THE THIRD SKULL
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," May 15, 1935.

One death's-head looked the same as another, but it was left to The Shadow
to solve the secret of THE THIRD SKULL.

CHAPTER I

DEATH BY NIGHT

"WHO'S there?"
The voice was a quavering tremolo. It came from the dried lips of a
thin-faced old man, who lay propped in bed. Sharp, suspicious eyes glistened
from a withered countenance that was as white as the pillows that supported it.
There was no answer to the old man's call. The white face showed
worriment. Even the dull lights in the shaded wall brackets were sufficient
enough to reveal the tense pursing of the withered lips.
"Tristram," came another quaver. "Is it you, Tristram? Have you returned?"
No answer. Parchment lips relaxed.
"Wingate?" The old man's voice was questioning. "Are you here, Wingate?
Have you arrived at last?"
Silence followed. This second-story room held the stillness of a tomb.
Pervading gloom seemed creeping inward from the hushed house below.
The old man raised a trembling claw-like hand from beneath the whiteness
of the bedspread. He ran his fingers through the long white hair that formed a
shock upon his head. He cackled a nervous laugh.
Death hovered above this scene. There was something preternatural in the
stillness of the room. The pallor of the old man's countenance spoke of ebbing
life. Darkness, thick at the doorway, gave the semblance of waiting specters,
ready to claim a passing soul.
Closed windows, drawn curtains, closed off the outer world. This room
might well have been the most isolated spot in all the globe. That fact must
have occurred to the withered old man, for he expressed his thoughts with a
chuckle that was contrast to his previous nervousness.
"New York!" he cackled. "New York, with all its clamor! Everywhere about -
noise and commotion - yet none close by!"
The words were followed by a trailing chortle from half-opened lips.
Propping himself upon one elbow, the old man listened again. He was trying to
detect sounds from below; noises that he had fancied he had heard before. But
his ears caught nothing.
There was a table beside the old man's bed. Upon it rested five objects: a
candlestick with a half-burned candle; a box of matches; a pad of paper; a
fountain pen and a book.
The old man stretched long fingers toward the table. He fumbled with the
match box, extracted a match, struck it and managed to light the candle. He
shook the match to extinguish it; then, by the glow of the quivering
candlelight, he tore a sheet from the pad of paper.
Clutching the book and the fountain pen, the old man leaned back against
the pillows. With his left hand holding the sheet of paper on the book, the old
man delivered a satisfied sigh; then began to write with the fountain pen.
One phrase completed, the old man read the words aloud, in senile fashion,
his lips forming a cracked smile as he quavered:

"I, Hildrew Parchell, being of sound mind -"

Quavering words ended; but the hand kept on writing, while the lips
uttered intermittent chuckles. Steadily, line after line, old Hildrew Parchell
completed the document that he was inscribing. He finished with a scrawled
signature. He laid book and pen aside; but retained the paper, to read what he
had written.
Ink dried. The old man folded the paper, crinkling it between his hands.
His grinning face was grotesque in the candlelight. Then came a waver of the
flame.
The old man stared at the candle; then glanced sharply toward the door of
the room. His dried countenance hardened.

