of the room. Croaker's revolver had spoken from the exit. The
Shadow, with keen strategy, had fired in reply toward the side of the target
that was inward from the door.
A sharp cry from the darkness. Croaker had dodged inward, expecting to
deceive The Shadow. He had failed. A zimming bullet from the automatic had
found its mark in human flesh. Croaker was wounded - on the left side, and not
seriously - for he fired again, almost instantly after he had cried out aloud.
Another bark from the automatic. Then a pause, while roaring echoes
resounded through the room. The Shadow was shifting for the cover of the safe
door - the barrier which had previously protected Croaker. His enemy was
somewhere in the darkness toward the door.
Then came Croaker's final shot. The smart killer had suspected The
Shadow's move. He had taken advantage of two short seconds to gain the door.
His revolver delivered a winging bullet that thudded like a warning against the
steel door of the safe.
The automatic responded. Once - twice - it hurled its lead toward the far
door where Croaker, firing, had sprung for safety. Croaker, wounded in the
fray, had sought safety in flight. Those two quick shots from The Shadow's gun
were the master's last effort to stay the plunging murderer.
The gunfray, despite its varied action, had been short in duration. The
few seconds that followed the final echoes of the shots were tense ones. The
Shadow, playing his strategic game, was waiting for any answer that might come.
All was silent by the door. Croaker Mannick - he had recognized The Shadow
- had chosen flight as his final goal. There would be no more from Croaker -
that The Shadow knew. Fingers Keefel had gained a start. Outside were mobsters
ready to cause trouble.
The Shadow moved forward. His flashlight glimmered. It showed the body of
Tyler Bogart, crumpled within the doorway. The light flickered toward the
hallway. Suddenly, its rays went out. A soft, sinister laugh whispered through
the room.
What was The Shadow's thought? As if in answer came a signal from the
outside of the house. Three quick shots - a belated token from Brodie Brodan.
That meant invasion - from the back.

FOOTSTEPS were clattering. Tyler Bogart's friends and servants, alarmed by
the shots from the strongroom, were coming to investigate. The sounds were from
the direction of the veranda. Sweeping back into the strongroom, The Shadow
reached the little hallway.
He was in time. Cliff Marsland, in order to play the part assigned to him,
had been forced to launch his cohorts. A snarling mobster arrived in the
passage. The Shadow saw the fiendish look on the man's face as the fellow aimed
a revolver down the straight hall, where he spotted one of Bogart's frightened
friends.
The Shadow's automatic boomed from the side passage. The mobster dropped.
With a forward leap, The Shadow gained the junction of the passages. His
blazing automatics - a second had come forth in his other hand - delivered
fierce fire toward the doorway where two other mobsters had appeared.
One man fell. The other fled. The Shadow caught a glimpse of Cliff
Marsland. The agent, playing his part, also took to flight. He could tell
Brodie Brodan that he and his men had encountered an unexpected ambush.
Back through the strongroom. The Shadow reached the way to the side door.
Again, he was just in time. Brodie Brodan, alarmed by unexpected firing within
the house, had launched a new drive. Mobsters were piling into the darkened
side passage. Once again, The Shadow's automatics broke loose.
Snarling mobsters staggered. Guns clattered to the floor as the repulsed
horde took to flight. The fury of The Shadow's fire brought belief that several
armed men were here to meet the invasion.
The effect on the mobsters, however, was matched by that which came to the
startled guests of Tyler Bogart. The two men coming in from the veranda ran back
the way that they had come, followed by a pair of bewildered servants.
Flinging open the veranda windows, they leaped to the lawn and fled in the
only direction that seemed to afford safety - toward the sloping vista that led
to the Sound. Scattered shots - too distant to cause harm - came from Bozo
Griffin's few men at the front of the big mansion.
Shouted orders followed. Brodie Brodan was urging his men to scatter. The
admonition was a wise one. The Shadow had reached a window that covered both
front and side. His automatics belched in both directions. Scurrying mobsters
ran for shelter.
The Shadow knew that Cliff would lead the mobsters at the back into a
swift retreat. His aim was to scatter Brodie's hordes and send them flocking
back to Manhattan. He succeeded swiftly; and as token of The Shadow's might, a
few stray gangsters lay flattened on the turf.
Tyler Bogart's home was emptied of all living beings save one: The Shadow.
Stalking ghostlike through the darkness, the master battler returned to the
strongroom where Tyler Bogart had met his unfortunate death.
Once again, The Shadow's flashlight flickered. Then came a long, weird
peal of mocking laughter. In this deserted spot, The Shadow stood alone. He had
banished hordes of crime, although murder had been accomplished.
Triumph, itself, was hollow; yet The Shadow's thoughts were of the future,
rather than the present. Already, his keen brain was working out new plans.
The first crime - the death of Perry Trappe - had struck without The
Shadow's knowledge. The second - this murder of Tyler Bogart - had been
accomplished despite his presence, although The Shadow had taken fearful toll
in vengeance.
More crime, however, was due. A third stroke was in the making. When it
arrived, The Shadow would be there, prepared to accomplish by subtle craft more
than could be gained by might alone!

CHAPTER X

CRIME AND COUNTERCRIME

CECIL ARMSBURY was sitting in his living room. The old man who had
sponsored crime was puffing at a cigar while he watched his nephew studying
newspaper reports. A frown appeared on the brow of Martin Havelock, alias Duke
Larrin.
"What's the trouble?" questioned Armsbury.
"This mix-up at Bogart's," returned Havelock. "I don't like the way it
turned out."
"I have read the newspapers," commented Armsbury. "I see nothing to cause
alarm. Tyler Bogart's safe was opened and rifled. Bogart, himself, was slain."
"But some of Brodan's men were bumped off, too."
"What of it? That means less to pay. Brodan got away; and so did your
other two workers - Keefel and Mannick. They were important enough to have been
recognized by the police had either of them remained. We know that the false
panel was stolen. That is sufficient."
"I guess so." Havelock's tone was thoughtful. "But I'm glad I've played a
wary game. Brodie - Fingers - Croaker - all three are on their own. They don't
have to hear from me to go through with the next job."
"Good strategy," agreed Armsbury. "Your qualms, Martin, are hardly
justified. Perry Trappe and Tyler Bogart each knew too much; but what they knew
has perished with them. The statue of Vishnu, the panel from the Forbidden City
- both have been destroyed. The police know nothing."
Havelock nodded in agreement.
"Brisbane Calbot," laughed Armsbury, "is the next. He has the sacred
scroll from the Kaaba in Mecca. It will be stolen. He will perish - like Trappe
and Bogart."
"I guess you're right," decided Havelock. "Fingers and Croaker know their
way. They each have a hide-out; they won't meet again until they show up at
Calbot's.
"As for Brodie - he's a good hand with the alibi business. He knows enough
to throw the police off the track. It's working perfectly and I'm completely out
of it. Duke Larrin in New York! They probably know it down at headquarters by
this time; but they haven't got a single thing on what Duke Larrin's doing."
The young man arose and walked to the fireplace. He pressed the switch
that produced the special elevator. He turned to his uncle.
"Seven o'clock," announced Havelock. "I'm going down to the crypt. If any
one of the outfit suspects trouble, he'll be around to signal me."
Cecil Armsbury nodded. He knew the emergency arrangements that Martin
Havelock had made. No news would mean good news. The old man chuckled as the
fireplace closed over the descending elevator. He puffed serenely at his cigar
for the next few minutes. A clicking sound announced Havelock's return.
"All well," declared Havelock, as he stepped from the elevator. "No
visitors. That means each of my men is sure of himself. The job will go through
at Calbot's tonight. The only one I was really worried about was Brodie Brodan.
Those folks at Bogart's picked off a few of his gorillas. But Brodie is too
clever to let that bother him."

MARTIN HAVELOCK'S remark indicated his assurance. He had picked Brodie
Brodan as his mob-leading henchman because he felt sure that Brodie could cover
up no matter what might occur. The proof that Havelock's certainty was justified
was occurring at that very time in a room at the Hotel Spartan.
Brodie Brodan, reclining in a dressing gown, was talking with Detective
Joe Cardona. The ace detective was paying a second visit to the mob leader whom
he had originally suspected of complicity in the affray at Perry Trappe's.
"Still worrying about me, eh?" Brodie was questioning. "Say, Joe, you must
have me heavy on your mind. Where do you get these cuckoo ideas, anyway?"
"There were two gorillas out at Bogart's," returned Cardona, "who were
guys that used to work for you, Brodie. I recognized their mugs when I went out
to look at the bodies. What were they doing out there?"
"Working for someone else," responded Brodie, promptly. "Listen, Joe - I'm
not going into details about my past. But you know me well enough to know that
whenever I do anything, I do it myself."
"With a mob at your heels."
"I've got no mob. But even if I did have, I'd be with the boys, wouldn't
I?"
"Yeah."
"That settles it then. I wasn't out on Long Island when Bogart was killed."
Cardona eyed the heavy-browed mob leader in narrow fashion. After a short
survey, the detective shrugged his shoulders.
"Guess you're right, Brodie," he admitted. "I haven't been able, though,
to pick anyone else that might have been in on the deal. That's why I came to
question you. Say - where were you that night?"
"At the Club Madrid," returned Brodie. "In the office with Lobo Ruscott.
Why don't you slide up there and talk to Lobo? He'll tell you the same."
"I've seen Lobo," growled Cardona, as he rose and turned toward the door.
"Your alibi holds, Brodie."
With this final remark, the detective strolled from the room. Brodie
Brodan remained in his chair. His poker face remained the same for a full five
minutes. Then his heavy brows furrowed. Reaching from his chair, Brodie picked
up a telephone and called a number.
"That you, Bozo?... Yeah. This is Brodie... Ankle up here... Yeah, right
away and stop off at the Black Ship on your way... Pick up Marsland if he's
around there. Yeah, that's his usual hangout... Listen, Bozo - keep an eye out
for Joe Cardona, If he's around this hotel, stay out. Call me instead. Savvy?"
The gang leader placed the telephone aside. He leaned back in his chair
and drowsed.

TWENTY minutes passed. Then came a rap at the door. Brodie awoke with a
growl. The door opened and two men came in; one was Bozo Griffin; the other,
Cliff Marsland. Brodie motioned his visitors to chairs.
"Listen," declared the gang leader. "Joe Cardona was just up here. It's
the second time he's been around. He's trying to find something - but he hasn't
been able to crimp my alibis.
"We've got a job tonight - as you fellows know. I was going to take you
along and let you find out about it on the way. But I'm changing that plan on
account of Cardona. I'm going to let the pair of you handle the work yourself.
Get me?"
Both Bozo and Cliff nodded their understanding.
"That'll let me hang out at the Club Madrid," continued Brodie. "Like as
not Cardona'll be up there - or have some stools mooching around the joint.
When tonight's over, Cardona won't suspect Brodie Brodan. That's all."
A satisfied smile appeared on Brodie's face. The gang leader stared
approvingly at his companions; seeing that they were anxious to learn their
duties, he gave them the needed information.
"Here's the lay," explained Brodie. "There's a guy named Brisbane Calbot
who lives in an old house uptown. Worth a lot of cash, but he hangs out alone
with an old goofy servant - a geezer that has been with him for years.
"The servant don't amount to much anyway; but to make it all the softer,
he was taken sick a couple of months ago and Calbot sent him to a sanitarium.
Being a crabby guy himself, Calbot hasn't taken on anyone else. He lives in the
house all alone and he has a room down in his basement where he spends most of
his time mulling over a lot of junk that he's collected. He's got a big vault
down there, too."
"We're goin' in?" questioned Bozo.
"Wait a minute," ordered Brodie. "You're doing just what I tell you, Bozo.
You and Cliff are to be with the mob, outside of Calbot's place. You'll hear a
shot from inside. That'll mean the end of Calbot. Wait a couple of minutes,
see? Then gang the joint. Shoot up the windows; pile in through the doors -
they'll be open - and make a big noise. Then scram, in a hurry, before any flat
feet show up. Got it?"
Bozo nodded, a trifle perplexed. Cliff grinned, to show that he
understood. Brodie could see which was the more intelligent of his two
lieutenants.
"It's a cover-up," growled Brodie. "Like we've done before, Bozo. We lost
some gorillas out on Long Island; we don't want to drop any more on this job.
That shot from inside tells you that it's all set to do some shooting. But wait
a couple of minutes -"
"So the man who fires the shot can get away," interposed Cliff.
"That's it," announced Brodie. "Say, Cliff, you've got a noodle, even if
Bozo hasn't. Wake up, Bozo! I've given you credit for being more than just a
dumb egg."
Bozo scowled. He glanced angrily at Cliff, as though blaming his companion
for the criticism which had come from Brodie Brodan. Cliff returned the scowl
with a steady gaze. He felt that Brodie's innuendo regarding Bozo was quite
correct.
Bozo, tough, stocky, and with a hard-boiled face, looked like an ordinary
gorilla. He had gained his lieutenancy purely through survival in the service
of Brodie Brodan. He was a relic of the gang leader's past.
Brodie saw Bozo's malicious glare. He ended it with another growl that
caused Bozo to ease back in his chair and give a sheepish grin.
"No sorehead stuff," warned Brodie. "You and Cliff are working together.
Figure it between you where you'll pick up the mob. Ten o'clock's the time.
Beat it - and dope out your game outside. Look Brisbane Calbot up in the phone
book. He's listed. That'll tell you where he lives. I'm going up to the Club
Madrid. Stay away from there. Call me here tomorrow."
Brodie waved his hand toward the door. Cliff and Bozo arose and made their
exit. Brodie's face, usually immobile, showed changing expressions after the
pair had gone. Brodie was comparing his new lieutenant, Cliff Marsland, with
the old, Bozo Griffin. The comparison was in Cliff's favor.
Rising from his chair, Brodie Brodan went to a closet and brought out a
tuxedo. The gang leader was preparing for a gala night at the Club Madrid. His
plans of crime had been completed. The clock on his bureau showed five minutes
to eight.

HALF an hour later, at exactly eight twenty-five, a click resounded in a
darkened room. Shimmering blue light glared upon a polished table. White hands
stretched forth to obtain earphones from the wall where a tiny bulb was burning.
"Burbank speaking," came a voice over the wire.
"Report!" It was The Shadow's whisper that sounded weirdly in the sanctum.
"Report from Marsland."
The Shadow listened in the gloom. The clicking of Burbank's telephoned
voice brought the word which the contact man had heard from Cliff. Every detail
came in terse form.
"Instructions," spoke the voice of The Shadow. "Marsland to follow orders
as given by Brodan."
"Instructions received," answered Burbank.
The earphones clattered to the wall. The bulb went out. The blue light
clicked off. A creepy laugh rose to a shuddering crescendo. Silence came to the
sanctum.
The Shadow had departed. He had learned the facts he wanted. He would find
a way to deal with crime.
The Shadow knew.

CHAPTER XI

THE SHADOW'S PART

NINE o'clock. The home of Brisbane Calbot, an old-fashioned brick
structure, showed gloomily in the semidarkness of a side street.
It was a building that no one would have suspected as a place where
valuables could be found. In fact, that was one reason why Brisbane Calbot kept
this old house. He did not want to be annoyed by intruders who might come to
rob; and the fact that his place was so inconspicuous made it an ideal location.
A patch of blackness appeared beneath the light of a street lamp. It
paused there, and its shape became that of a human silhouette. Shown in
profile, the brim of a hat projected above a hawklike nose. That silhouette was
the symbol of a living presence; yet no figure appeared in the darkness near the
lamp.
The black patch moved. It blended with the darkness of the street. A
slight swish was all that announced a motion in the gloom. A strange, invisible
creature was moving toward Brisbane Calbot's old house. The Shadow had arrived
before men of crime.
There was a cement passage beside the old house. That was the course which
The Shadow took; yet no eyes - unless they had possessed the sharpness of The
Shadow's own - could have spied the progress of this mystic visitant.
The dull whiteness of a side door was blotted by a grotesque blackness
that covered it. The door was heavy; though its outer surface did not show it,
the barrier was held from within by formidable fastenings.
Slight clicks occurred in the darkness. Slow minutes passed. At last the
door yielded to The Shadow's skill. The barrier opened. The Shadow entered. The
locks tightened again as an unseen hand threw them with scarcely a telltale
sound.
Traveling through a passage, The Shadow spied a single light in a side
room. He stalked to the door. His tall form threw a long streak of blackness
across the threshold. That darkened, flattened length became immovable. It was
not noticed by a man who sat reading at a little table.
Brisbane Calbot was a middle-aged man whose appearance gave him the air of
a recluse. He was totally engrossed in his reading; and the volume which he held
showed that he was engaged in study. The walls of the room were lined with odd
books in dusty bindings.