A MAN was standing on the threshold. The light from the wall brackets
showed the intruder to be a hunch-shouldered individual of slight build. That
same light revealed a sallow, scheming face. Hildrew Parchell recognized the
newcomer.
"Hothan!" exclaimed the old man, harshly. "Homer Hothan! What brings you
here? I thought you had left New York."
"I had." The intruder stepped forward. His face was somewhat youthful; his
voice was almost pleading. "I did leave New York, Mr. Parchell - after you
dismissed me. But I had to come back, sir, when I learned that you were dying -
that you were very ill, sir, and -"
Hothan's hesitating tone brought a snorted chortle from old Hildrew
Parchell. Hothan's ratlike countenance belied the sympathetic words that the
man was uttering. Hildrew Parchell was keen enough to note it.
"You came back, eh?" sneered the old man, rising to one elbow. "You came
back because you were sorry for me, eh? Do you think I am a fool?" Parchell's
tone was caustic. "Do you think I am fool enough to believe that fable?
"I know why you are here, Hothan. You want to find out what you sought
before: The secret of my hidden wealth. When you worked here as my secretary,
you pried about, trying to uncover my private business. I caught you in the
act. I was lenient enough to discharge you without making your treachery
public."
"I - I was wrong, sir," began Hothan. "My curiosity carried me too far,
Mr. Parchell -"
"Curiosity, bah!" interjected the old man. "You were paid for your
treachery, Hothan, and I know who hired you. You came back tonight hoping that
you might accomplish what you failed to gain before. I heard you enter,
downstairs, Hothan!"
"The door was unlocked, sir I looked about for Tristram -"
"You mean you were lurking outside; that you saw Tristram leave. With my
trusted servant gone, you decided that you could enter. You did find the door
unlocked: that much is true. It was left open for Weldon Wingate!"
The name brought a sharp glance from Hothan. The ex-secretary had entered
the room; he was close by the old man's bed when Hildrew Parchell spoke of
Weldon Wingate. Hothan's change of expression was sufficient enough to bring a
harsh chuckle from old Parchell.
"That interests you," sneered the white-haired man. "It worries you,
Hothan, doesn't it, to learn that my lawyer is due here tonight? Well, it
should interest you, because Wingate is going to find out those facts that you
sought to learn and failed!"
Hothan's fists clenched tightly. A sharp hiss came from his lips, as they
formed an evil twist. Old Parchell merely chuckled. Hothan's betrayal of his
real nature was pleasing to the old man.
"Wingate will not be here alone," added Hildrew Parchell. "I am not fool
enough to confide in one man, even though he is my lawyer. Doctor Deseurre will
be here also. You remember him, Hothan. My physician. I expect him shortly after
Wingate.
"Also Selwood Royce. His father was a friend of mine. I sent Tristram out
to call Royce. So Tristram will be back shortly. That will make four men who
will learn my secret; four who will act promptly to carry out my wishes. Four
who will hold the secret of my wealth and its disposal. Wingate, Deseurre,
Royce, Tristram -"

HILDREW PARCHELL paused abruptly. He noted the nervous, defeated look upon
Hothan's face. He knew that the man was fuming inwardly at the thought of
defeat. Harshly, old Parchell added a sarcastic humiliation.
"I said four men would learn my secret," he cackled. "Four - so that no
one man could play me false. I was wrong when I said four. There will be five!"
"Who will be the other?" questioned Hothan.
"Yourself," sneered old Parchell. "I shall have you remain; to learn a
secret which will be of no use to you. Or to the man who hired you" - Parchell
paused, eyeing Hothan closely - "the man who bribed you to betray me; the man
whose name I know. He will be as helpless as you, Hothan, because I shall tell
all to look out for his treachery."
Hothan chewed his lips. He stared sullenly; then began to look about the
room. His gaze rested upon a filing case in the corner; a wall safe beyond it.
Old Parchell chuckled.
"You searched those places, Hothan," he reminded, "and you learned
nothing. Why? Because the secret was not there. It was in my brain, Hothan" -
with a clawlike finger, the old man tapped his withered forehead - "here in my
brain. The details of where my treasure is hidden; with orders concerning what
is to be done with it."
The old man dropped his right hand. It rested beside his other claw;
unconsciously, old Parchell began to crinkle the folded paper as he had done
before.
Hothan breathed hard, suddenly. For the first time, the discharged
secretary noted the document. White against the bedspread, the paper had not
previously gained his attention.
Hildrew Parchell looked up. His cackled laugh was a bluff. He was covering
the fact that he had actually written out his secret; that this paper in his
hands contained the very information that Hothan was here to get before others
arrived. But the sudden glare in Hothan's eyes told Parchell that the game was
ended. The sallow-faced man advanced, his face venomous.
Hildrew Parchell performed a sudden twist. His face contorted with pain
from the strain that the effort cost him. Flinging away from Hothan's approach,
the old man used his left hand to clutch the table on the opposite side of the
bed. With his right, he thrust the folded paper squarely into the flickering
flame of the candle.
Snarling, Hothan leaped forward. He bounded across the bed. Old Parchell
swung up to meet him. With his left hand, the old man beat wildly against his
foe while his right hand waved the paper as a firebrand. The document had
caught fire at one corner. Grimly, Parchell was fighting to destroy it.
Hothan caught the old man's wrist and twisted it with spiteful force. Old
Parchell gasped. His fingers loosened; but he managed to fling the burning
paper to the floor. Half of it ablaze, the precious document was flaring like a
miniature torch.
As Hothan dived for the paper, Parchell grabbed him. The old man's hands
sunk deep into the secretary's flesh as they found Hothan's neck. Together, the
two men rolled from the bed.
Hothan's fist caught Parchell's jaw. The old man's head rebounded hard
against the corner of the table.
Hothan pounced upon the paper, beating out the flame with his hands. As he
did, old Parchell's form collapsed. Clutching hands were gripping the table. It
tumbled as the white-haired man collapsed. The candle plopped from the
candlestick. Flaming, it landed in the folds of a sheet.
The bedding took fire. Hothan had risen; he was scanning the half-burned
document, muttering oaths as he read lines that were no longer complete. Old
Parchell had sprawled crazily upon the floor; his head was beside the book and
the writing pad that had fallen from the table.
Thrusting the half-burned paper into his pocket, Hothan snarled as he
looked toward Parchell. Then the ex-secretary's eyes became glued at the scene
before him. Hothan dropped back as the heat of the flame made a sudden
impression upon him.