SATISFIED that Calbot was completely oblivious of what passed about him,
The Shadow moved away from the open doorway. He moved through a passage. A tiny
light, its circle of illumination no larger than a silver dollar, became the
medium through which he found a low, locked door. This was obviously the
entrance to the basement.
The Shadow's pick went to work. The lock yielded. The Shadow opened the
door, pointed his flashlight down a flight of steps and descended, locking the
door behind him.
The basement proved to be a formidably protected place. The iron gratings
that covered the small windows were such that no one could have opened them
without long trouble and considerable noise. A locked door drew The Shadow to
it. He opened this barrier as he had the others. He stepped into Calbot's curio
room.
Iron shutters guarded this place. The room was large and well-stocked with
all sorts of oddities. The Shadow, knowing that his presence here could not
possibly be detected, turned on a light. His spectral form made a grotesque
figure in this unusual room.
Suits of armor, curious weapons of many descriptions, iron statues, urns
and pedestals - these were the assortment of oddities through which The Shadow
stepped. The room was in disarray; and it was obvious that the weight of the
objects themselves made them inviolate to thieving hands.
It would have required a group of moving men with a van to carry away
Calbot's collection. Stealth and subterfuge could not avail with this huge lot
of curios.
The far wall, however, showed a door that fitted tightly. It was the
barrier to a vault. The Shadow approached it and began to work. The vault was a
formidable obstacle. The black glove came from The Shadow's left hand. The
girasol glimmered while long, sensitive fingers tried the knobs.
One minute passed; two - three - The Shadow's skill was rewarded. The door
of the vault came open. Glittering metal sent back flashes as The Shadow gazed.
Within the large vault stood two guardian statues. One was as black as ebony;
the other statue was as white as ivory.
Heavily bedecked with metal, these rare idols were safe without their
vault. A whispered laugh told The Shadow's thought. Three men could not carry
one of these heavy pagan gods. Yet Brisbane Calbot had placed them in the
vault, probably because of their tremendous value.
On the floor between the idols - set as though it belonged to the statues
and was in their care - a glittering object rested upon a low pedestal. It was
a golden scroll, inscribed with curious characters in Arabic. Each line was
illuminated with sparkling gems.
Stooping, The Shadow formed a shroud which blocked off the light that
shone upon this treasure. His tiny flashlight glimmered. It showed the
uppermost line of the scroll. It moved along from word to word while keen eyes
followed.
The Shadow was reading the Arabic inscription as easily as if it had been
English. He was deciphering it word by word, perusing its mystic message. The
flashlight's glimmer continued until it had reached the final statement of the
inscription.

FROM hidden lips came a whispered laugh that sounded like hollow mockery
within the opened vault. The legend purported that this was the sacred scroll
from the Kaaba in Mecca, that cube-shaped building that stands within the holy
place called the Haram, and which houses the Black Stone venerated by all
Mohammedans.
A sacred scroll from the Kaaba! That was the reason for The Shadow's
sardonic mirth. The theft of such a scroll would be as difficult as the
purloining of the Black Stone itself. Had this scroll ever rested within the
Kaaba, its disappearance would have stirred tumult through all Islam!
The Shadow knew that Brisbane Calbot's treasure was a fake. Someone had
duped the old collector. This was not all that The Shadow divined. He knew also
that this spurious scroll could be the only object which men of crime might be
seeking at Brisbane Calbot's.
Crooks were coming to take false treasure. Paste jewels on plated gold;
that was all that they could gain. Yet this, to The Shadow, was more important
than the discovery of an object of real value.
His keen mind was tracing backward. Criminals intended to take a false
treasure from a man who had been swindled when he obtained it. How had the
crooks learned of this hidden scroll? Who had foisted it upon Brisbane Calbot?
The Shadow was connecting the approaching robbery with the two that had
gone before. The police had advanced the theory that the robbery at Trappe's
and the invasion at Bogart's had resulted in the theft of unknown wealth on
each occasion. The Shadow, himself, had glimpsed a golden panel in the arms of
Fingers Keefel, when the crook had escaped from Tyler Bogart's.
That was all The Shadow needed. He knew the truth. The crooks were at work
to reclaim fake curios; to cover up the traces of some swindler who had operated
in the past. Fingers Keefel would be here tonight. The Shadow could frustrate
him. But would the saving of this valueless scroll be an accomplishment of
import?
Again, The Shadow laughed. His tall form rose. It stood like a gigantic
shroud. The black glove slid over the left hand. The girasol was hidden. The
Shadow closed the door of Brisbane Calbot's vault.
Stalking through the curio room, The Shadow traversed the way that he had
come. He locked the door behind him. He ascended the stairs, unlocked the door
at the top and relocked it from the passage. He moved beyond the open doorway
of the room where Brisbane Calbot was poring over an antique volume. The Shadow
merged with darkness.
Minutes passed. The hour of ten was approaching. The Shadow, however,
expected action before that hour. As he waited in the silence of a darkened
room, he knew that crime would soon be under way.
The faint whisper of a laugh sounded in suppressed tones. Strange crime
would come to a head tonight; and The Shadow was ready to play a part that he
had chosen!

CHAPTER XII

THE STOLEN SCROLL

A CLOCK chimed in a room of Brisbane Calbot's home. It marked the third
quarter. Fifteen minutes before ten. Hardly had the chiming ended before a bell
tinkled to announce a visitor.
Brisbane Calbot heard the bell. The recluse arose from his reading and
reluctantly placed his book aside. He walked slowly through the darkened
hallway until he reached the front, where he pressed a light switch. He pushed
back the bolt of the front door; then turned the lock. He peered cautiously
through the crack as he opened the door.
A man was standing on the door step. He turned as Calbot's white face
appeared. Brisbane saw a smile flash in the darkness. He put a query.
"You are Mr. Basib?"
"Yes," came the reply. "Darwin Basib, the curio dealer who made the
appointment for tonight."
"Come in."
Fingers Keefel stepped into the light. Brisbane Calbot moved beyond him
and closed the large front door. With shrewd gaze, Fingers watched the man's
action. A gloating smile appeared upon the lips of the visitor.
A pressed bolt - the turning of a lock below. These were easy to
counteract from within the house. As Calbot moved back from the door, Fingers,
still standing in the vestibule, removed his hat and coat. He spied a rack just
inside the inner door; but he did not move in that direction.
Instead, he spoke to Calbot as he showed his host the hat and coat.
"Can I hang these somewhere?" he questioned. "Is there a rack -"
He looked about the vestibule as he spoke. Calbot took the hat and coat.
"Right this way, Mr. Basib," he said.
"The rack is inside - in the hallway. Here -"
In indication, Calbot moved into the hall. Raising hat and coat, he hung
them on the rack. Fingers Keefel foresaw the action. Standing by the outer
door, he turned and with deft movement drew the bolt while his other hand
twisted the key of the lock. Then, with a quick step, he turned toward the
hall. He was at the inner door as Calbot turned.
"This way, Mr. Basib," said the collector, not suspecting for an instant
that his visitor had released the fastenings of the front door. "I like to talk
with curio dealers. Collecting is my hobby -"
Fingers Keefel was experiencing uneasiness. Despite the ease of the
trickery which he had used at the front door, he had a suspicion that eyes were
watching him. Fingers had opened the way for Croaker Mannick. Could Brisbane
Calbot have seen him do it?

AS they entered Calbot's reading room, Fingers decided that he must have
been mistaken. Calbot's face was friendly and showed no sign of distrust. The
collector offered his visitor a cigar. Fingers sat down and smiled.
"You told me" - Calbot's tone denoted anticipation - "that you had
something most unusual to tell me about curios. I assumed that you might be
desirous of selling me some for my collection; but you informed me that such
was not the case -"
"You heard me right," interposed Fingers. "I don't sell curios, Mr.
Calbot. I buy them."
"But I am not interested in selling any of my curios -"
"You might be," interrupted the false dealer, "when you have heard my
terms. There is a particular type of curio that I buy, Mr. Calbot."
"Ah!"
"A type of curio that no one wants."
"That no one wants?"
"Yes." Fingers smiled. "I buy fake curios, Mr. Calbot."
The collector seemed puzzled. Fingers grinned as he went on with his
explanation.
"Lots of collectors," he said, "get stuck with phony curios. They usually
buy them cheap - that's why they get stung. So I give them their money for them
and pass the fake curios on to other people."
An indignant exclamation came from Brisbane Calbot's lips.
"This is outrageous, Mr. Basib!" asserted the collector. "A dishonest
practice!"
"Just a way out," returned Fingers. "I find that most curio collectors are
glad to find it - if they learn that they own fakes."
"I should never take such a step," protested Calbot. "If ever I have been
swindled, the loss is my own. I trust people, Mr. Basib. I believe in honesty."
"So do I." Fingers suddenly changed tactics. "It's not my fault that I had
to take up this game. The collectors are the ones to blame. I used to be an
expert at detecting forged curios. What did I get for it?
"Nothing. People called me in to examine articles they thought had value.
I told them when I found fakes. That upset them because they saw financial
loss. They didn't like to pay me the fee that I required. They all had one
question - just one question, Mr. Calbot."
"What was that?"
"If I could help them to get rid of their fakes, passing the junk off as
genuine."
"And you complied?"
"I had to do it." Fingers took on a mournful look. "It was the only way,
Mr. Calbot. Think of it - me - the man who can spot a fake quicker than anybody
else in the country - forced to go into a racket."
"I am sorry," stated Calbot, sympathetically. "Very sorry, Mr. Basib. I
appreciate the fact that you feel remorse. I should like to aid you in a return
to honesty. Perhaps" - the collector was nodding thoughtfully - "you would be
willing to give an impartial study to my collection of curios. I should value
your expert opinion. I can assure you, also, that I shall be willing to pay you
a generous fee.
"But I shall not dispose of any spurious items in my collection. Instead,
I shall spare no effort to trace the men who swindled me - should you discover
that some of my curios are not genuine."
"I'd like to see your collection," asserted Fingers, in an eager tone.
"I'd like to get a first look at it so that I could list all doubtful articles.
Then I could return to give a more exact inspection."
"Very well, Mr. Basib. Come this way."

BRISBANE CALBOT arose and conducted his visitor toward the door that led
to the stairs below. Fingers Keefel, as he followed, gave a warning cough, as
he threw a glance toward the front of the house. He heard a slight creaking
sound just beyond a turn in the hall. He grinned, knowing that it must be
Croaker Mannick.
Brisbane Calbot opened the door and turned on a light at the top of the
stairs. With Fingers Keefel at his heels, he led the way to the cellar and
unlocked the door of the curio room. The two men stepped into the room. Calbot
turned on the light and waved his hand.
"Here it is," he said.
"A wonderful collection!" exclaimed Fingers. "Wonderful. Many interesting
items."
He strolled about the room, noting one object after another and finally
stopped to face Calbot.
"I suppose," said Fingers, in an indifferent tone, "that you have other
items which you consider to be of more value than these?"
"Yes," admitted Calbot. "But -"
"Where are they?"
"I keep them in a special place."
"In that vault?"
Calbot looked nervously at Fingers; then his eyes went toward the vault.
Fingers, near the door of the curio room, gave a noiseless snap to his fingers
- a sign which could be seen by anyone in the cellar. Then, stepping past
Calbot, he approached the door of the vault. He placed his hand upon a knob.
"That vault stays locked!" exclaimed Calbot, excitedly. "I do not care to
open it, Mr. Basib."
"What is the combination?" quizzed Fingers.
"What - what!" blurted Calbot. "You dare to seek to open it? Leave my
house at once. At once, I say!"
"After you," smirked Fingers, waving his hand toward the door.
Brisbane Calbot turned in bewilderment. A gasp came from his lips as he
sighted the reason for his visitor's grin.
Standing in the doorway was a tall, square-jawed man who gripped a .38.
The revolver was covering Brisbane Calbot. The collector's arms came up; he
backed away.
"Good work, Croaker," laughed Fingers, as he recognized the tough, though
pasty, face of the killer whom he had summoned. "Keep this bimbo covered while
I open the box."
With cool indifference, Fingers turned and began his work upon the knob.
He laughed sourly as he proceeded, talking to Brisbane Calbot as he went along.
"It would be easier," he remarked, "if you gave me the combination. What's
that? No answer? How would a bullet from my friend's gun suit you?"
Brisbane Calbot remained silent. Fingers Keefel muttered, another laugh.
"You'd rather die, I'll bet," he declared. "Well, maybe you will - maybe
you will. And if you're dead, you can't tell us. We don't like to stay around
long after a guy takes the bump. So we'll let you keep your funny mug shut.
Keep watching, old-timer, and see how a safe-cracker works."

BRISBANE CALBOT stared. His lips were pursed. As Fingers Keefel had
suggested, the outraged collector was ready to face death without speaking. He
had a sort of nervous confidence in the door of his safe. As Fingers growled at
missed combinations, Calbot felt hysterical elation.
Fingers began to talk. It was his way of working. His growled remarks
reached the door of the curio room and brought a smile to the ugly lips of
Croaker Mannick.
"The last job," was the comment that Fingers made. "I fixed it for you and
you walked in, Croaker. This is a better lay for you than the one out on Long
Island. Say - I helped you out when I yanked off that light, didn't I?
"You're cool with the gun, Croaker. The way you beat old Fatty Bogart to
the shot was neat. You had to scram plenty fast. Brodie's mob ran into trouble
that you got out of. Didn't they?"
"Yeah." Croaker's growled affirmative indicated an unpleasant recollection.
"Don't get nervous, Croaker," laughed Fingers. "Say - if I could handle a
gat like you can, nothing would make me nervous - not even The Shadow."
"Yeah?" Croaker's voice showed actual nervousness. "Well, when I scrammed,
there was some guy firing in the dark - and I didn't like it."
Fingers poised his hand. His smile faded. A grim look appeared upon his
face. He half-turned his head to look toward Croaker. The gleaming .38 was
trained steadily upon Brisbane Calbot; but Fingers fancied that he saw a
nervous expression on Croaker's face.
"This is the last job, Croaker," assured Fingers. "I don't blame you for
wanting to get it over with - if you've got a hunch that The Shadow might mix
in. Well - we'll scram when we're through - and there's nothing more to worry
about.
"Not even The Shadow can get wise to the next stunt that Duke Larrin's
going to pull. He'll get what he's after - and it won't be phony junk - so he
said. We're not in it - and neither is Brodie. Even The Shadow won't have a
chance to get to that crypt of Duke Larrin's."
With these words, Fingers bent back to the vault. His hands resumed their
task. The nervousness which Fingers had gained after his survey of Croaker s
face seemed to spur him rather than deter him.
Something clicked. The door of the vault moved open. It had taken Fingers
twenty-five minutes; he thought that he had done a creditable job. He did not
know that The Shadow had been here before him, to do the work in exactly three
minutes!
Fingers Keefel spied the golden scroll. He gloated. He pulled the object
from between the two statues that guarded it and gripped the scroll beneath his
arm, leaving the pedestal on the floor of the vault.

AS Fingers headed for the door of the curio room, he saw Croaker Mannick
moving inward. The killer shoved the muzzle of his revolver close to Brisbane
Calbot's body. Fingers, at the door, peered nervously about. He remembered the
sensation of some strange presence in the house. He wanted to be sure that no
intruder was around.
"Better give him the bump," urged Fingers, nudging his free thumb toward
Brisbane Calbot. "Wait until I'm up the stairs though. You'll have to hurry to
get out before the mob piles in. I'll open the side door, Croaker. That'll
leave two ways."
"Yeah?" Croaker growled. "How's the mob going to hear it if I fire down
here?"
"Give them another signal upstairs."
"And suppose they might happen to hear the first one? Listen, Fingers -
I'm coming right after you - get that? I'm not sticking down here in this trap.
Say - could anybody ever open that vault in shorter time than it took you?"
"There's not another guy could do it in less than an hour."
"Well, that settles it. This mug is going in his own vault. He won't last
a half an hour."
Croaker's gun jabbed against Calbot's ribs. The curio collector backed
away. Fingers Keefel grinned fiendishly as he watched from the cellar. He saw
Croaker back Calbot into the vault while the curio collector gasped his
protests.
"My scroll!" blurted Calbot. "You thieves! Stealing - my greatest
treasure. You - you murderers!"
The last word came in a hoarse scream as the collector tumbled backward
into the vault. As Calbot sprawled upon the pedestal which had held the golden
scroll, the vault door swung shut. Fingers saw Croaker twirl the knob. Without
another word, the safe-cracker started for the stairs, leaving his companion to
follow.
Fingers reached the side door and opened it. He left the barrier ajar.
With the fake scroll of pretended gold, Fingers slipped out into the darkness
of the alleyway. He headed toward the back; he quickened his pace as he heard
the blast of Croaker's .38 from within the side door of the house.
Croaker, like Fingers, was clear. Thief and murderer were scurrying away
to safety - each to his own hide-out. The third job had been accomplished.
Gloating, Fingers Keefel chuckled over the thought of Brisbane Calbot,
interred alive in his own vault. The last of three whom Duke Larrin had marked
for death was buried in a spot where doom was certain!