HILDREW PARCHELL was motionless. The drawn expression upon his upturned
face was proof that he was dead. Beyond the old man, flames were rising. The
half of a bed sheet was ablaze; the fire was licking at the dried wood of the
high-topped bedstead.
A moment's pause by Hothan. Then, with a sharp oath, the secretary turned
and fled. His sallow face half terrified, half gloating, Hothan headed out
through the darkened hall to a spot where flickering reflections of the blaze
showed the top of a banistered stairway.
Looking backward as he stumbled down, Hothan could see reflected glimmers
from above. He reached the lower hall. There, he stopped short and dived behind
the curtained entrance of a living room. He was just in time.
The front door was opening. Hothan heard it close; then came faltering
footsteps. It was Tristram, old Parchell's servant, returning.
Hothan clung behind the curtains, tense. Then he heard a sharp cry from
the hallway.
Faltering footsteps quickened. They became a running sound upon the
stairway. Tristram had spied the glow. He was dashing to his master's room.
Hothan slid from behind the curtains; he gained the front door and closed
it after him.
Viewed from the street, a ghoulish glare showed lurid flickers upon the
shade of an upstairs window. Hildrew Parchell's bed was fast becoming a funeral
pyre, which Tristram was fighting to put out.
Skulking along the street itself, hastening away from the flame-threatened
building, was a stooped figure that no one was present to observe. Homer Hothan,
murderer, was fleeing with his half-gained spoils.

CHAPTER II

THE LAW DECIDES

A SWARTHY, stocky man was standing in Hildrew Parchell's flame-scorched
bedroom. One hour had elapsed since Homer Hothan's secret flight. The man who
now stood in charge of the premises was Detective Joe Cardona, acting inspector
from headquarters.
Cardona was viewing a half-burned mattress. The bedclothes had been almost
completely destroyed; the high top of the bed was charred by flame. Beyond, Joe
saw the scorched table, overturned on the floor. Near it lay the body of
Hildrew Parchell, attired in a nightgown.
The old man's white hair had been singed by the flames; otherwise, the
body was untouched. The reason was apparent in the presence of a fire
extinguisher that lay on the floor by the foot of the bed.
Cardona turned about to face a pitiful, gray-haired servant who was
seated, sad-faced, in a chair.
"You say the bed was all ablaze when you came in?" inquired Cardona. "That
Parchell's body was on the floor?"
"Yes, sir," replied Tristram, soberly. "And the table -"
"What about the table?" quizzed Cardona, sharply.
"It was overturned, sir," replied Tristram, promptly. "My master must have
struck against it when he fell."
"Where did you get the fire extinguisher?"
"From the hall closet, sir, where Mr. Parchell always kept it."
Cardona eyed the servant. Then he asked another question.
"How long were you out of the house?" asked the detective. "Just why did
you leave the front door unlocked?"
Before Tristram could reply, there was an interruption. A tall,
white-haired man spoke from the doorway. Long-faced and irritable, this
individual peered at Cardona through a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles.
"Let me speak, inspector," insisted the tall man, in abrupt fashion. "I
have told you already that I am Weldon Wingate, Mr. Parchell's attorney."
"You told me that," agreed Cardona. "But it has nothing to do with my
quizzing of this man."
"It has," objected Wingate. "As Mr. Parchell's attorney, I feel that it is
my province to represent this man whom you are questioning. Tristram was Hildrew
Parchell's faithful servant. Every shred of evidence in this room points to the
fact that he endeavored to save his master's life. I object to your conducting
a cross-examination at this time."
"There's one question that has to be answered," asserted Cardona. "I want
to know why Tristram left that front door open. He says he went to call up
Selwood Royce. We can check on that later. But the front door -"
"Was left open so that I could come in," inserted Wingate.
Cardona looked puzzled.
"I had an appointment with Mr. Parchell," explained Wingate. "There is no
telephone in the house. Naturally, when Mr. Parchell sent Tristram out to call
up Royce he would have told the servant to leave the door unlocked for my
convenience."

CARDONA appeared mollified. This was a point that he had not gained during
his preliminary survey of Hildrew Parchell's death. While the detective stood
deliberating, another man spoke.
This individual was middle-aged, keen-faced, and of a somewhat
professional appearance. He had been introduced to Cardona as Doctor Raymond
Deseurre.
"I was Hildrew Parchell's physician," testified Deseurre, in a harsh, but
steady voice. "His condition was serious; one in which a severe shock could
easily have caused heart failure. To me, this case is obvious."
"Hildrew Parchell was stricken during Tristram's absence. While I cannot
picture the exact circumstances, it is apparent to me that he must have seized
the table and overturned it when he fell from his bed."
"Your own police surgeon" - Deseurre indicated a man who was standing in a
corner, nodding - "will agree with me that this must be the most logical
explanation of Parchell's death. The old man's head must have struck against
the table. He may have been dead at the time; or that blow may have been the
final cause of his decease. In either case, the verdict should be the same.
Death through accidental cause."
"Maybe you're right, doctor," admitted Cardona, "but what I don't get is
why there was a lighted candle on the table. There are electric lights in this
room."
"But none above the bed, sir," put in Tristram. "Mr. Parchell used to read
occasionally; but only for very short periods. His eyes were unusually strong,
sir, and he believed that the candlelight, close by, was sufficient."
"A claim to which I objected," added Deseurre, emphatically. "But I had
enough of arguments with my patient on the subject of his heart condition. It
was useless to add new controversy over the matter of eye strain, particularly
when he had not long to live."

CARDONA made another study of the bed. He was forced to agree that
Tristram had shown remarkable effectiveness in extinguishing a most clangorous
blaze. That spoke definitely to the servant's credit.
Cardona made notations in a notebook; then, in a less challenging tone, he
asked a general question.
"Why was every one coming here tonight?" questioned the ace detective.
"You, Mr. Wingate; you, Doctor Deseurre? And why was Selwood Royce supposed to
be here?"
"I was coming," replied Wingate, "to receive minor instructions regarding
the disposal of Mr. Parchell's various documents. Hildrew Parchell knew that he
did not have long to live. As his attorney, I was to take charge of his affairs.
"I have letters from him to that effect. I have a duplicate list of all
his papers and valuables in his wall safe. It will be a simple matter to check
up on all of his belongings. This was scarcely more than a routine appointment."
"As for myself," stated Doctor Deseurre, "tonight's appointment was one of
my regular calls. Hildrew Parchell was a patient I visited every evening."
"What about Selwood Royce?" questioned Cardona, turning to Tristram. "Does
he come here often?"
"No, sir," replied the servant. "You see, Mr. Royce's father was a friend
of Mr. Parchell. All I know, sir, is that Mr. Parchell seemed anxious to see
his friend's son before he died. That was what Mr. Parchell told me, sir, when
he sent me out to make the telephone call -"
Tristram broke off suddenly as a uniformed officer came into the room.
Close behind him was a well-dressed man about thirty years of age, whose face
showed concern as he stopped just within the room.
Cardona needed no introduction. He knew that this must be Selwood Royce.
Without a word, Royce walked over to the bed. He looked beyond and stared
solemnly at Hildrew Parchell's body. Royce's expression was one of deep
sadness. While the others watched him in silence, Royce turned to Tristram and
clapped a sympathetic hand upon the servant's shoulder. Tristram understood;
his lips began to quaver.