CHAPTER XIII

THE SHADOW ACTS

THE pause that followed the shot from Croaker's revolver was an ominous
one. To mobsmen, waiting in cars in front of Brisbane Calbot's home, the report
was a familiar signal. They had heard the sound of that gun at Perry Trappe's.
They had heard it again on Long Island, when they had invaded the home of Tyler
Bogart.
Bozo Griffin, assuming full command for himself despite the fact that he
and Cliff Marsland were of equal ranking, emitted a growl as he heard the
signal. He remembered Brodie Brodan's admonition to allow time for the man who
fired the revolver to make a get-away.
The single shot, though unexpected in this quiet neighborhood, had no
aftermath until Bozo decided to give the next command. In a louder growl,
Brodie Brodan's lieutenant ordered his gorillas to start their wild raid.
"Let 'em go!"
Mobsters piled from automobiles. Dashing across the street, they opened
fire on the windows of Calbot's home. Three men rushed up the front steps and
threw open the big door. Others made for the alley, to seek the side entrance.
Bozo Griffin, with Cliff Marsland beside him, was standing near the leading car
across the street.
Shots from the front of the house. Then came a scream from the first
mobster who had entered. The man came tumbling from the vestibule. A gorilla
beside him leveled his revolver and fired. An answering boom came from within.
The second mobster staggered and plunged, headlong down the steps. The third
man scrambled for safety.
There were shots in the alleyway. The gangsters who had taken the cement
passage were at the side door. In response to the wild barks of their revolvers
came a new fusillade. Someone within the house had stopped the raiders at the
front and had turned to meet those who were entering at the side!
One mobster had sprawled upon the cement. Another was staggering, crying
to his pals to aid him. The rest, remembering the ambush at Bogart's, took to
flight. As they scattered for the waiting automobiles, new shots came from
bullet-broken windows.
Mobsmen were starting the automobiles. Bozo Griffin had dived into the
front car. Cliff Marsland was following him. With demoralized gorillas
clambering aboard, the cars shot from the curb. Brodie Brodan's mobsters had
met another set-back.

CLIFF MARSLAND knew the answer. The Shadow had acted from within the
beleaguered house. Stationed there, he had met the first invaders; then had
turned his fire to the second horde. Mobsters had met their just deserts.
The quick exchange of shots had roused the neighborhood. People were
shouting from windows. In this quiet, unfrequented district, minutes would
elapse before police responded.
Within Calbot's now silent house, The Shadow was moving with quick
precision. Almost before the echoes of his fire had died, the tall avenger in
black had reached the steps to the cellar. With swift, sweeping stride, The
Shadow gained the curio room.
Gloved fingers worked upon the knobs of Brisbane Calbot's vault. The
Shadow had unbarred the barrier in a few minutes on his previous attempt. This
time, his task was a matter of seconds. The door of the vault swung open.
Brisbane Calbot was slumped between the two idols. The black statue and
the white looked like huge slaves protecting their master. The light from the
curio room shone upon Calbot's face. With frightened gasp, the recluse looked
up.
Before him stood a being clad in black. The sinister visitant seemed like
a spectral figure sent to the vault which had been marked as Calbot's tomb.
Burning eyes were commanding, as a black-gloved hand stretched forth and
beckoned.
Wondering, Brisbane Calbot rose. He was like a man in a trance. Strong
hands caught his shoulders and swung him from the vault. The door clanged shut.
The light went out. With a powerful arm swinging him forward, Brisbane Calbot
found himself following the sharp glare of a narrow-beamed flashlight as it cut
a swath toward the bottom of the steps that led upstairs.
The Shadow swept the recluse onward. Together, they crossed the floor
above and reached the side entrance. Calbot, wondering where he was being
taken, could do nothing but obey. This strange visitant had brought him from a
vault of death. He felt that he had gained a needed protector.
Shouts were coming from the front street when The Shadow and his charge
issued into the cement passage. Brisbane Calbot stumbled over the body of a
dead gangster. The Shadow caught the recluse and helped him onward. Through the
rear of the passage; down a tiny alleyway; then across a side street. The pair
was just ahead of the police who were arriving.
Calbot slumped upon the cushions of a coupe. The car shot forward as an
invisible driver took the wheel. Turning a corner, it sped into darkness. The
Shadow, like those who had gone ahead, was leaving this vicinity.
The coupe stopped after a trip of one mile. Calbot, still nervous, felt
himself being aided from the car. He blinked. He was on a side street, with a
bright avenue ahead. He felt a strong arm aiding him through the dark; then he
tumbled into the rear seat of a sumptuous limousine.
"Newark, Stanley," came a quiet voice at Calbot's side.

THE chauffeur started the limousine. Calbot tried to make out the form of
the man beside him. He could see nothing in the black corner of the limousine.
Then came the quiet voice, again bringing reassurance.
"You are fortunate, Mr. Calbot," were the words. "The death which you
expected has been stayed."
"Thanks to you," blurted Calbot. "I thought that I was doomed. I can never
fully thank you -"
"I do not ask your thanks. I wish you to obey. Hear my orders."
Calbot nodded in the darkness. The voice, though quiet, was commanding.
"Men of crime have sought your death." The Shadow's tone was ominous. "In
order that they be foiled, they must believe that they succeeded. You are
leaving New York."
"Gladly," expressed Calbot, in a relieved tone. "But - but they did more
than try to murder me. They stole -"
"The golden scroll from the Kaaba. I shall speak of it later. In the
meantime, remember that you must stay away and communicate with no one. You are
taking a train at Newark, tonight. Travel to the destination named upon the
ticket that you receive."
Again Calbot nodded. This stranger in the dark seemed to know everything.
The recluse, however, was due for a more startling surprise.
"Your golden scroll," declared The Shadow, "was a fraudulent treasure. The
theft of it relieves you of a valueless object."
"My scroll!" Calbot's exclamation was a sharp cry. "Fraudulent. You mean
that I - that I was swindled -"
"Yes. That is why I seek the name of the man from whom you received it."
"Cecil Armsbury," declared Calbot, slowly. "I cannot believe that he would
have played me false. His reputation is too great. Armsbury has traveled
everywhere. His collection of Egyptian antiquities was purchased by the
Egyptian Museum. I - I cannot believe it of Armsbury. He - he must have been
duped also."
"Cecil Armsbury."
The name came in a whisper from The Shadow's hidden lips. The limousine
rode on, heading for the Holland Tunnel.
"A man of reputation," added Brisbane Calbot. "A great traveler and
explorer. A fine career behind him. Armsbury! I cannot believe that he is to
blame."
There was a long pause. Brisbane Calbot, staring ahead, was trying to find
an answer to this new perplexity. In one short evening, he had experienced more
surprises than he had previously gained during his entire lifetime.

THE limousine came to a stop. It had turned into a side street to gain a
parallel avenue. Brisbane Calbot was leaning forward. Keen eyes from the dark
were studying his pale profile. Something moved in the darkness at Calbot's
side. A gloved hand grasped the knob of the door. Silently, the door opened and
closed. While Calbot still stared, the limousine moved on.
"Armsbury!" Calbot still repeated the name. "The golden scroll from the
Kaaba - a fake! I have been defrauded. Men have sought to murder me!"
The collector mumbled incoherent words. The limousine reached the Holland
Tunnel as he still was speaking. It rolled swiftly through the tube and reached
the Jersey side.
Lights from the high-speed highway. Brisbane Calbot turned, with sudden
realization that he could see the man beside him. To his amazement, he saw that
the limousine was empty of passengers other than himself.
Calbot could offer no explanation. He could not remember a possible
occasion upon which his mysterious rescuer could have left the car. He was
still bewildered when the limousine pulled up at the Market Street station in
Newark.
The chauffeur alighted and opened the rear door. He handed an envelope to
Calbot. The curio collector opened it in dumfounded surprise. He found a
railway ticket, with Pullman berth to Washington.
"Your train leaves in ten minutes, sir," the chauffeur of the limousine
informed him.
The chauffeur went back to the car. The limousine rolled away while
Brisbane Calbot was still examining the ticket. Slowly, the recluse entered the
station and ascended the steps to the train platform. He knew that his only
course was to follow his rescuer's orders.
Calbot could still recall that weird form in black; the burning eyes of
his rescuer; the quiet voice that had spoken in the limousine. As the headlight
of an electric locomotive blazed down the track, Calbot realized that some
strange brain had been at work in his behalf.
This ticket had been ready for him while he was still within the vault of
his curio room. That meant that his rescuer had anticipated the visit of the
men who had stolen the golden scroll and had placed him in the vault!
For a moment, Calbot experienced perplexing doubts. Then, as he stepped
aboard the sleeper, he realized that one to whom he owed his life must
certainly be working entirely in his aid. Brisbane Calbot noted a card in the
envelope which contained the ticket. It bore the name of a Washington hotel.
That would be Calbot's residence until he received word to return to New York.

BACK at Calbot's house, the side door was open. A patrolman in the passage
at the side was staring toward the street. He turned as two men came from the
house. One was Inspector Timothy Klein; the other Detective Joe Cardona.
"You were the first man to enter here?" Klein, the gray-haired inspector,
put the question to the patrolman.
"Yes, sir," returned the officer. "Came in through one of the busted
windows at the front. Found the front door bolted; the side door was closed
with a spring lock."
"Looks like the trouble was all outside," remarked Cardona. "That junk
room hadn't been touched, inspector."
"It would take more than a bunch of gangsters to lift any of that stuff,"
agreed the inspector. "That note we found in the reading room settles it
anyway."
"Yeah. This fellow Calbot who owns the house left the note for his
servant, Hildebrand. I called up the sanitarium where the servant is staying.
They told me he's due back in a week - and that he has keys to this place."
Klein nodded. He had read the note mentioned by Cardona. It announced to
Hildebrand that Calbot was going away for a trip. It instructed the servant to
put the place in order and to remain until his master returned. No mention had
been given of Calbot's destination.
"Just a gang fight," decided Cardona, "but they picked a funny place to
stage it. I figured for a while that they must have been trying to bust in
here. Maybe they were at that; but they didn't make it. Anyway, there's one guy
that's out of it."
"Who?"
"Brodie Brodan. I thought that guy was mixed up in the murder of Trappe -
and Bogart. But I had my eye on him tonight. I was watching him down at the
Club Madrid when I got the call to come up here."
The two men strolled along the alley. The patrolman closed the side door
to Calbot's home. The automatic latch sprang shut. The policeman followed the
inspector and the detective.
Something clicked in the darkness. The side door opened. A swish sounded
as a moving form made its way through the dark house to Calbot's reading room.
A tiny flashlight glimmered on the table. It revealed the note which Cardona
had read and replaced.
The Shadow had returned to make sure that his plans had succeeded. He had
left that note; he plucked it from the table, now that its purpose had been
served.
The Shadow had played a triple game tonight.
He had saved Brisbane Calbot from death in the vault and had sent the
collector out of town where he was to remain. He had tricked the police into
thinking that nothing had occurred within this house. Most important, however,
The Shadow had duped the enemy.
So far as Duke Larrin and his minions were concerned, Brisbane Calbot had
perished. They would believe that the curio collector's body was still in the
vault. Yet Brisbane Calbot still lived; and tonight, The Shadow had gained
knowledge of the game which the crooks were playing.
The spurious scroll from the Kaaba. Its former owner a man named Cecil
Armsbury! These were facts which The Shadow had learned. Through them, he would
trace crime to its source!
The whispered laugh of The Shadow echoed through the hollow stillness of
Brisbane Calbot's reading room. The tiny light vanished. The Shadow had
departed.

CHAPTER XIV

CROOKS SUSPECT

ONCE again, Cecil Armsbury and his nephew, Martin Havelock, were seated in
the living room of Armsbury's home. Calhoun, the solemn-faced servant, had just
gone out to the hall, closing the door behind him. The departure of the
servitor was followed by a growl from Martin Havelock.
"I don't like it!" expressed the man who called himself Duke Larrin. "I
thought that Brodie Brodan was smarter than he is. Getting his mobsmen picked
off is something I hadn't counted on."
"Less men for him to pay," reiterated Armsbury, in a satisfied tone.
"All right from that standpoint," admitted Havelock. "But I can't see what
caused the trouble. Nothing has gone sour - otherwise Fingers or Croaker - even
Brodan - would have shown up at the crypt. They polished off Brisbane Calbot,
sure enough, and stowed his body somewhere. But what caused all the shooting?"
"Easily answered," returned Armsbury. "The shot that Croaker Mannick fired
as a signal must have brought in someone other than Brodie's men."
"Who, for instance?"
"The Shadow."
Cecil Armsbury uttered the name in matter-of-fact fashion. His nephew
stared in unfeigned alarm. A cackling laugh came from old Armsbury.
"The Shadow," repeated Armsbury. "You, Martin, have yourself expected him
to appear. He is a supersleuth; and it is not at all unlikely that he has
trailed some of Brodan's mobsmen. Brodan's system was a delayed attack. The
Shadow, lurking somewhere in the dark, must have come to meet it."
"He didn't stop Fingers or Croaker," declared Havelock. "They made a
getaway all right. Those fellows whose bodies were found by the police were
just second-rate gangsters."
"Precisely," stated Armsbury. "That is The Shadow's forte, my dear nephew.
He fights with men of the underworld. He kills them and he feels satisfied. But
he has touched the surface only. He cannot have reached beneath. He will never
reach far enough" - the old man's eyes were gleaming with cunning - "to learn
the secret of our crime crypt."
"You're right about that," decided Havelock. "The Shadow is a keen worker,
but all indications show that he hasn't gone far. I'm glad, though, that this
was the last job for Fingers Keefel and Croaker Mannick. They can lay low until
they're due at the crypt."
"On the fifteenth," chuckled Armsbury.
"Yes, the fifteenth," repeated Havelock. "But there's one point of contact
left. Brodie Brodan."
"A clever man, Martin, despite your criticism of his leadership."
"Sure Brodie's clever. That's why I picked him. But he's the only one that
The Shadow might trail to the crypt. That's why I want to make sure about him."
"How?"
"I'm going to call Brodie. I'm going to tell him to be on the lookout. I
took the right precautions from the start. He has a special crew all fixed to
handle our final job."
"Which will bring us vast wealth," chuckled Armsbury, "as well as
destroying the final shred of evidence that might be used to expose my past."
"There's only one answer," declared Havelock. "Somebody in Brodie's mob
must be working with The Shadow. I'm going to put Brodie wise to what I think -
and let him act accordingly."
"A wise thought," returned Armsbury, "but actually an unnecessary
precaution. Brodie is through with his present minions. When he tells them that
they are no longer needed, they will have no further trail to follow."
"Except Brodie himself. That's why I'm calling him. I can reach him at the
Hotel Spartan, from a pay station a long way from here. There'll be no way of
tracing my call."
With this decision, Havelock arose and sauntered from the room. Cecil
Armsbury smiled indulgently. He did not share his nephew's apprehensions.

THE aftermath of Martin Havelock's precaution came at the Hotel Spartan.
Brodie Brodan, seated in his room, was talking with Bozo Griffin.
Coincidentally, the gang leader was discussing the very subject that Havelock
had mentioned to Armsbury - the forestalled raid on Brisbane Calbot's home.
Brodie's voice was coming in a growl when it was interrupted by the
ringing of the telephone. Brodie picked up the receiver. His eyebrows furrowed
as he heard the voice of the man whom he knew as Duke Larrin.
Duke's terms, though cautious, were to the point. Brodie answered them in
short monosyllables. His words meant nothing to Bozo Griffin. When the call was
complete, Brodie placed the telephone aside and stared at Bozo.
"I was talking to Marsland a short while ago," asserted Brodie. "That's
why I called you up here, Bozo. Marsland can't account for the trouble up at
Calbot's any more than you can. But he told me - without criticizing - that you
were the one who told the mob what to do. Is that right?"
"Sure, I told 'em," retorted Bozo. "If I hadn't, Marsland would have. The
thing looked like a set-up, Brodie. I can't see why Marsland squawked."
"He didn't squawk," returned Brodie. "He told me something which you have
admitted. Seems to me you don't like Marsland, Bozo."
"I don't," growled the lieutenant.
"Good," grinned Brodie. "That's why I want you to pal with him."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. Stick along with the guy. Do as I tell you. I'm keeping the two
of you to handle the mob if I need you later. You buzz me every night at the
Club Madrid. When I've got work for you to do, I'll let you know."
There was a rap at the door. Brodie gave a summons to come in. Cliff
Marsland entered. Brodie had told him to return.
"Hello, Marsland," greeted Brodie, in a cheery tone. "Was just talking
about you. Bozo, here, was a bit sore because he thought you were passing the
buck to him on that trouble up at Calbot's. I told Bozo to get over it."
"No reason for him to be sore," remarked Cliff, in a quiet tone. "He gave
the order quicker than I expected, that was all. It might have been better to
wait a few minutes longer."
"Then you'd have given the same order," growled Bozo. "It would have
turned out the same way, wouldn't it?"
"Probably," admitted Cliff.
"That settles it," expressed Brodie Brodan. "Stick out your mitt, Bozo,
and give Marsland the grip. You birds are pals. Get it?"
Bozo obeyed. Cliff shook hands in friendly manner. Brodie lowered his
growl and spoke to the reconciled lieutenants.
"I'm laying low, boys," he declared. "I'm sticking at the Club Madrid -
except when I'm here at this hotel. When I need something done, I'll let you
know. That's why I want you to be pals. Get it?"
Nods from the lieutenants.
"Bozo can call me every night," resumed Brodie. "I'll tell him what's to
be done. If it don't sound O.K. to you, Marsland, you can get me on the wire to
make sure. But we're laying easy for a time - that's all."
With a wave toward the door, Brodie dismissed his lieutenants; Cliff
Marsland and Bozo Griffin went from the room. From now on, they would stick
together, with the understanding that both would be ready when needed.

SEVERAL minutes passed. Brodie Brodan picked up the telephone. He called a
number. A growling voice responded. Brodie recognized it. The man at the other
end of the wire was one whom he had chosen to keep under cover - "Sinker"
Hargun - a mobster who had his own squad of gorillas.
"This is Brodie," informed Brodan. "All set?"
"Yeah," came Sinker's growl.
"Let it ride then," returned Brodie. "You know the lay. Go through with
the job. I'll see you after it."
Brodie hung up the receiver. He grinned as he prepared to leave for the
Club Madrid. The warning that had come from Duke Larrin had aroused latent
suspicions in Brodie's mind.
The Shadow! Duke Larrin had mentioned the name of that dangerous foeman.
He had stated that an agent of The Shadow might be a spy in Brodie's camp. If
such were the case, the guilt must lie between Bozo Griffin and Cliff Marsland.
Of the two, Brodie picked Cliff as the logical one.
Hence the mob leader's insistence that Bozo and Cliff stick together. It
had been Brodie's original idea to break up his mob after the Calbot job. His
present plan was better. The Shadow - if Cliff were his informant - would be
waiting for another move by Brodie's present mob. That move would never come.
Brodie would lie idle at the Club Madrid. Sinker Hargun would do the dirty work.
Bozo and Cliff, however, were not out of Brodie's mind. The crafty gang
leader had plans concerning them; and by keeping the two together, he saw a
culmination that would strike home.
Brodie Brodan had played his cards craftily. Cliff Marsland, strolling
through the badlands with Bozo Griffin, had gained no suspicion whatever. When
the pair reached the notorious dive known as the Black Ship, they separated for
the time. Cliff, with opportunity at his disposal, slipped into a room where a
telephone was located and gave a call to Burbank.

SOME time afterward, the tiny bulb glowed on the wall of The Shadow's
sanctum. The little spot of light showed clearly, for the silent room was dark.
The glow remained. At last, a swish in the blackness announced that The Shadow
had entered.
Hands clicked the earphones in the dark. The voice of The Shadow spoke
from the total gloom. Burbank replied with his report - a simple statement from
Cliff Marsland. The Shadow gave brief orders. Cliff was to stick with Bozo.
A weird laugh resounded as the blue light clicked above the polished
table. There was cause for The Shadow's mirth. The master fighter could see
that Brodie's instructions to Bozo and Cliff were a stall.
Plotting fiends were planning different crime. The Shadow was seeking
their objective. Beneath the surface, he had gained startling results that his
enemies did not suspect. Though they believed his hand was present they had no
inkling that he had learned an iota of their game.
The Shadow was planning a counterstroke to crime; one that would prove
astounding when it came. But in the plans lay a flaw that even The Shadow did
not see - for it was the result of Cliff Marsland's unfortunate lack of
intuition.
Cliff's report had failed to give a complete resume of the conversation
with Brodie Brodan. It did not show that Cliff, himself, lay under the gang
leader's suspicion. That fact concerned The Shadow, for it involved the safety
of his agent.
All lay in the cunning of The Shadow's contemplated counterstroke; for
when it was delivered, The Shadow would find the life of Cliff Marsland
dependent upon The Shadow's own success!

CHAPTER XV

AT THE MUSEUM

A FEW days after the affair at Brisbane Calbot's, a stoop-shouldered old
man appeared on the avenue in front of the new Egyptian Museum. Turning from
the sidewalk, this visitor ascended the granite steps that led to the imposing
edifice.
The old man had an odd, tottering step that seemed to indicate a strength
despite the frailty of his form. His short height was due to the forward lean
of his shoulders. This resulted in a peculiar upturn of his neck; and the old
man made a ludicrous appearance as he stalked toward the entrance of the museum.
An attendant at the door grinned and turned to a companion. He pointed out
the figure of the weary-looking old man.
"Here he is again," said the attendant. "The guy I was telling you about.
If he ain't a card, I miss my bet. We get some goofy looking birds around here,
but this old turkey-neck has 'em all beat."
The old man was at the door when the attendant ceased speaking. The
uniformed man opened the barrier to admit the visitor. The old man bowed in
friendly fashion and mumbled his thanks. Then, in a quavering tone, he asked:
"Is the curator in his office?"
"Yes, sir," returned the attendant. "You can see him this afternoon."
"Ah!" The old man's tone was grateful. "I had hoped to find him here. This
is my third visit in the past few days. I had hoped to find him this time."
Following the attendant's pointing finger, the old man walked along a
corridor and reached the office which had been indicated. An inscription on the
glass door read:

HANDLEY MATSON
CURATOR

The old man opened the door. Hesitatingly, he entered. He reached an outer
office and bowed to a young woman, evidently the curator's secretary.
"The curator?" questioned the visitor. "May I see him?"
"Who shall I tell him is here?"
"Professor Dilling. Professor Sturgis Dilling."
"Be seated, professor."
The old man was carrying a heavy package under one arm and a briefcase in
his other hand. He placed these objects upon the floor and seated himself in a
chair. He produced a pair of large-rimmed spectacles and adjusted them to his
eyes. The action gave him an owlish appearance.
"The curator will see you, professor."

OLD Sturgis Dilling arose and followed the girl into an inner office. He
bowed to a cadaverous-looking man who sat behind a mahogany table. Handley
Matson, curator of the Egyptian Museum, looked like the mummy of some Pharaoh.
"Good afternoon, professor," said Matson, in a solemn voice. "What is the
purpose of your inquiry here?"
"I am an Egyptologist, sir," returned Dilling, in a quavering voice. "I
came, a few days ago, to see the tomb of Senwosri. I was informed that it was
not open to the public."
"It is not," asserted the curator. "We intend to have it so after the new
wing is completed. However, I can show individual visitors the tomb. Would you
like to see it?"
Sturgis Dilling nodded. His eyes gleamed warmly. The curator arose and led
the way to the door. He passed through the anteroom, with the professor
following. On the way, the old man hesitated; then picked up his package and
briefcase to totter after the curator.
The pair reached a long room some distance from the office. They passed an
attendant who was standing at the door. The curator turned to the professor.
"You have seen the antiquities here, of course?" he asked. "We have some
remarkable specimens of Egyptian art and sculpture in these cases, particularly
here."
Sturgis Dilling nodded as Handley Matson pointed out a show case that
contained delicately sculptured objects of the sort found in Egyptian tombs.
"This is the Armsbury collection," explained the curator. "Purchased from
Cecil Armsbury, a man whose archaeological work is highly recognized. Over here
are clay tablets - also from the same collection."
Professor Dilling stared at the second case. He seemed to be deciphering
the inscriptions on the tablets. The curator watched the old man nod.
"I have seen these," declared Sturgis Dilling. "Very interesting, sir.
Very interesting, indeed."
The curator led the way to the end of the room. He removed a large key
from his pocket and unlocked a heavy door. Within was a huge stone sarcophagus,
with heavy lid. Standing before the coffinlike structure was an upright mummy
case, fastened with heavy bands.

"THE tomb of Senwosri," announced the curator, in a voice that sounded
solemn within the walls and low ceiling of the little room. "We keep the mummy
case here because of its great value. The golden mask - the jeweled objects -
all are in their place within the case. We keep it closed and strapped shut
because of the value of its contents."
"I should like to see the mummy itself," remarked Sturgis Dilling. "I
shall certainly be among the first to visit the new wing of your museum, Mr.
Matson. I have been deeply interested in the history of Senwosri. He was the
son of Amenemhe -"
"And the builder of the obelisk at Heliopolis," added the curator, in a
monotone. "He also erected the temple at Wadi Halfa. Confidentially, Professor
Dilling, I am almost afraid to have so valuable a treasure here in my museum!
The wealth within that mummy case rivals that of Tutankhamen's tomb!
"The public does not realize the value of Senwosri's coffin, for the
publicity given to Carnarvaron's discovery of Tutankhamen eclipsed the finding
of Senwosri. There are Egyptologists, however, who know that the American
expedition which unearthed this case and its sarcophagus did quite as
creditable work as the British expedition which Lord Carnarvaron headed in the
finding of Tutankhamen."
"This is a strongroom," observed Sturgis Dilling.
"Accessible only from the outer room," declared the curator. "That fact
has somewhat relieved my qualms. In the new wing, however, the tomb of Senwosri
will have ample space for public display. We have made it a rule, however, to
keep the mummy case closed until we have the proper arrangements for its
protection."
Professor Dilling was examining the painted, gold decorated surface of the
mummy case. The curator added another comment.
"The straps," he explained, "are simply to keep the case loosely shut. At
first, we used to keep it in the stone sarcophagus. You will observe the
padlocked bars that still encircle the stone container. I intend to remove
those later. They serve no useful purpose."
The old man looked at the sarcophagus. He turned and walked from the
little room. The curator followed him and locked the door of the tomb.
Dilling was strolling about the outer room when the curator joined him.
The old professor had laid his package and briefcase aside. He was displaying
new interest in the Armsbury collection. Then he turned and pointed to the end
wall of the room - opposite the door of the tomb.
"I was told," he said, "that yonder space was reserved for a collection of
mummies."
"Yes," acknowledged the curator. "They are a part of the Armsbury
collection that has not yet been delivered. The mummy cases have been in
temporary storage. They are not of great value, professor; nevertheless, they
would interest you. They are virtually a gift from Armsbury - for we did not
have the funds to purchase them."
"Indeed," remarked Dilling. "That is quite interesting, Mr. Matson. The
attendant did not know just when the mummies were expected. He thought they
would come on the fifteenth."
"They are to be delivered on the fifteenth," returned Matson. "Jove!
That's today, isn't it? I had forgotten all about the matter."
The curator paused to glance at his watch. The time showed twenty minutes
of three.
"We close at three o'clock," declared Matson. "Of course, the attendants
and myself are here until five. The mummies will probably come in later in the
afternoon. Should you come back tomorrow, Professor Dilling, you will find them
on display."
"Thank you, sir," returned Dilling.
"I must leave you," said the curator. "I have business in the office. I
shall be pleased to meet you again, Professor Dilling."
Handley Matson departed, leaving Dilling in the long room that housed the
Armsbury collection of Egyptian antiquities.

THE old man moved about from case to case, mumbling to himself as he
studied hieroglyphs that appeared upon various objects.
At times he paused to look at the windows. They were high above the floor
and heavily barred. All the doors about the place were massive. The old man
remembered the museum as he had seen it from the outside. The place was a
formidable fortress.
Strolling about the room, Professor Sturgis Dilling allowed a thin smile
to form upon his lips. He studied the door of the tomb of Senwosri. He looked
toward the end of the room reserved for mummies of lesser value.
The afternoon was glum and a pall seemed falling within this room. The old
man, stalking noiselessly here and there, seemed like some ghostly figure out of
Egypt. He was the only occupant of the room. His presence here seemed forgotten.
At last, the old man's inspection of the antiquities was ended. He came to the
door of the room and picked up his briefcase and package.
The attendant had gone from the outer hall. It was near the closing hour
and the whole museum was silent. Then came the clang of a bell. Attendants
called to one another through the corridor.
Shortly afterward, the uniformed man appeared and entered the room where
Sturgis Dilling had been. He saw that the old man had left. He was about to
close the outer door when another attendant called to him from the curator's
office.
"Keep it open, Jerry! Mummies coming in. Stick around until the truck
arrives. Curator's orders."
The attendant nodded. He turned on the lights in the room and sat down to
read a newspaper that he took from his pocket. An hour passed. The museum,
closed and barred, was as silent as the shut tomb of Senwosri.
Then came the tramp of footsteps in a corridor. Attendants and truckmen
appeared carrying heavy mummy cases. The man in the room which housed the
Armsbury collection was on his feet, pointing out the spot where the cases were
to go.
Fifteen minutes later, a row of mummy cases lined the end of the room. The
heavy objects were standing upright; their painted faces made them appear like a
squad of solemn sentinels. The moving men went out, accompanied by an attendant.
The other attendants remained, making jests as they studied the row of new
exhibits.
The mummy cases bore fastenings that had kept them intact during shipment.
These would be removed in the morning. It was approaching five o'clock and the
attendants seldom waited until that hour. They reported at eight in the morning
- an hour and half before opening - and that was the period during which new
exhibits were arranged for proper display.
"Curator says he'll look over the mummies in the morning," declared an
attendant, coming from the office. "Come on. He's leaving. Time to close."
The group passed along the corridors to the rear entrance of the museum.
This was where the truck had delivered the mummy cases. The curator and his
secretary passed from the museum; the attendants followed. A big watchman shut
the heavy door and barred it.
The Egyptian Museum was closed until the morrow.

CHAPTER XVI

THE PILLAGERS

EVENING. Blackness pervaded the Egyptian Museum. The building was a
whitened sepulchre within a blanketing pall. The glow of Manhattan did not
visibly affect the secluded spot whereon the granite edifice stood.
Within the room which housed the Armsbury collection, thick blackness
reigned below the dim stretch of high windows. The watchman's electric lantern,
glimmering in the darkness, flashed upon the solemn painted faces of the mummy
cases. Then the man was gone upon his rounds.
A slight sound occurred in the end of the room. It came from one of the
mummy cases. Something was working from within! Life was present inside that
wooden shroud! Some prying force was pushing out the front; an instrument was
at work upon the central band which held the case intact!
The front of the mummy case sprang open. A figure stepped from within. A
flashlight glimmered upon the next case in the row. Brawny hands ripped open
the bands that held the second case. Another man came into view.
Both set to work. Other cases were opened. Where eight closed mummy cases
had been, four opened ones remained. Flashlights were flickering about the
room. Two men, sneaking through the darkness, reached the door.
"Get the watchman," came a growl. "Grab him and tie him up. We don't want
any shooting until we're ready for it."
"All right, Sinker."
Men moved out into the darkness of the hall, bound on the mission ordered
by Sinker Hargun. These men who had come from the mummy cases were invaders
from the underworld, under the command of Brodie Brodan's hidden lieutenant.
Flashlights showed upon the cases which harbored the items of the Armsbury
collection. Clay tablets were dumped into burlap bags which the invaders had
with them. Specimens of metal sculpture were piled into other containers.
A squad of crooks was rifling this room of its supposed treasure.
Actually, Duke Larrin's orders were being completed. Spurious items of fake
origin were being lifted for destruction. The last evidence of Cecil Armsbury's
swindles was being reclaimed!
Whispers in the darkness. They announced that the watchman had been
captured. Gangsters had trailed him to an obscure part of the museum. He was
bound and gagged - totally unaware of how the yeggs had entered.
"That's good," growled Sinker. "Drag this stuff out to the back door. Set
that charge so we can blow the works and make it look like we came in there.
But don't do nothing until after we've finished in here. Come back, you
gorillas, when you're ready."
His flashlight sweeping along the floor, Sinker Hargun revealed the door
to the Senwosri tomb. It was a formidable barrier because of its powerful lock.
Sinker Hargun, however, was a thug who used measures more persuasive than
lock-picking.

HIS flashlight showed him making arrangements in front of the door that
hid the tomb. His warning growl sent mobsters scurrying to cover, with Hargun
at their heels. Then came a muffled report; with it a burst of flame.
Flashlights showed clouds of pungent smoke.
As the vapor cleared, Sinker uttered a command. His torch marked the mummy
case of Senwosri. The heavy object had toppled backward from the explosion and
was leaning against the wall beside the stone sarcophagus.
"Come on!"
Mobsters piled into the tomb. Three on a side, they gathered up the heavy
mummy case of the Egyptian king. Struggling with their burden, they made their
way along the corridor to the back.
Sinker Hargun, chasing ahead, yanked open the bars of the rear entrance.
He uttered a warning hiss. A reply came from the alleyway. A truck was parked
there.
"Make it speedy, Sinker," came a low voice. "You could hear that boom out
this way. Maybe they got it in the avenue. Make it speedy."
The mummy case came floundering through the wide doorway. Sinker aided the
men who were carrying it. The big case slid aboard the truck and settled into a
mammoth box, coffinlike in shape, which was there to receive it.
"Yank those doors," growled Sinker. "Shoot the works as we start, Terry.
Climb on with us -"
The truck was in motion. A stooping yegg was standing by the doors which
he had closed. He was igniting a new charge. He came bounding after the rolling
truck and leaped aboard. As the truck reached a side street, a huge roar
followed it. A second explosion had wrecked the rear entrance of the Egyptian
Museum.
The truck was speeding toward a rear avenue. Police whistles were sounding
from in front of the Egyptian Museum. Sinker Hargun, growling a laugh, had
clambered up to the front seat of the truck.
"It's soft," was his comment to the driver. "Say, bo, this job went
through like clockwork. The bulls are goin' to go goofy when they look it over.
"Keep on rolling. I'll show you where we're goin' to unload. There ain't
nobody can stop us now. This job is a honey."