"YOU are Selwood Royce?" asked Cardona, quietly, as he stepped toward the
newcomer.
"Yes," was the reply.
Cardona noted a choke in the single word. He studied Royce's frank solemn
countenance. Cardona had heard of Selwood Royce. The man was a millionaire; his
wealth had been left to him by his father.
"This man" - Cardona indicated Tristram - "states that he called you at
your home tonight. Is that correct?"
"It is," replied Royce. "He called me at about nine o'clock."
"And asked you to come in here?"
"Yes. Tristram said that he believed Hildrew Parchell was dying; that it
was urgent that I see him. Hildrew Parchell had been my father's friend. I told
Tristram that I would come here at once."
"My home is well out on Long Island. I left promptly and drove straight
here. At the door, I met the policeman who brought me upstairs. He told me that
there had been a fire; that Hildrew Parchell was dead."
Cardona referred to his notes.
"About nine o'clock," mused the detective. "Tristram put out the fire
shortly after that. Let me see, Mr. Wingate, you arrived at about nine-thirty;
you, Doctor Deseurre, at about the same time."
"I was late," remarked Wingate. "I should have been here at nine. If I had
only arrived before Tristram!"
"I was exactly on time," stated Doctor Deseurre.
"It's not much after ten o'clock right now," declared Cardona, looking
from man to man. "Do you think that Hildrew Parchell could have wanted you all
to meet here?"
"I can see no reason why," replied Wingate. "I was Parchell's attorney;
Doctor Deseurre, his physician; Mr. Royce, a friend. We hold nothing in common."
"Mr. Wingate and I," added Deseurre, "had met but once before. That was a
month or more ago, when I chanced to be leaving when he called. It was Tristram
who introduced us."
"I have never met either of these gentlemen," stated Royce, looking from
Wingate to Deseurre. "In fact, I had not seen Hildrew Parchell since my
father's funeral, five years ago."
It was apparent to Cardona that there was no connection between the three
visitors. Tristram was the one person who knew them all; the three shared
belief in the servant's integrity.
Cardona held a brief consultation with the police surgeon; then made an
announcement.
"It's death by misadventure, all right," decided the detective. "There
won't be any need to hold this man Tristram. He deserves credit for the way he
tried to save his master. You can testify at the inquest, Tristram. I'd like
you there, too, Doctor Deseurre."
"I shall be present also," inserted Wingate, dryly.
"All right," agreed Joe. "I'd like a chance to check things over with you,
Mr. Wingate. Just to be sure nothing is missing from these papers, or the wall
safe."
"Very well."