AT Sinker's direction, the truck driver guided the big vehicle on a
weaving course. Far from the vicinity of the robbed museum, there was no need
for hurry. The truck was moving slowly when it neared the vicinity which Sinker
Hargun required.
"Easy, now," warned the leader. "Stop here - we're goin' to make sure
there's nobody following."
The driver obeyed. Gangsters dropped to the street and strolled back along
the sidewalk. They returned to report that no one was on the trail of the truck.
Sinker ordered the driver ahead. He growled new directions. When he issued
his final command to stop, the truck had pulled up close to an old apartment
hotel - Ridgelow Court.
Sinker Hargun alighted. He strolled down a side entrance and rapped at a
big delivery door. A janitor opened it.
"Got my truck outside," announced Sinker. "Bringing in a big couch to go
down in Mr. Sudgen's storage room. I got the key."
The janitor nodded as he peered from the door and saw a crew of men
unloading a huge box from a truck. He pointed out the way to the subcellar. As
the pretended moving men came through, the janitor strolled away.
Men went back and brought in burlap bags. These - had the janitor seen
them - would have passed for bags of household effects. But the janitor gave no
further thought to the matter. When he happened back, he noted that the truck
had moved away. He thought that the crew of storage men had gone with it.
Little did he realize that the subcellar harbored Sinker Hargun, notorious
gangster, and a crew of sullen thugs. The box which had been unloaded was going
through a passage that led beyond the subcellar of Ridgelow Court.
The mummy case of Senwosri, pillaged from the Egyptian Museum, was being
delivered to the crime crypt!

CHAPTER XVII

BRODIE'S MOVE

WHILE hard-faced thugs, members of Brodie Brodan's under-cover band, were
lugging away their loot from the Egyptian Museum, their absent leader was
enjoying a gala night. Brodie was at the Club Madrid, one of the most
glittering of Manhattan's night cafes.
Brodie, attired in well-fitting tuxedo, was seated at a conspicuous table.
The gang leader was applauding a dancing act. His bluff face wore a grin; a
paper cap perched above his heavy eyebrows gave him the appearance of a playboy.
At the table with Brodie was Fritz Fursch, his alibi pal from Chicago.
Fritz had come in at Brodie's order and seemed to be enjoying his visit to New
York.
But Brodie, despite his merrymaking had serious thoughts in mind. He was
secretly eyeing a stocky, swarthy-faced man on the other side of the floor.
This individual, half behind a pillar, was also making a pretense of watching
the floor show. Actually, however, his gaze was on Brodie Brodan.
It was Detective Joe Cardona. Persistent in his hunches, the sleuth was
dogging Brodie's trail. Baffled in his attempts to locate the murderers of
Perry Trappe and Tyler Bogart, Joe was watching Brodie in the hope that he
could at least frustrate further crime.
Cardona's reasoning showed logic. He had accepted Brodan's first alibi. He
had also been forced to take the second. One had been on the say-so of Fritz
Fursch from Chicago; the other on the statements of Lobo Ruscott, proprietor of
the Club Madrid. Cardona was not willing to base much on the testimonies of
those two.
So he had watched Brodie Brodan - either through his own observation or
with the aid of stool pigeons. Joe was sure that Brodie had been at the Club
Madrid on the night that mobsters appeared at Brisbane Calbot's. He was sure
that some of those dead gangsters were members of Brodie's old crew.
Whatever the purpose at Calbot's, it had failed. That, Cardona knew. He
had attributed the failure to the possible absence of Brodie Brodan. That was
why Cardona was again at the Club Madrid. Brodie watched, was crimped. Such was
Cardona's maxim.

LOBO RUSCOTT, a suave, elegantly attired man with a pointed mustache,
paused at Cardona's table to acknowledge the detective's presence. Joe growled
a reply to Lobo's welcome; then snorted.
Brodie Brodan had spied Lobo from across the floor; seeing the proprietor,
he had apparently discovered Cardona also. The black-browed gang leader had left
his table and was skirting the floor to join the pair.
"Hello, Lobo," greeted Brodie. "Hello, Cardona. Say - you've picked a
great place to spend a night off. Not a better night club in the city. You know
Lobo Ruscott, don't you, Cardona?"
"I know him," commented the detective, grimly.
"I remember," laughed Brodie, sitting down at the table. "You talked to
Lobo after that guy was killed out on Long Island. I had forgotten it."
"Yeah," retorted Cardona. "Lobo gave you an alibi - like that other pal of
yours, from Chicago. I see you've got him with you again tonight."
"Fritz Fursch?" questioned Brodie. "That's right, he told you the straight
dope one night - another time you were going to put the screws on me. Say, Joe"
- Brodie was making a fervent appeal - "when are you going to forget this goofy
idea that I'm hooked up with a funny racket?"
"I've got no idea," returned Cardona. "I'm just playing a hunch, Brodie.
Things are sort of quiet right now. I'm waiting for something to break -
something big - and I just want to see if that can happen while you're wearing
a paper hat and making goo-goo eyes at a flock of chorines."
"Great stuff, Joe," laughed Brodie. "Well, stick around old kid. How long
have you been here tonight?"
"Since seven thirty."
"Just before I came in. Well, Joe, I hope something does break. It'll give
you some excitement and it'll mean a real alibi for me. But let's be serious.
This cuckoo idea of yours -"
"Listen, Brodie. I'm not questioning your alibis. They're good ones. I'd
like to see a better one; I've got a hunch that some funny business is going to
break loose. If it does while you're here, I'll admit that you're out of it.
How's that?"
"Fair enough, Joe. Say, Lobo -"
Brodie paused as he turned toward the proprietor. Looking beyond Lobo
Ruscott, he saw a solemn-faced man picking his way among the tables. Brodie
turned and plucked Cardona's sleeve.
"Say, Joe," informed the gang leader. "Here comes a pal of yours - another
dick, ain't he? Is he looking for you?"
Cardona followed the direction of Brodie's gaze. He saw that the gang
leader's statement was correct. The man coming from the door of the night club
was Detective Sergeant Markham.

CARDONA arose and beckoned to the second sleuth. Markham hurried over and
buzzed with Cardona. Joe's face took on a grim look.
Both Brodie Brodan and Lobo Ruscott were staring with questioning gaze.
Cardona noted Brodie's look. He turned to the gang leader.
"No reason why you shouldn't know what's up," growled the detective. "A
crowd of gorillas just raided the Egyptian Museum."
Brodie looked puzzled; then guffawed.
"Say - that's hot!" he exclaimed. "They'll be crashing Grant's Tomb next.
What can they get out of a museum?"
"That's what I'm going to find out," retorted Cardona. "Take it as a joke,
Brodie. You've got a right to laugh."
"Why?"
"Because I expected something like this, I won't be around for an alibi
from you. That's why you ought to laugh."
"O.K., Joe," returned Brodie. "Thanks, old man."
There was a touch of feigned sincerity in the tone. Cardona remembered it
as he followed Markham. No use of watching Brodie Brodan now. This was the
clincher that backed up Brodie's previous alibis.
Brodan watched Cardona leave the night club. He remained seated and
chatted with Lobo Ruscott. A waiter approached and spoke to the proprietor.
"Call for you in the office, sir," he said. "Not exactly for you - the man
wants to talk to someone - but he wishes to speak to you first -"
"All right."
As Lobo turned away, Brodie arose and followed him. Traveling by the
proprietor's side, Brodie whispered:
"Sounds like Bozo Griffin. Probably for me. I'll come along with you."
They reached the office. Lobo Ruscott spoke into the mouthpiece of the
telephone. He turned and handed the instrument to Brodie with a nod. As Brodie
began to talk, Lobo went from the office and closed the door.
"Listen Bozo." Brodie's tone was serious. "Is Marsland there with you?...
Yes? All right... I want to see the two of you... Together... Yes. Right
away... I'll tell you where to meet me... Hotel Ridgelow Court... Yes, come up
there in a cab and don't mention where you're going until you've got Marsland
in the cab with you, see?
"I'll meet you outside the place. We'll go in together... Now remember
this. When you hear me say 'Hurry up, Bozo!' yank your gat and poke it in
Marsland's ribs. Get that?"
Brodie scowled as a surprised exclamation came over the wire. He growled
an admonition.
"Keep mum, you sap! You heard me... Remember what I told you... Now get
started."
Brodie hung up the receiver. He opened a closet door and removed hat and
overcoat. He examined a revolver in the pocket of the outer garment. Brodie was
accustomed to parking his gat and overcoat in the closet of Lobo Ruscott's
office.
Following this action, Brodie opened the door of the office and signaled
to Lobo Ruscott, who was seated in a chair outside.
"Tell Fritz Fursch to meet me out at the side door," order Brodie.
The gang leader took an obscure exit that led from the Cafe Madrid. On the
sidewalk, he waited for Fritz and piled the alibi man into a cab. He ordered the
driver to take him to an uptown destination not far from Ridgelow Court.
"Fritz," declared Brodie, in a low tone, "you're going to see a lot
tonight. You and some other guys that I can count on. You're going to see the
headquarters for the greatest bunch of jobs that has ever been.
"More than that, you're going to see a double-crosser get double-crossed.
Have your gat handy. I'll tell you when and how to use it."

BRODIE and Fritz alighted at their destination. They strolled a block
until they reached the front of the old hotel, where Brodie was to meet Bozo
and Cliff. A few minutes later a cab rolled up. Bozo and Cliff alighted. Brodie
stepped out to meet them.
"Come along," ordered the gang leader. "We're going places. You two go
first. Through the lobby of this old hotel - and take the stairway down. This
fellow - Fritz Fursch - will follow along with me."
Cliff and Bozo obeyed. They entered the old hotel, walked across the
deserted lobby and descended. At the bottom of the steps, they awaited Brodie
and Fritz, who showed up a minute later. Brodie led the way to the door that
opened on the steps to the sub-basement.
The quartet arrived at the storeroom. Brodie unlocked the door and ushered
his companions in. A voice spoke. It was Sinker Hargun's. Brodie growled a reply.
"All right, Sinker. We're coming through. Give us a light."
Sinker turned the glimmer of a flashlight upon the spot where the wooden
panel was located. Brodie stepped forward and called for Cliff. The Shadow's
agent joined him.
"Watch this gag, Cliff," remarked Brodie, in a cordial tone. He pressed
the special nail. The panel opened.
"Come on through," said Brodie, urging Cliff forward. "Come on, you other
guys. Hurry up, Bozo!"
Cliff Marsland was in the light of Sinker Hargun's torch. Brodie Brodan
was ahead. The gang leader swung suddenly; he whisked out a revolver. At the
same instant the muzzle of Bozo's gun jabbed Cliff from behind.
"Put 'em up, you rat!" snarled Brodie. "Keep 'em up and come along with
us. We're going to put you on the sweetest spot you ever saw."
Cliff's arms raised mechanically. The Shadow's agent had fallen into a
perfect trap. Brodie Brodan's flashlight came on; Sinker Hargun let the panel
drop. With a contemptuous laugh, Brodie Brodan ordered Bozo Griffin to bring
the prisoner along.
The gang leader had trapped the man he suspected as The Shadow's agent.
Cliff Marsland, a helpless prisoner, was marked for death when he reached the
crime crypt!

CHAPTER XVIII

DEATH AWAITS

"WHO'VE you got there?"
The question came to Brodie Brodan's ears as Cliff Marsland was shoved
through the opening of the crime crypt. The man who asked it was Fingers
Keefel. The safe-cracker had opened the barrier in response to Brodie's signal.
"A double-crosser," jeered Brodie, as he glowered at Cliff Marsland. "A
rat that's working for The Shadow."
"Yeah?" Fingers matched Brodie's growl. "Well, he'll get his as soon as
the word is given. What you going to do? Wait for Duke Larrin?"
"Sure. Maybe we can pump this guy first. Say - this crypt is going to mean
a lot to us. The first job we've got ahead is to give The Shadow the bump he's
been waiting for. This is the place to work it from."
"And starting with one of his stools is the best way to get at him,"
derided Fingers, in reply.
"You said it. Shove him over in the corner, Bozo. You frisk him, Fritz."
Brodie's henchmen obeyed. The gang leader nudged his thumb in their
direction as they forced Cliff to a seated position against the wall.
"Here's two birds that'll count," he asserted. "Bozo Griffin and Fritz
Fursch. They're in on the lay. I've got another guy outside - Sinker Hargun -
and his mob. They're the boys that gabbed the gravy tonight. They'll be good
workers for the de luxe mob that Duke told me to bring up. None of those bum
gorillas of mine will be in this new outfit."
Brodie paused. He was staring past Fingers Keefel to a huge object that
stood in front of the farther door. It was the mummy case of Senwosri. The
painted face and its golden inlay showed dimly in the low light of the crypt.
"Old Nebuchadnezzar himself," exclaimed Brodie, with a grin. "Say - the
boys did a neat job lugging that down here. Where's the box they put it in?"
"They carried that back to the storeroom," explained Fingers. "Duke Larrin
was down here. He had them stand it up. He's waiting until everybody's here -
then he'll knock it open."
Brodie nodded.

THE mummy case was encircled with the broad straps that had been put about
it in the museum. These kept the case from coming open. The gangsters had
delivered the case intact.
"Where's Croaker Mannick?" questioned Brodie, turning to Fingers Keefel.
"Not here yet," responded the safecracker. "He slid away like I did, after
we raided Brisbane Calbot's place. Say - I'll bet you can't figure what we did
with Calbot."
"Give me the low-down, Fingers. The bulls didn't make much fuss about
Calbot. I had a hunch that you and Croaker carted the old boy away with you."
"Not a bit of it. Calbot had a vault down in his cellar. Took me about a
half hour to open it. So we shoved him in that and left him there. Croaker
didn't want to shoot until he got upstairs."
"Now you're telling me something, Fingers. That's how you and Croaker got
away in such a hurry. You were lucky - as I figure it. You know who we think
was there?"
"The Shadow." Fingers was sober. "Duke told me tonight. He must have come
up after he heard Croaker's shot. That's how he was in time to start a fight.
It's lucky that your gorillas piled in as quick as they did - if it hadn't been
for them The Shadow might have had a chance to trail after me and Croaker."
Bozo Griffin heard Fingers Keefel's comment. The tough-faced lieutenant
swelled. This was a justification of the promptness with which he had ordered
the raid. Brodie Brodan saw Bozo's face light.
"That squares you, Bozo," declared Brodie. "You did a good job tonight,
too, covering Marsland the way you did." Brodie turned to glare at The Shadow's
agent, who was under the muzzle of Fritz Fursch's gun. "Say, Marsland - you rat
- I'd like to give you the works in a hurry. But we're holding you, see?
Holding you so you can squawk. Wait until Duke Larrin gets here. Did you ever
hear of him?"
Cliff gave no response. He faced Brodie with unflinching eyes.
But Cliff was thinking plenty. He had heard of Duke Larrin; in fact, he
had informed The Shadow of the rumor that the international crook was in New
York. In the past ten minutes, Cliff had learned a lot about Duke Larrin. This
underground crypt was the famous crook's lair!
Cliff had much to tell The Shadow. But that opportunity was ended. A
prisoner, Cliff could only hope that The Shadow might find another trail to the
crime crypt. But Cliff realized the difficulty. Brodie Brodan had been left for
Cliff to follow while The Shadow was otherwise engaged. Cliff had failed. A
captive, he was helpless. He held the key to crime and could not use it!

"CROAKER MANNICK is coming through," declared Fingers Keefel, again
speaking to Brodie Brodan; "and Duke Larrin says he'll show up before midnight.
Not long to wait. The payoff comes tonight, Brodie - and from what Duke tells
me, this is just going to be the beginning. We're all in for a cut on the swag
in that coffin."
"You telling me?" Brodie grinned. "Say, Fingers, I can talk now. When Duke
passed me my instructions, he told me more than he told you. That was just
because I had the mobs to look out for, see?
"I picked the real guys to grab off old Nebuchadnezzar's casket here so
that they would be ready for what's coming next. We're going to raise hob after
the swag is unloaded. Say - if The Shadow pokes his nose around this crypt,
he'll be in for trouble. You - me - Croaker - and the rest of us, all working
with Duke Larrin!"
"Out of sight," agreed Fingers. "Dumb dicks like Joe Cardona will go
goofy."
"Cardona? He's goofy already. Where do you think he is now? Up at the
Egyptian Museum. He pulled out from the Club Madrid and gave me a clean alibi
for a starter. Match that, Fingers - match it is the best you can do; you can't
beat it, that's a cinch."
Fingers Keefel joined Brodie in raucous mirth. Laughter echoed through the
crime crypt. Men of evil had gained their way. They were awaiting the arrival of
their comrade in crime, Croaker Mannick and their chief, Duke Larrin.
Cliff Marsland, under the cover of Fritz Fursch's gun, felt a hopeless
weakening as he listened to the merriment of his captors. He felt that he had
failed The Shadow. He knew that the police had been eliminated.
Of the two, Cliff trusted The Shadow most. He had seen the master fighter
spring into being almost out of nowhere. But in this forgotten crypt, its
corridor entrance guarded by Sinker Hargun and a band of thugs, The Shadow,
even if he fought through, would be forced to make his presence known.
Cliff groaned as he realized the extent of his failure. The fact that his
own rescue seemed impossible was bad; but the thought that crooks might triumph
was worse.
Death in The Shadow's service was something that Cliff Marsland was glad
to face. The inability to be of service to his chief was what hurt him.

CHAPTER XIX

CARDONA'S CLEW

WHILE Brodie Brodan was chuckling over Joe Cardona's dash to the Egyptian
Museum, the ace detective had arrived at his destination. The museum was
lighted; the front door was open. Joe Cardona entered and a policeman showed
him to the room at the end of the corridor.
Cardona found two men in charge. One was Inspector Timothy Klein; the
other, a lean-faced individual who the inspector introduced as Handley Matson;
the curator. Klein led Cardona to the rifled tomb of Senwosri.
"Look it over, Joe," ordered the inspector. "This is where they made the
biggest haul. They took a lot of other stuff, too."
"Out of there?" questioned the detective, with a perplexed stare, as he
surveyed the stone sarcophagus, which still bore its padlocked bands.
"That is the sarcophagus," explained Matson, nervously. "It used to
contain the mummy case of Senwosri. It is empty at present. The thieves must
have known that. They took the mummy case, but did not bother to touch the
empty sarcophagus."
"Where was the mummy case?"
"Standing right here." The curator looked like a mummified king as he took
his position to indicate the spot. "The case contained the embalmed body of
Senwosri, the son of Amenemhe. He was the builder of the obelisk at Heliopolis
and the temple at Wadi Halfa -"
"All right," interposed Cardona. "What was the value of the stuff in the
mummy case?"
"Thousands of dollars," stated the curator, in an awed tone. "The golden
mask; the jeweled boat that was to carry the soul - the ka - of Senwosri -"
Cardona was nodding as he turned to look at the outer room. He saw the
rifled cases. He waved his hand toward them.
"These?"
"Very valuable," declared the curator. "Antiquities from the collection of
Cecil Armsbury. The purchase price was in excess of sixty thousand dollars.
Examples of early Egyptian sculpture; clay tablets with hieroglyphic
inscriptions which -"
"Those?"
Cardona was pointing to the farther wall. The row of opened mummy cases
had attracted his attention. The curator added another explanation.
"The thieves rifled those cases," he stated. "They carried away the
mummies, which were not of high value. We had not inspected the mummy cases, I
must admit, but I have a list here of their contents - all articles of but
little value, even as antiquities -"
"You mean those cases had not been opened here?"
"They were brought in only this afternoon. We intended to open them in the
morning."
"I see." Cardona turned to Inspector Klein with an inquiring air.

KLEIN smiled slightly. He had listened to the curator's long harangue
before the detective had arrived.
"Here's the story, Joe," explained Klein. "At about eight fifty this
evening, there was a muffled explosion heard on the street. About five minutes
later came the second blast. The patrol arrived just after nine.
"They found that the burglars had blown open the rear doors of the museum.
They came in here and blew open the door to the mummy's tomb - where the empty
scarab is located."
"The sarcophagus," interposed Handley Matson. "A scarab, inspector, is a
beetle - about so large" - he showed the size with thumb and finger - "which
was regarded as sacred by the Egyptians. I have a specimen in my office. Wait!
I shall obtain it."
"Scarab or sarcophagus," laughed Klein, as the curator hurried away. "I
mean that stone box that has the locks on it. The crooks got in the room and
carried away a mummy case - the one that had King Says Who's This in it.
"They also rifled this exhibit. Took the stuff from the cases and yanked
the new mummies out of their wooden boxes. They must have gotten away in a
truck. There must have been a crowd of them, too, to make such a quick
clean-up. The king's mummy case was a heavy one, the curator says."
"Is that all?" asked Cardona.
"The watchman," added Klein. "They landed on him in the basement, while he
was making his rounds. Tied him up and gagged him. I quizzed the watchman. We're
holding him for further questioning."
"Clews?"
"I don't see any, Joe," admitted Klein, ruefully. "You're the man to find
them, if they're here. I'm going down to headquarters. If you can get the
curator to calm down, maybe you can get some information out of him. I can't."
"Leave it to me." Cardona strolled away and went to the curator's office.
He found Matson digging through desk drawers in search of his golden beetle.
"I had it here in my desk," began the curator. "It's made of gold - about
so large -"
"Never mind the scab," interposed Cardona, gruffly. "The crooks wouldn't
have had time to take it. You'll find it later. Come along with me, Mr. Matson.
I want to see that rear door the crooks blew open."
The curator complied. He led Cardona to the rear of the museum.

JOE surveyed the blasted door. Beckoning to the curator, he led the way
through the corridor to the rifled exhibit room.
"Let's get things straight," suggested the detective, as he stood alone
with Matson. "When was the last time you opened that door to the king's tomb?"
"This afternoon."
"Was the mummy case there?"
"Yes. I locked the door myself. I showed the mummy case to a visitor - a
Professor Sturgis Dilling."
"What did he look like?"
"An old gentleman with stooped shoulders. Thin gray hair. A scholar - one
acquainted with the history of Senwosri. He was sorry that I could not open the
mummy case for him."
"Did he want you to open any of these?" asked Cardona, pointing to the
emptied mummy cases.
"They had not come in," explained the curator. "They arrived after the
museum had been closed. We opened the rear door and my attendants carried them
into this room."
"Hm-m." Cardona was thoughtful. He paced about the room. Like Inspector
Klein, Joe Cardona could see no clew. Handley Matson watched him anxiously.
Cardona half shut his eyes and rested his chin in his right hand. He was
thinking over everything that Klein had told him. A practical sleuth, Cardona
made no claim to deductive reasoning. He relied upon his hunches. Often,
however, his hunches were deductions. He was gaining one now.
"Listen, Mr. Matson," said the detective, slowly. "You're an intelligent
man and you know the layout of this museum. Forget your golden beetle and hear
what I've got to say. Tell me whether I'm right or wrong."
"Very well," agreed the curator.
"First of all, it's a long way from that back door here. It takes a few
minutes to blow a door. I figure that the crooks would have needed a regiment
to pile in here, blow the door to the tomb, grab off these exhibits, empty out
the mummies and carry away the old king with his coffin. That is, they would
have needed a regiment to do the whole job in about seven or eight minutes. Am
I right?"
"Absolutely!" exclaimed the curator. "Especially with the watchman here.
It must have taken them some time to find him. He was bound and gagged - and
they knocked him out when they took him. He said he did not hear the
explosions."
"Hm-m. Of course he was down in the cellar. Still, the explosions were
heard on the avenue. We're getting somewhere, Mr. Matson. Getting somewhere!
I've got it!"
Cardona stared across the exhibit room and pointed at the emptied mummy
cases. He clutched the astonished curator by the arm and put a quick question.
"Why did the crooks take those mummies out of the cases?" demanded the
detective. "Can you tell me why?"
"Perhaps they thought the mummies were of value -"
"Like the old king's? Well why didn't they yank the old boy out of his
casket, too? Why did they want to lug away the box and all?"
"The mummy case of Senwosri had some value," declared the curator.
"Nevertheless, its contents were the actual prize. These other mummies - well,
to be valuable, it would have been wise to take their cases also. It took time,
unquestionably, to get those mummy cases open -"
"You're right," decided Cardona. "Listen. You didn't open those cases when
they came in. Suppose, Mr. Matson, that those mummy cases had each held a living
man -"
"Living mummies?"
"No. Living crooks! In there instead of the mummies. There's the answer!
That's how the crooks got in here. They came out of the mummy cases. They
grabbed the watchmen. They swiped all these exhibits that are missing.
"They fixed two charges - one for the door to the tomb; one for the rear
door of the museum. They let off the first blast in here - after they had
dragged out the exhibits. The mummy case went out as fast as they could take
it. They blew the rear door when they made their get-away. Am I right?"

CARDONA looked at Matson. The curator was standing open-mouthed. He was
nodding in emphasis. Cardona needed no more encouragement.
"Wait until the inspector hears this!" he exclaimed. "I'm going to follow
this up, Mr. Matson. Tell me. Where did those mummy cases come from?"
"I do not know," admitted Matson. "They were in some storage house -
delivered at the order of the man who presented them to the museum."
"Who is he?"
"Cecil Armsbury. The famous collector of Egyptian antiquities."
"Is he here in New York?"
"I believe so. I have his address in my desk."
"Let's have it."
Cardona accompanied the curator to the office. The detective was talking
on the way.
"The crooks knew those mummies were coming in here," he declared. "They
must have gotten into the warehouse and chucked the mummies. If we can locate
the warehouse, through this man Armsbury -"
Cardona paused. They were in the office. The curator was looking for the
file which contained Armsbury's address. He emitted a cry of satisfaction as he
brought his hand from a desk drawer.
"You've got the address?" questioned Cardona.
"No," returned Matson, excitedly, "I've found the scarab. See? Here it is.
I must keep it to show to Inspector Klein if he returns."
"Let me have it," growled Cardona, seizing the golden beetle from the
curator's hand. "Get that address. Forget this yellow bug."
Nodding, Matson delved through files. He finally produced a card and
showed it to Cardona. It bore the name and address of Cecil Armsbury.
"You know this man?" questioned the detective.
"I have met him," returned the curator.
Cardona seized the telephone. He called headquarters. He asked for
Inspector Klein and was told that the official had not returned.
"I'll call him later," declared Cardona. "This is Joe Cardona." He hung up
the receiver. Then, to Matson: "Come on; we're taking a taxi to Armsbury's
house."
The curator nodded and picked up his coat and hat. Joe Cardona, tapping
his clenched fist against the table, suddenly realized its weight. He opened
his hand and laughed as he saw that he was still holding the golden scarab.
Cardona chucked the metal beetle into the desk drawer from which Matson
had taken it. He grabbed the curator's arm and hurried the man out to the front
door. Policemen were still in charge. Cardona told them to expect him back.
Three minutes later, the ace detective and the curator of the Egyptian
Museum were whirling in a taxicab toward the home of Cecil Armsbury.

CHAPTER XX

THE SNARE

"READY?"
The question came from Martin Havelock. He was standing by the fireplace
in his uncle's living room, about to press the switch that would open the
hidden elevator.
"One moment, Martin," returned Cecil Armsbury. The old man was seated in
his favorite chair. "I think I heard the door bell. Calhoun will answer it."
Havelock showed momentary alarm. Then he strolled from the fireplace and
lighted a cigarette. There was a knock at the door. Armsbury motioned to
Havelock. The young man went over and unlocked the door. He opened it to admit
Calhoun.
"Two gentlemen to see you, sir," explained the servant. "One is Mr.
Matson, the curator of the Egyptian Museum. The other is a detective from
headquarters."
"Matson?" quizzed Armsbury, in a pleased tone. "Ah! I shall be glad to see
him. You say a detective also? I hope nothing has gone amiss. Usher them in,
Calhoun. Then you may retire. I shall not need you later."
"Thank you, sir."
With a warning glance toward his nephew, Cecil Armsbury arose to his feet.
He was all smiles as he stepped forward to greet the two men who entered. He
knew Matson. The curator introduced him to Cardona.
"My nephew," remarked Armsbury, turning to Martin Havelock. "He is my only
nephew - Martin Havelock. Sit down, gentlemen. Tell me the reason for this
unexpected visit. I hope that nothing serious has occurred."
"Something very serious," explained Matson, solemnly. "The Egyptian Museum
has been rifled by thieves. Your entire collection of antiquities has been
stolen."
Cecil Armsbury sank back in his chair. His whole attitude was one of a man
who had experienced a terrific shock. Martin Havelock looked on in admiration.
"More than that," added Matson, "the thieves also took the mummy case of
Senwosri, the son of Amenemhe -"
"With its priceless treasure?"
"They carried away the case intact."

CECIL ARMSBURY was gripping the arms of his chair. His air showed that he
regarded this daring theft as a terrific outrage. Joe Cardona motioned to
Handley Matson to say no more.
"We want to recover these stolen articles, Mr. Armsbury," he explained.
"We have come here because we believe that you can help us."
"How? I shall do all in my power."
"Give us some information, then, regarding the mummy cases that you
donated to the Egyptian Museum."
Armsbury stared with wild eyes. A sudden thought had occurred to him.
"My collection of mummies?" he questioned. "I remember! I had ordered them
to be delivered today. You do not mean that they were stolen also!"
"Yes," returned Cardona, "but not from the museum. Tell me, Mr. Armsbury,
where did you have them stored?"
"This is bewildering!" exclaimed Armsbury. "Let me think. Indeed, Mr.
Cardona, I do not remember for the moment. I shall have to call my attorney,
Jason Thunig. He arranges all my business affairs."
"Thunig is out of town," interposed Martin Havelock.
"So he is," recalled Armsbury. "You do not recall my mentioning the name
of the warehouse, do you, Martin?"
"No."
"I may be able to remember it. But tell me" - Armsbury's tone was
quizzical - "have there been two robberies? One at the museum - the other at
the warehouse?"
"No." Cardona furnished the explanation. "I have a theory, Mr. Armsbury,
that may aid us. The manner of the robbery makes me believe that crooks were
smuggled into the museum in mummy cases.
"That granted, they must have entered the warehouse first; there to remove
the mummies from the cases. Do you understand?"
"I see. A remarkable deduction, Mr. Cardona. Tell me, has this been
established as a certainty?"
"No. But it is the only plausible theory. I struck upon it while I was in
the museum, after Inspector Klein had left."
"Ah! And did you corroborate it, Matson?"
"I did," said the curator.
"I suppose," remarked Armsbury, in an innocuous tone, "that you have
informed Inspector Klein."
"Not yet," declared Cardona. "I want to give him the whole dope, Mr.
Armsbury. I told my theory to Mr. Matson. He and I were alone at the time. So
we came down here at once. When I make my report, I want it to be a clincher. I
wish you could remember the name of that warehouse."
"I have it!" Armsbury sprang to his feet with agility. "Do you remember it
now, Martin? I marked that name in my memoranda book - the one in the table
drawer -"
The old man pointed as he spoke. His face was turned toward Martin
Havelock. Cardona and Matson were following the direction of the old man's
finger. They did not see the motion of Armsbury's lips. Havelock alone caught
that. He understood. Nonchalantly, the young man dropped his hands into his
coat pockets.

CECIL ARMSBURY strode across the room. Cardona and Matson followed him.
The old man yanked open a desk drawer. He reached in and glanced over his
shoulder, smiling.
"Here it is" - Armsbury was looking at Joe Cardona. His gaze turned to
Havelock - "the very thing we want to -"
As he broke the sentence, Armsbury turned. In his hand was a
short-barreled revolver. He swung the weapon directly at Joe Cardona's breast.
At the same time, Martin Havelock made a sidewise spring. His hand, too, had
drawn a gun. He had his finger on the trigger.
"Up with them!" snarled Havelock.
Joe Cardona was too stupefied to do other than obey. Handley Matson
followed the detective's action. Bowing, old Cecil Armsbury pointed to his
nephew.
"This gentleman will take charge of you," he said. "As a man of crime, I
am a mere tyro. Perhaps you have heard of my nephew, Mr. Cardona. Under another
name than that of Martin Havelock -"
Cardona was staring at the young man with the gun. He saw the fiendish
sneer that had grown on Havelock's lips. Yet he could not place the crook until
Armsbury's next words brought astonishment.
"Better known," smirked the old villain, "as Duke Larrin."
"Duke Larrin!" exclaimed Cardona.
"Yes," snarled Havelock. "That's who I am - Duke Larrin. I've been working
this town of yours and you've been too dumb to know it. So you're Joe Cardona,
eh? Well - there's a bunch of friends of mine who'll be glad to meet you."
Cecil Armsbury was depriving Joe Cardona of his revolver. The old swindler
was chuckling. He urged Cardona and Matson toward the fireplace; Havelock
accompanied the movement with a gesture of his revolver. Armsbury, carrying
Cardona's revolver, leaped ahead.
"As Duke Larrin's uncle," chortled the old fiend, "I am worthy of my
nephew. It was for him that I provided a very excellent headquarters which has
failed to attract your notice, friend Cardona.
"Allow me" - Armsbury was pressing the switch - "to conduct you to our
lair. It is the resting place of Senwosri, the son of Amenemhe. He is dead -
poor Senwosri - but he shall have company. He came dead from the Egyptian
Museum; you have come living from that same place. Let the living join the
dead!"
Armsbury cackled gleefully. Martin Havelock stepped aboard the elevator
and descended. Cecil Armsbury remained alone; but he and the gun he held were a
sufficient threat. The elevator came up empty. Armsbury forced Cardona and
Matson aboard. The lift began to descend.
"My nephew will be awaiting you," cackled Armsbury. "He will take charge
until I join you!"
Cardona and Matson, staring upward, saw the gloating face of the fiend.
Then came darkness as the descending elevator carried its prisoners to the
crypt below.