WINGATE was about to leave; Deseurre also, when Cardona stopped them. The
detective had another question.
"What about Hildrew Parchell's affairs?" he questioned. "Anything unusual
about them? Did he have any enemies?"
"None to my knowledge," responded Wingate. "His estate is not a large one;
but it is well in order."
"Any heirs?"
"A nephew. Roger Parchell."
"Where is he?"
"In San Francisco. He has not been East in years."
A pause. Neither Deseurre nor Royce had any comment. Again the visitors
were about to leave, when Tristram spoke.
"There was Mr. Hothan, sir," said the servant, looking toward Wingate. "He
lived here until a month ago."
"Hothan?" questioned Cardona.
"Homer Hothan," replied Wingate. "He was Parchell's secretary for a few
months. The man was inefficient. Parchell discharged him."
"What became of Hothan?"
"He went home to Ohio, I believe."
"Whereabouts in Ohio?"
"I don't know."
It was Tristram who supplied the information.
"Mr. Hothan lives in a town called Chalwood," recalled the servant.
"Somewhere near Columbus."
Cardona made a note of it. The visitors left. Tristram stood by while
Cardona made arrangements for the removal of the body. Then the detective went
downstairs.
At the door, he encountered a new arrival. It was Clyde Burke, reporter
for the New York Classic.
"What's the dope, Joe?" questioned Clyde.
"Nothing," returned the detective. "The old gentleman fell out of bed with
a heart attack. Tipped over the table and the place caught fire from a candle
that fell over. His servant put out the blaze."
"Well, that's a story. Give me more details."
"Look them over for yourself."
Cardona extended his opened notebook. Clyde began to read the various
items. Immediately, the reporter noted the completeness of Cardona's notes. He
saw that the star detective must have suspected more than accident at the
beginning of the inquiry.
"Want to keep the book?" growled Cardona, as Clyde kept on transcribing
information. "Say - what are you going to do? Make a story for the Sunday
supplement?"
"No," laughed Clyde. "Just hoping that I can convince the M.E. that this
yarn is worth something. All right, Joe, I've got the details. So long."
Joe Cardona went in one direction; Clyde Burke in the other. The
detective, bound for headquarters, felt positive that his final decision was
the correct one that Hildrew Parchell had died by accident.
The reporter held no conclusion whatever. To Clyde Burke, the death of
Hildrew Parchell was an oddity. That gave the case a definite importance; so
much so that Clyde stopped at the nearest drug store to put in a prompt
telephone call.
Speaking over the wire, Clyde gave the complete details from his copy of
Cardona's notes. That done, he stuffed the sheet of paper into his coat pocket.
Clyde grinned as he went out to the street.
This story would mean but little to the Classic. Joe Cardona had been
right in wondering why Clyde had put down so many details. Clyde Burke had not
been acting in his capacity as a reporter when he had telephoned the facts
concerning Hildrew Parchell's death.
Clyde Burke was more than a newspaper reporter. He was also the agent of a
hidden master sleuth who sought traces of crime beneath placid surfaces. It was
to that chief that Clyde had forwarded the facts that he had learned.
The circumstances of Hildrew Parchell's death; the names of those persons
with whom the old man had maintained contact - all were on their way to The
Shadow!

CHAPTER III

THE SHADOW ENTERS

"BURBANK speaking."
"Report -"
The order came in a sinister whisper. The single word was uttered by
hidden lips. The Shadow was in his sanctum, a strange room wherein the bluish
rays of a shaded lamp glimmered upon the surface of a polished table.
Earphones clamped to head, The Shadow was hearing from Burbank, his
contact man who kept in touch with active agents. Burbank's call was bringing
the details of Clyde Burke's report.
The Shadow's right hand, beneath the glow of the blue light, was tracing
details as his ear received them.
"Report received."
The left hand thrust the earphones across the table. The Shadow's eyes,
hidden in darkness, began to study the names and notations that his hand had
inscribed. A whispered laugh sounded in the blackness beyond the sphere of the
blue light.
Like Joe Cardona, The Shadow was considering possibilities. But he was
studying the case from a perspective; in forming his conclusions, he was
exacting where the detective had been spontaneous.
Upon a sheet of blank paper, The Shadow inscribed a single word; one that
shone in letters of vivid blue:

Death

Hildrew Parchell had been expecting death. A man of considerable
consequence years ago, his illness had gained but passing mention in the
newspapers. His critical condition could have been learned only by persons who
were interested in his affairs.
Excluding Tristram, there were only two persons who had known of
Parchell's ailment for a long time. One was Doctor Raymond Deseurre; the other
was Weldon Wingate. Selwood Royce, presumably, had not heard of old Parchell's
condition before tonight.
Cardona had made a note to the effect that Deseurre, Wingate, and Royce
were no more than acquaintances. He had added that their visits, as physician,
lawyer, and friend, were to be expected, in view of the death that Parchell had
anticipated.
Reasoning had caused Cardona to reject his hunch that there was some
reason for the trio being summoned. Reasoning, in turn, was the very process
whereby The Shadow picked up the conclusion that Cardona had dropped.
Hildrew Parchell had obviously made it a practice not to bring different
associates together. The proof of that lay in the fact that his lawyer and his
physician had only met by chance in the past.
Tonight, for the first time, Parchell had so arranged his appointments
that Wingate and Deseurre could not have failed to meet in his presence.
Cardona had overlooked that point entirely. Viewed from The Shadow's
perspective, it was of great consequence. Then, to magnify the matter, came the
question of Selwood Royce. Hildrew Parchell had made a deliberate effort to
bring his friend's son into the conference with Wingate and Deseurre.
Though ill almost to the point of helplessness, old Parchell had
dispatched Tristram to call Royce. Unless the old man had wanted Royce present
with the others, there would have been no reason for him to have taken the risk
of Tristram's absence. He could have ordered the servant to go out after Wingate
had arrived, if Royce's presence had not been urgent.
Tonight, as The Shadow viewed it, had been important in certain of Hildrew
Parchell's plans. Death had frustrated the old man's wish for a meeting of the
three men while he yet lived. Death had struck in the short time while old
Parchell lay unprotected.
This was significant, in spite of the fact that Hildrew Parchell had not
had long to live. Moreover, the strange circumstances of the old man's death -
his body on the floor; his bed in flames - were points that struck home with
force.
The Shadow was capitalizing where Joe Cardona had failed. Logically, he
was building the detective's discarded hunch into a case that would have
astounded Joe Cardona himself.
A click sounded in The Shadow's sanctum. The bluish light went out. A
swish came through the darkness; then the tones of a weird, sinister laugh.
Ghoulish echoes responded; next came the hush of silence.
The Shadow had departed.

A CREATURE of darkness, The Shadow could travel invisible pathways in the
night. Enshrouding gloom obscured his passage. From the moment that he had left
his sanctum, he remained a being unseen, choosing routes that lay untraceable.
As token of The Shadow's mysterious presence, a manifestation occurred
some forty minutes after his departure from the sanctum. This took place on the
street where Hildrew Parchell's residence stood morose.
Blackness came from out of blackness. It glided momentarily beneath the
glow of a street lamp; then merged with blackness again directly in front of
the Parchell home. After that came slow motion at the doorway of the residence.
The front door opened slowly inward.
The Shadow had picked the lock. Closing the door behind him, he advanced
through the dully lighted lower hall, following the same course that Tristram
had taken so hurriedly when coming to his master's rescue.
The Shadow reached the second floor. A light was burning in a room beyond.
Tristram, in accordance with instructions given him by Cardona, had done nothing
to disturb the arrangements of Hildrew Parchell's bedroom. The servant had even
left the wall brackets burning.
Stepping in from the darkness of the hall, The Shadow formed a weird
figure. Tall, cloaked in black, he surveyed the death room with burning eyes
that peered from beneath the brim of a black slouch hat.
Hildrew Parchell's body had been removed. Yet, to The Shadow, the spot
where the corpse had lain was as plain as if it had been marked in outline. The
overturned table was a pointer to the spot where the body had sprawled.
Scattered objects from the table had escaped the fire.
Even the candle and its stick had dropped free after the bedclothes had
ignited. Ravaging flames had gone upward, licking at the bed itself. Tristram's
valiant efforts with the fire extinguisher had saved all objects about the spot
where his master had lain.
Stooping, The Shadow stretched forth a black-gloved hand and picked up the
fountain pen. Brief examination indicated that it had been recently used. The
pad of paper lay on the floor.
The Shadow lifted it and noticed that the top sheet was absent. It had
been torn away in ragged fashion.
Producing a tiny flashlight, The Shadow threw its glare upon the pad. He
brought forth a tiny box that contained a blackish powder: graphite. Removing a
glove, The Shadow spread the powder on the pad with his finger tips. It formed a
smudge; that was all.
This was The Shadow's method of tracing messages, by impressions on a
lower sheet. It failed on this occasion; yet The Shadow, as he tore off the
smudged paper, still held to his theory that something could have been written
on that pad.
Looking toward the floor, he spied the book. A whispered laugh came from
The Shadow's lips. Though the message was lost to him, he was satisfied that it
could have been written. The Shadow knew that Hildrew Parchell had used the book
as a rest for the paper.
No impression could be gained from the book cover. It was too hard to take
the pressure of the pen. But as The Shadow's keen gaze steadied on the floor,
they made another discovery. Near the bed, The Shadow saw crumpled ashes.
These traces of burned substance were in an isolated spot. They were
different from the remains of the burned bedclothes. Picking up a fragment of
ash, The Shadow immediately discerned its composition. These ashes were the
residue of burned paper.
Some one - Tristram, perhaps, or Cardona - had stepped upon the paper
ashes. Though he used his flashlight steadily, The Shadow could not find more
trace than that of a few brownish letters. There was no chance of deciphering
the burned message.
This new discovery, however, was the wedge that The Shadow needed to form
a reconstruction of the scene. His keen mind pictured the events that had
preceded Hildrew Parchell's death.