CHAPTER XXI

LIVING AND DEAD

MIDNIGHT. Duke Larrin sat in the center of the crime crypt. Grouped about
him were the privileged crooks who had come to this underground vault.
Brodie Brodan sat with gloating face and bristling eyebrows. Fingers
Keefel wore a malicious smile upon his crafty face. Bozo Griffin and Fritz
Fursch were standing in a corner of the crypt. Seated on the floor between this
pair of thugs were the three prisoners, their hands bound behind their backs.
Joe Cardona - Handley Matson - Cliff Marsland. The trio found no pleasure
in their company. Each knew that he was facing doom and that two others were
due to perish with him.
The crime crypt harbored another person: Cecil Armsbury. He was standing
behind his nephew, grinning as sponsor of insidious crime. To him, this crypt
was a legacy which he had given to a deserving heir. Cecil Armsbury was proud
of the power which Martin Havelock, alias Duke Larrin, had come to wield.
"Where is Croaker?"
This was the question with which Havelock opened the proceedings.
"Not here yet," asserted Fingers Mannick. "He'll be through. No reason why
he should be on time tonight."
Brodie Brodan chuckled at the jest.
"Shall I bring in Sinker Hargun?" he questioned.
"Yes," affirmed Havelock. "He is one of us. Let the mob remain on guard.
We shall talk with them later. They are to play their part in future crime."
Brodie Brodan went to the door to the corridor. He opened it and summoned
Sinker Hargun. The gang lieutenant joined the criminal assemblage.
"You all know me," announced Martin Havelock, his voice resounding through
the crypt. "I'm Duke Larrin. That's the name I go under. This crypt is my
headquarters. From here we have put through successful crime. There is more to
be done.
"No dumb dicks are going to cross us. Neither are any stools that work for
The Shadow. We're going to blot out the ones we've already got - and a third man
with them. That's settled. When Croaker Mannick arrives, we'll let him do the
wiping, like he did with three others."
Havelock turned toward Cardona as he spoke. His lips snarled the names of
the three men whom the fiends of the crime crypt had marked for death.
"Perry Trappe. Tyler Bogart. Brisbane Calbot." Havelock laughed. "They're
the ones we blotted out - and you three are due to follow."
He turned and faced his henchmen. Rising, Havelock waved his arm toward
his uncle. Cecil Armsbury's countenance was a gloating one.
"This," stated Havelock, "is the silent partner. Cecil Armsbury. The man
who built this crypt. The one who planned our crimes. He has reclaimed articles
which might have exposed his past. Through his cunning, we have also gained
fabulous wealth. He is the man who showed the way to obtain the mummy case of
Senwosri, which is worth -"
Havelock paused. Armsbury's chuckle took up the tale.
"A quarter of a million," was the old man's statement.
Eager gasps came from the crooks as they heard these astounding words.
Duke Larrin's aids were beginning to realize the mammoth proportions of this
crime ring. Martin Havelock, however, maintained a calm demeanor. He knew the
truth. Cecil Armsbury had not told one half the reputed value contained within
the mummy case of Senwosri.
"The jeweled Vishnu from Hyderabad." Cecil Armsbury was checking as he
spoke to Fingers Keefel. "The golden panel from the Temple of Heaven. The
sacred scroll from the Kaaba in Mecca. Those were fakes which needed to be
destroyed. You performed that work, I am told. You have my thanks.
"With the mummy case of Senwosri came the antiquities which I once sold to
the Egyptian Museum. That was your work" - Armsbury had turned to Brodie Brodan
and Sinker Hargun - "and it was well done. Those antiquities were fakes -
clever ones, but liable to detection. They are to be destroyed."
"I placed them in the treasure room," reminded Martin Havelock, in an
undertone. He meant the compartment at the end of the crypt.
Cecil Armsbury nodded. The old man was gloating as he looked toward
Handley Matson. The curator of the Egyptian Museum was aghast at the news which
he had just heard.
"Living men have obstructed our path," resumed Armsbury. "Some of them
have died. Others still live. Three of them are here before us." He pointed to
the prisoners. "They shall die - all three. Living shall be dead!"

THE old man's chuckle resounded in hollow tones through the vault. It was
a fiendish sign of an evildoer. The prisoners who heard it knew that they could
expect no mercy from this cruel captor.
"Living men have brought us trouble," continued Armsbury, in a dramatic
voice. "Therefore they shall die. The dead mean more to us than the living. The
dead can bring us wealth!"
He turned to approach the huge mummy case. While the others watched,
Armsbury clawed away the loose straps which bound the huge Egyptian casket.
"Wealth from the dead!" exclaimed Armsbury, turning to face his listeners.
"Senwosri, the son of Amenemhe, brings us his gifts! The living have deserved to
die. The dead deserve to live. Had I the power, I would restore life to Senwosri.
"That cannot be." The old man's tone seemed regretful. "So we must accept
Senwosri as dead. Let us look upon his wealth. Feast your eyes, my friends,
upon the splendor that will glitter from within this casket!"
As he completed his statement, Cecil Armsbury seized the front of the
mummy case and pulled it open. The powerful wrench brought him alongside the
casket, facing the men who thronged the crime crypt. That was as Cecil Armsbury
had intended. A showman in his ways of crime, he wanted to see the effect upon
the members of Duke Larrin's band.
Cecil Armsbury stared at faces that showed grotesquely in the crime crypt.
He had noted eager eyes; he expected to hear gasps of elation. Instead, he was
amazed by the sight of frozen faces.
Brodie Brodan's eyes were bulging. Fingers Keefel was sinking as his legs
trembled beneath him. Bozo Griffin - Fritz Fursch - Sinker Hargun - these
redoubtable lieutenants were wavering. Armsbury stared at Martin Havelock.
The crook who called himself Duke Larrin was as rigid as a statue. A look
of horror showed upon his whitened face. His gaze was centered upon the opened
mummy case. Something within it had petrified the international crook.
With a snarl, Cecil Armsbury sprang forward. He wheeled and gazed in the
same direction of the others - toward the opened front of the mummy case. His
snarl died. He, too, stood astounded.
The figure that loomed within the mummy case was not the dead body of
Senwosri, son of Amenemhe. Instead of a white-wrapped mummy, Cecil Armsbury
gazed upon a living form in black. A tall, spectral being was surveying the
crime crypt crooks with burning eyes. That penetrating gaze brought terror.
Black from head to foot. Eyes, alone, of the features that were hidden
beneath the projecting brim of a slouch hat. A form shrouded with a cloak of
sable hue. Such was the terrible figure that Cecil Armsbury and the others saw.
They also viewed the threats that this living creature carried - a pair of
mammoth automatics that bulged from black-gloved fists!
"The Shadow!"
Cecil Armsbury gasped the name that others dared not utter. In answer came
a token from the opened mummy case of Senwosri. It was a strange, weird burst of
whispered mirth that rose to a crescendo within the hollowness of the crypt;
then faded to leave taunting echoes that seemed voiced by a myriad of
invisible, impish tongues!
The laugh of The Shadow! To the startled crooks who heard it, that
strident mockery came as a prophecy of doom!

CHAPTER XXII

WORDS OF THE SHADOW

NOT one crook dared make a move. Silence reigned within the crime crypt,
but the memory of The Shadow's laugh prevailed. The Shadow had caught these
fiends at a moment when they thought their safety complete. Not a gun was ready
to challenge the threat of his mammoth automatics.
Cliff Marsland uttered an inaudible sigh of relief. He had forgotten that
his own life was at stake. He had been chiding himself for the failure which
had brought two others - Joe Cardona and Handley Matson - to share his fate.
The presence of The Shadow had ended all thoughts of doom. That spectral
visitant in black, his ready guns looming before the terrified crooks, had the
situation completely within his control. One against six; but The Shadow
dominated the half-dozen!
Moments seemed to linger within the crime crypt. Bulging eyes stared as
The Shadow's weird shape moved forward. With a slow, gliding motion, The Shadow
issued from the mummy case of Senwosri.
His tall figure in plain view, the master who battled crime whispered
forth a laugh more terrifying than the first. It was a shuddering laugh that
seemed to come from everywhere. Sinister mirth pounded the ear-drums of the
listening fiends. All trembled. Even Cliff and the two prisoners beside him
felt the horror of that mockery.
"Living shall be dead." The Shadow's pronouncement came in a sibilant
tone. "The dead has come to life to deal judgment. Your crimes are ended."
The blazing eyes were focused upon the cringing crooks. Again an echo of
The Shadow's laugh; then the hissing voice spoke:
"You are murderers. Perry Trappe died through your conniving. So did Tyler
Bogart. One man - Croaker Mannick - was the instrument through whom death was
dealt.
"Croaker Mannick met his fate. He challenged my might. He fought me amid
darkness - at Tyler Bogart's home." A pause; The Shadow's whispered laugh was
throbbing at the recollection. "A fight in the darkness. The Shadow dwells in
dark! Croaker Mannick did not escape The Shadow. Croaker Mannick, man of
murder, died as he fled!"
A gesture of one automatic added emphasis to The Shadow's statement.
Fingers Keefel stared, bewildered. He remembered shots that Croaker had fired,
back in Bogart's strongroom. Croaker had fought with The Shadow - and had lost!
"Croaker Mannick left Bogart's." The Shadow's voice was a creepy sneer. "I
carried him from the spot where he had died. His body will never be found. But I
retained his famous revolver. It was I who visited the home of Brisbane Calbot -
to play the part of Croaker Mannick!"

THE truth broke upon Fingers Keefel. He realized now the oddities of that
meeting in Calbot's curio room. He had seen Croaker Mannick there - but Croaker
had seemed different. Fingers recalled the pale face of the murderer; Croaker's
unusual suggestion.
Fingers had attributed them to nervousness on Croaker's part. He knew now
that The Shadow had feigned such expressions so that Fingers would not detect
the imposition!
"Croaker Mannick placed Brisbane Calbot in the vault." The Shadow's
whisper was a sibilant throb. "I was Croaker Mannick. It was I who released
Calbot - I, The Shadow - to carry him to safety. Brisbane Calbot lives! Living,
he provided the clew to crime!"
The whole truth was dawning upon all. Cecil Armsbury, a snarl frozen on
his lips, was facing The Shadow with eyes that still showed the glower of a
fiend.
"Cecil Armsbury!" The Shadow's scoffing tone marked the crook who had
backed the schemes of crime. "Purveyor of false treasures. I learned your game;
but I, The Shadow, waited. I foresaw the culmination of crime. I sought a way to
reach this crypt and take you and your minions unaware.
"I visited the Egyptian Museum! I saw your collection of antiquities. I
knew them to be spurious. I learned of the mummy cases that were coming in. I
divined that they would carry living henchmen."
A gasp from the corner of the room. It came from Handley Matson. The
curator of the Egyptian Museum had gained a sudden inkling. He realized the
identity of the old visitor who had called during the afternoon to see the tomb
of Senwosri.
The Shadow! He had played the part of Professor Sturgis Dilling. His
package - his briefcase - these had contained his black garments and his huge
automatics. The Shadow, with masterful craft, had opened the door to Senwosri's
tomb. He had entered - to close the door behind him.
"I took the part of Senwosri." The Shadow delivered a low, ominous laugh.
"The mummy and all its treasure is safe - within the locked sarcophagus where I
placed it. That container - supposedly empty - was not touched."
It was Joe Cardona who uttered an amazed exclamation. He realized the
subtlety of The Shadow's work. The crooks had ignored the relocked sarcophagus.
So had the police. Both had passed by the real treasure. Unstolen, the mummy of
Senwosri and its fabulous accompaniment of gems and gold had never left the
Egyptian Museum.
The Shadow had tricked the crooks of the crime crypt with their own game!
Minions of crime had been carried into the Egyptian Museum within closed mummy
cases. The Shadow, foreseeing that move, had countered with the same scheme.
Brodie Brodan's picked henchmen had served as carriers to bring The Shadow,
himself, to the crime crypt!

TENSE silence reigned. The Shadow held the crooks at bay. They knew that
their crimes were learned. Cecil Armsbury's past swindles were uncovered.
Murder had been exposed. The secret of the crypt was known. The ways of fiends
were ended.
Cliff Marsland, yanking one hand loose from the cord that bound his
wrists, was preparing to give The Shadow aid. Cliff had served The Shadow in
situations that had held this weird intensity.
He knew the ways of cornered crooks when they faced The Shadow. First
terrified; then cowed; they invariably leaped to desperate measures when they
realized that The Shadow knew all the evil which they had committed.
Cliff's hand was free. The Shadow's agent was reaching to aid Joe Cardona.
This action was unnoticed by the crooks. Their staring eyes were all upon The
Shadow. Six fiends were waiting, all with common thought. Their hope was a way
to thwart this master who held them helpless. A single spark alone was needed
to explode them.
It came. Martin Havelock - the redoubtable Duke Larrin - was the one who
led the challenge to The Shadow's might. Facing the looming automatics, the
snarling international crook was seized with sudden wildness.
A cry echoed through the crypt as Martin Havelock gave the word for mass
attack. Nearest to The Shadow, Havelock leaped forward, hurling his reckless
body into the path of both The Shadow's guns!

CHAPTER XXIII

THE SHADOW'S MIGHT

A TERRIFIC roar exploded within the crime crypt. It was the burst of an
automatic wielded by The Shadow. Its report, caught by the vaulted room,
sounded like the outburst of a mighty cannon.
The shot was fired just as Martin Havelock precipitated himself upon The
Shadow. The crook sprawled as he reached his objective. The Shadow, whirling
aside, let Havelock plunge on. The crook dove head first into the bottom of the
mummy case of Senwosri. His clawing fingers only grazed the swishing cloak of
The Shadow.
The Shadow never turned to gaze at Havelock's body. His shot had marked
the end of Duke Larrin's career of crime. Havelock, dead from a single bullet
in his heart, offered no new threat. There were others who needed a taste of
The Shadow's blistering lead.
They were coming to the fight. The roar of the automatic had brought them
to swift action. Brodie Brodan - his three lieutenants - all were yanking
shining revolvers to fight the common foe. The delay of Martin Havelock's
plunge; The Shadow's sidestep - these were factors which gave the crooks an
opportunity.
Brodie Brodan, leveling his revolver, was the first to make a forward
lunge. Ahead of the others, Brodie sought to fire. The Shadow's second
automatic spoke. The gang leader crumpled. The automatics continued like the
roar of musketry. Their thunder was accompanied by tongues of flame.
Bozo Griffin staggered, wounded. Vainly, the hard-faced gang lieutenant
tried to fire as he backed against the wall. A new bullet laid him low.
Fritz Fursch, dropping to the floor, got away one shot. His hasty aim was
wide. As he steadied for a second shot, a tongue of flame spat toward him.
Fritz crumpled with a stifled groan.
Sinker Hargun, slowest on the draw, was the coolest in his aim. Backing
toward the side door of the crypt, the fiercest of Brodie Brodan's henchmen
aimed a shot to kill. The Shadow had taken the others first, in consequence of
Sinker's slowness. Apparently, Sinker was set to beat him to this shot.
Finger on trigger, Sinker pressed. As he did, the report of his revolver
was accompanied by sight of The Shadow's dropping form. Sinker aimed again, in
wild elation.
He never fired. The Shadow's fall had been designed. Coming a split second
ahead of Sinker's shot, it had enabled the black-garbed master to escape the
steady gangster's fire. While Sinker, thinking that he had felled his enemy,
was pointing for new delivery, another blast from an automatic sponsored new
echoes through the crime crypt.
The Shadow, shooting as he crouched, was perfect in his rapid aim. Sinker
Hargun slumped. His left hand went to his body. His right arm lowered. His
revolver loosened from spreading fingers. It clattered on the stone floor of
the crypt. Sinker folded; his body cracked the floor with a thud. The gangster
rolled on his back and lay motionless.
Cecil Armsbury! The chief plotter of this band of crooks had chosen
different tactics than the others. His aim was escape. Plunging across the
crypt, he had taken advantage of The Shadow's activity. He had made his
objective the elevator that led to his living room above.
A man blocked his path. Armsbury, gun in hand, found himself wrestling
with an unexpected foeman who had risen to meet him. It was Cliff Marsland. The
Shadow's agent strove to hold the master plotter.
Armsbury fought with savage fury. His strength was surprising. Cliff could
not wrest the revolver away from him; but he did manage to hold Armsbury on
equal footing. Together, the two struggled while The Shadow performed execution
upon snarling crooks.
Joe Cardona was struggling with the bonds which Cliff had partially
released. The detective broke free. He paid no heed to Handley Matson's cries
for release. He could aid the curator later. Joe launched himself upon Cecil
Armsbury, in an effort to aid Cliff Marsland.
Amazingly, the old man increased his power as his adversaries doubled. He
wrenched himself free and leveled his revolver squarely at Joe Cardona. Cliff
Marsland, hurled against the wall, flung his arm upward and hit the old man's
wrist. Armsbury's shot ricocheted from the ceiling.
Cardona and Cliff leaped forward, just as Armsbury yanked open the door to
the elevator shaft. A cry came from Cardona.
"Stop him! He's going up to his house above!"
Armsbury broke away as the two men seized him. His swinging hand delivered
a side clip to Cardona's head. The detective slumped from the glancing blow of
the revolver. Springing clear, Armsbury leveled his gun at Cliff. The Shadow's
agent made a futile spring to stop the shot.

ARMSBURY'S gloating cackle ended as a burst of flame was accompanied by a
roar from the crypt. The old man's arm dropped. The Shadow, picking the only
opening past Cliff Marsland's intervening body, had clipped the archcrook in
the shoulder.
Cliff seized Armsbury's gun. He dragged the old crook forward into the
crypt. Joe Cardona, rising dazed, saw that Armsbury was helpless. Joe picked up
a revolver that was lying on the floor beside the body of Fingers Keefel.
Cliff Marsland, standing by the door toward the elevator shaft, heard a
warning hiss beside him. He turned to find himself staring into the eyes of The
Shadow. Before Cliff could nod in reply, he was drawn through the door toward
the elevator. Thrust aboard, he found himself riding up through blackness.
The Shadow had withdrawn his henchman. He knew that Cliff's status might
be questioned, even though Cliff had aided Joe Cardona. With his agent, The
Shadow was departing. Death reigned in the crime crypt.
The Shadow had played his part. He had ended the reign of crime. He had
saved wealth that crooks had marked for theft. The crime crypt had been
uncovered. Joe Cardona, representative of the law, was in possession!
The Shadow had picked the exit through Armsbury's, learning of it from Joe
Cardona's cry. Standing in Armsbury's living room, he pointed Cliff Marsland
toward the door. The agent nodded and hurried from the house. It was his part
to vacate this vicinity.
Cliff, as he reached the corner of the nearest avenue, paused for a long
breath. It was then that he heard the whispered echo of a weird laugh - a sound
that seemed to come from in back of Armsbury's home.
The laugh of The Shadow! It was sinister mockery that denoted triumph. Yet
to Cliff, it carried a strange note that presaged impending action!

CHAPTER XXIV

FROM THE CRYPT

DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA stared about him. He was in possession of the crime
crypt. He realized for the first time that The Shadow had departed; then he
discovered that the prisoner who had aided him was also gone.
Cardona had not recognized Cliff Marsland in the dim light of the crypt.
He suspected that his fellow prisoner had been a former member of the crooked
gang. That was all.
Cecil Armsbury, alone of all the crooks, still lived. The old man,
sprawled helplessly against the wall, was weaponless. He was clutching his
wounded shoulder, whimpering as though in pain.
Gasps for aid attracted Cardona's attention. The detective was forced to
smile as he noted Handley Matson. The museum curator was weakly endeavoring to
release himself from the bonds which held him.
Cardona approached and aided. Handley Matson, freed, staggered to his
feet. He was unsteady; his cadaverous face showed pallor. Cardona thrust a gun
into his hand.
"Look after Armsbury," ordered the detective. "Keep him covered. I'm going
to see what's in here."
Cardona motioned toward the door beyond the mummy case of Senwosri.
Picking up loose revolvers from the floor, the detective approached and hacked
at the lock of Armsbury's treasure room. He finally used a revolver to blast
away the lock.
The sight of glittering objects opened Cardona's eyes. Here was pelf of
tremendous value - stolen wealth which Armsbury had stored away during his long
career. It captured the detective's entire attention until a sharp cry made
Cardona turn back to the crypt.
Cecil Armsbury had risen weakly to his feet. Handley Matson, nervous, had
made no attempt to stop him. Now, with a renewal of his old vigor, Armsbury had
leaped upon the curator!
Cardona saw Matson go down. His revolver clattered on the floor. Armsbury
scooped it up with his left hand and sprang to the side of the crypt as Joe
Cardona blazed a revolver shot.
The bullet missed its mark. Armsbury, with fiendish strength, yanked open
the side door. Cardona, firing, sprang forward. Armsbury seemed to possess a
charm against the detective's bullets. Cardona saw him disappear beyond the
door.
"Come on!" Cardona thrust a new gun into Matson's hand as the curator rose
from the floor.

THEN, with prompt pursuit, the detective yanked open the door and revealed
the long passage which Armsbury had taken. The old crook was fleeing toward a
spot of safety which Cardona had not known was in existence.
Joe fired down the passage. His bullets ricocheted from the walls, too
late to stop Armsbury's flight. The old man had gained the other end. He was
going through the panel. Cardona dashed after him and reached the barrier. He
yanked it open.
"Hurry! Hurry!" he heard Armsbury calling. "We must get away or all is
lost!"
Scuffling feet sounded on stairs. Armsbury had called to Sinker Hargun's
henchmen. These gangsters had not heard the firing in which their leader had
been slain. The buried crypt was sound-proof.
Cardona delivered wild shots as he dashed through the storeroom, with
Matson at his heels. His flashlight showed the stairs that led above. He blazed
in that direction. Return shots resounded. Then a door slammed shut. Cardona
clambered up the steps and tried to crash the barrier. It resisted.
Cecil Armsbury was explaining matters to a group of excited gunmen. He was
urging them to flight; and he pointed out the way. Across the basement was an
elevator shaft. An open car stood there. The operator and the janitor were
staring at the sound of shots which they had heard.
A revolver barked from a mobster's hand. The elevator man and the janitor
fled for cover, leaving the car deserted. Armsbury waved his good arm and the
mobsters followed him into the lift. The door clanged. They rose upward to the
lobby floor.
The door was flung open. The operator of a second elevator looked out as
he saw a gun-wielding gangster spring from the car that had come from the
cellar. He made a leap to stop the armed invader.
The gangster, with others at his heels, flung the elevator man aside and
paused to aim at him. Then came a sharp cry from a second mobster. The aiming
man looked up. Straight ahead, framed in the outer doorway of the lobby, was a
looming form in black!
The Shadow!

A FIST-CLENCHED automatic barked. The murderous gangster dropped. Others
raised their guns and started fire. Automatics thundered in quick return. The
Shadow's shots, aimed at the startled group, found quick effect. Mobsters
sprawled, their hasty shots traveling wide.
"Back! Back!" Cecil Armsbury was screaming. "Up to the roof!"
Three gangsters were all who could obey. Diving into the elevator, they
clanged the door. The lift started up. Armsbury uttered a cry of satisfaction.
Then came a growl from a mobster, peering through the slatted side of the
elevator.
"He's after us!" was the man's statement. "In the other elevator!"
Armsbury peered through the slats. His lips writhed as he realized the
truth. The Shadow had seized the second elevator and was in pursuit.
The shaft was designed for three elevators. The central one was not in
use. Hence there was a space between the two - the one which contained Armsbury
and his gangsters and the other in which The Shadow was following.
"Out with the light," ordered Armsbury.
A mobster clicked the switch. The elevator was passing the seventh floor.
Armsbury knew that the old hotel had twelve stories.
"Slow it!" he ordered in an undertone. "We can't get out before he reaches
us -"
The command was obeyed. Gangster guns were through the slats, ready to
blaze The Shadow's elevator when it came alongside. In the vague gloom of the
shaft, the other car was gaining upward impetus. Its solid top was a guard
against bullets; but its slatted sides were vulnerable, beginning three feet
above the floor.
Gangster guns blazed. The faster moving elevator was the target. To return
the fire, The Shadow would have to be at the slats. Bullets flattened against
The Shadow's lift. Others whistled between the bars.
Growling gangsters stayed their fire as the other elevator shot by. There
had been no reply. They thought that they had clipped The Shadow!
"Down!" gasped Armsbury. "Down! Don't take chances -"
A mobster fumbled in the darkness. He stopped the car and started its
course downward. This time they could fight their way through the lobby. Sure
of safety, the mobsters were grouped against the open-slatted side.
Then came thunderous roars. From the height above, the second elevator
came dropping, with all control released. The Shadow had loosed it from the
topmost floor. With terrific speed, he had taken the downward pursuit!
Freed from the control of the elevator, he was at the slatted sides,
pouring the lead of his loaded automatics into the car which held Armsbury and
the frightened mobsters.

NOT one had suspected The Shadow's ruse. They had thought - as Armsbury
had suggested - that The Shadow might have crouched to cover to avoid their
shots. But to drop - as if from nowhere, on a twelve-story plunge! This was the
stroke that caught them unaware.
Cecil Armsbury crouched to the floor as cursing mobsters dropped about
him. Of a dozen shots delivered by The Shadow, seven had passed between the
slats. They had crippled the trio of mobsters in the car with Armsbury.
Alone capable of action, the old crook yanked the control as The Shadow's
car whizzed past. Armsbury's elevator jammed to a stop between the fifth floor
and the fourth. It started upward at the old man's action on the control.
A whistling sound wailed through the shaft. The Shadow's lift had struck
the air-cushion in its confined shaft below the fourth floor. Rebounding as
though shot upward by a spring, it was in new pursuit. The Shadow had regained
the control!
Armsbury's car clicked to a stop at the twelfth floor. The old man clawed
open the door. He dashed along a short passage, up steps, and pulled open a
barrier. He hurried out to the roof of Ridgelow Court. He was ahead of The
Shadow. Let the dying gangsters remain in their useless elevator!
Reaching a corner post at the rear of the roof, Cecil Armsbury clung there
in the darkness. He was obscured from the glare of the city's sky. He steadied
his right wrist upon the cornice. Gloating; he pointed revolver at the door
through which he had come. He waited.
Though capture might prove inevitable, Cecil Armsbury was determined to
commit one final deed of crime. He had reached this spot in time to await The
Shadow. The moment that the blackclad avenger might appear, Armsbury's hand
would press the trigger.
Sure death - with this steady aim. Armsbury's eyes were keen as they
watched the whitened surface of the door. Not even The Shadow could come there
undiscovered. Armsbury's only qualm was the possibility that The Shadow might
avoid this trap. Yet the old fiend, chuckling, counted on The Shadow's daring.
The being who had come to the crime crypt in the mummy case of Senwosri,
there to eliminate a band of fierce ruffians, would certainly not avoid this
challenge. In the crypt, Armsbury had chosen flight. That course was ended. The
Shadow would learn the perfection of Cecil Armsbury's calculating aim!

ON the twelfth floor of Ridgelow Court, The Shadow was standing by the
very exit which Armsbury had taken. Behind him were the open doors of two
elevators: the one containing the bullet-scarred gangsters whom Armsbury had
abandoned; the other, the car in which The Shadow had arrived.
There was one path which Armsbury must have taken. The Shadow knew it:
through that door to the roof. The Shadow's gloved hand was upon the door. Then
came a solemn, whispered laugh from lips that were hidden by the upturned collar
of the black cloak.
The Shadow saw the trap. He knew the odds which Armsbury was playing. His
keen eyes spied a window at the bottom of the steps. The Shadow took it as his
objective.
Gloved hands raised the sash. The Shadow's tall form passed through the
opened window. Strong fingers gripped an ornamental stone above the window. A
long arm was thrust higher; it clutched the base of the cornice.
Clinging with one sure hand, The Shadow swung over space. His free hand
joined the gripping one. Both held the base of the cornice. The Shadow's body
moved upward. A rising hand pressed powerful fingers against the top of the
cornice.
Both hands gained this objective. The Shadow's body reached the base. It
rested firmly there; a freed hand reached beneath the black, enshrouding cloak.
That hand produced an automatic. Gripping the weapon of vengeance, The
Shadow raised hand and head above the walled cornice. Clinging to his
precarious perch, he turned his keen eyes in searching gaze across the roof.
The Shadow was more than a dozen feet from the door which Cecil Armsbury
was watching. The old man was hidden in the darkness of the opposite corner;
but the whispered laugh which was almost inaudible told The Shadow's divination.
The one spot which the villainous sponsor of the crime crypt could have
chosen was that opposite corner. There, The Shadow knew, the fiend was waiting
with his gun trained on the whitened door from the twelfth floor!
The Shadow raised head and shoulders. His automatic leveled. Here, at the
front of the roof, the glow was behind him. His slouch hat and the upper
portion of his cloak formed a spectral silhouette against the glowing sky.
A cry came from across the roof. Cecil Armsbury had spied The Shadow.
Clinging to his vantage post, Armsbury shifted aim as he realized that the door
could no longer be his target. With his cry, Armsbury fired.

THE blaze of the revolver showed the old man's exact location. The bullet,
though aimed in haste, was close. It clipped the brim of The Shadow's tilted hat
as it whistled past to space. Armsbury's frantic finger was pressing for a
second shot when The Shadow's answer came.
The automatic barked. The Shadow's aim was perfect. The flash of the
crook's revolver was all that he had needed. The leaden messenger found its
target.
A second cry came from Cecil Armsbury. The old man's clinging arm lost its
hold. His revolver dangled, hanging from his trigger finger. It clattered to the
roof. A wail came from Armsbury's lips as the master of the crime crypt toppled
backward.
Headlong over the cornice - thus did Cecil Armsbury plunge. Twelve stories
downward to the courtyard behind the old hotel; Armsbury's helpless body formed
a circling, puppet figure as it dropped though darkness. It crashed upon the
paving.
The Shadow crossed the roof. Peering from the rear cornice, his keen eyes
distinguished the contorted form of the villain who had perished. Cecil
Armsbury was dead; his motionless corpse was lying on the cement that covered
the passage between Ridgelow Court and the crime crypt!
Crime from the crypt was ended. From the crypt had Cecil Armsbury fled.
The Shadow, from the crypt, had blocked the monster's path of flight.
Minions of crime had perished. Duke Larrin's band of murderers and raiders
were no more. Last to die had been the master schemer of the lot: Cecil Armsbury.
Weird laughter sounded its triumph from atop the old hotel. Its tones
reached the roof of the old mansion where Cecil Armsbury had lived.
Chilling, penetrating mockery! Its echoes faded with eerie irony, as
though creeping through the old secluded mansion that they might reach the
crime crypt as a token of The Shadow's victory!

THE END

(NOTE: Here is a description of the main characters in the story. They were
placed throughout the story in the original pulp. They have now been placed at
the end of the story, so as not to interrupt the flow of the narrative.)

CECIL ARMSBURY

Under the guise of adventurer, world-traveler, collector of various
treasures, Cecil Armsbury has been successful in accomplishing a masterful plot
of crookedness. The victims of his evil are not aware of his treachery - not
yet. But there is a time for reckoning, and Cecil Armsbury plans for such a
time.
From within his own home, he acts as the master mind of this vast plot. He
foresees all contingencies; he realizes the difficulty of the task which he
undertakes. But his evil mind is equal to all the situations, and his cunning
sufficient to bring to him aides who carry out orders to the letter.

DUKE LARRIN

A master crook in his own right, Duke Larrin attempts to take advantage of
another master crook - and there results the most deadly combination of
wickedness possible. One is a schemer beyond reproach; the other is a crook of
international reputation who is looking for new territory, new means of crime.
Duke Larrin and Cecil Armsbury, two of a kind! They pool their experience,
and out of it comes a plot that is bigger than anything any single crook could
imagine. The idea is perfect; the system they plan is foolproof. They account
for everything - everything except The Shadow!

HARRY VINCENT
Agent of The Shadow

Of all The Shadow's agents, Harry Vincent is probably the most important.
It was Harry Vincent who aided The Living Shadow, long ago, in his battle
against the gang of diamond thieves. But that was only after The Shadow had
saved Vincent when he was on the brink of death, and thus won his everlasting
loyalty and subservience.
Vincent, as the dean of The Shadow's agents, is worthy of his post.
Quick-thinking, fast-acting, impressive-looking - that is Harry Vincent. He
follows orders, and when necessary, is able to do his own thinking, a
requirement essential to all agents of The Shadow.

"FINGERS" KEEFEL

Another lieutenant of the master crooks. Fingers and Brodie Brodan are
both serving the same purpose - doing the work "up front" while the masters do
their plotting behind the scenes.

"BRODIE" BRODAN

One of gangland's big shots, is only an incidental lieutenant in this
campaign of great crime. Nevertheless, upon him rests much of the success of
this crookery.

JOE CARDONA
Ace detective of the New York force

Although The Shadow is not an officer of the law, he fights for the law at
all times, and, indirectly, is the law's most effective agent. There was a time
when the police did not believe in The Shadow, when the name was accounted as
nothing more than a myth. Even today, officially, there is no such name on the
police rolls. In all reports, it is a "person unknown" who does something which
brings the police on the trail.
But to Joe Cardona, ace detective of the New York force, The Shadow is
real. More than once Cardona's life has been saved by this master fighter; more
than one baffling case has been "solved" by the police because The Shadow set
the scene, gave Cardona the tip, and let this ace detective win new laurels by
making a marvelous "catch." Joe Cardona knows he owes everything, including his
life, to The Shadow.

CLIFF MARSLAND

To the underworld, Cliff Marsland is a free-lance fighter, a gunman of
high repute. He owes allegiance to no gang; his nerve, his gun-fighting
ability, make him a man in demand when big jobs are planned; and his price is
high.
Cliff Marsland has a reputation. He was in the Big House on a murder
charge; he has dozens of crimes accredited to him.
But what the underworld does not know is that the murder charge Cliff took
was lifted from the shoulders of another, and that the crimes credited to him
are all trumped up. And also, that this free-lance fighter who owes allegiance
to no gang is an agent of The Shadow, enemy of gangdom, and uses his built-up
reputation in order to maintain contact between the chiefs of the underworld
and the king of crime avengers - The Shadow!

CLYDE BURKE
Newspaperman

As a newspaperman, Clyde Burke is a wizard. All sources of news are open
to him; his "scoops" have made him in demand by every paper in the country.
Clyde serves faithfully on the Classic, leaving his occupation only when duty
calls him elsewhere.
That duty, by the way, is not imposed by his newspaper superiors, but by
someone else - by The Shadow. For Clyde Burke, who was once down-and-out, ready
to give up entirely, was rescued by The Shadow. The master who saved his life
now calls it his own, to be offered up if need be. But The Shadow's agents,
though they risk their lives continuously, also have the protection of their
master, the man who wastes no lives, but saves many.