HILDREW PARCHELL had been well enough to summon certain persons to
conference. He had prepared a document for their consideration. He had replaced
articles upon the table beside his bed. He had kept the paper that he had
written.
The segregated clump of ashes were proof that the paper had been burned
independently. Parchell must have destroyed it himself; any one else would have
carried it away intact, if possible.
Viewing the burned bed, The Shadow built a mental image of the fray that
had taken place here. He could picture Parchell propped up in bed, facing a
challenger who had entered the room. He could see the old man's frantic efforts
to destroy the paper; he visualized the effort of the intruder who had tried to
prevent the deed.
An overturned table, flames from the candle, a killer in flight - all
these made clear sequence to The Shadow.
With a soft laugh, the cloaked investigator struck a match and set fire to
the sheet of smudged paper that he himself had removed from the pad.
Flames died. Ashes went fluttering to the floor beside those that The
Shadow had first noted. Stooping, The Shadow compared one lot with the other.
The ashes told their story. The old remnants were less, by half, than the new.
Hildrew Parchell's message had been but partially burned. The killer had
escaped with a portion of the old man's document. He must have recognized that
paper as containing information that he had come here to obtain.
Perhaps he had gained all that he wanted. Perhaps he had not. In either
event, flight could have been the murderer's only choice. That much was
obvious. What The Shadow needed was some trace to the murderer's purpose and
identity.
Crossing the room, The Shadow stopped by the filing cabinet. He opened the
drawers and found them empty. Papers and other belongings had evidently been
removed since Cardona's investigation here.
The Shadow stepped to the wall safe. He found it unlocked; its interior
was empty. While The Shadow's eyes took in this fact, his ears caught a sound
from below. Someone had entered the front door. Faltering footsteps were coming
up the stairs.
The Shadow moved to the darkness behind a half-opened closet door. He
waited while a gray-haired man came into the room. He knew this must be
Tristram; he could see the saddened expression upon the servant's face.
There was a choking sob. With bowed head, Tristram turned and went from
the room. The servant's grief was genuine. Moreover, The Shadow immediately
understood the reason for Tristram's absence from the house. The servant must
have received an order from Weldon Wingate, telling him to bring old Parchell's
papers to the lawyer.
Silently, The Shadow glided from the room of death. His tall form
descended the stairs. Crossing the lower hall, The Shadow opened the front door
and made an immediate departure. His figure blurred with the night.

LATER, a light clicked in The Shadow's sanctum. Beneath a bluish glare,
The Shadow again surveyed the list of persons concerned with the affairs of
Hildrew Parchell. One by one, he considered their parts and their importance.
Tristram had been a loyal servant. So faithful that he would have named
any one and every one whom he might have suspected as having a part in his
master's death. Nothing more could be gained from Tristram.
Weldon Wingate was an important man to see. He could be reached openly;
from him, by proper persuasion or strategy, The Shadow could gain real facts
concerning Hildrew Parchell's affairs. The Shadow checked Wingate's name.
Doctor Raymond Deseurre. This was a name upon which The Shadow pondered.
The physician, apparently, had met old Parchell only in the role of medical
practitioner. It was possible that Deseurre knew more about Hildrew Parchell.
That possibility must be investigated. The Shadow made another check mark.
The name of Selwood Royce came next. The Shadow knew the millionaire by
repute. No difficulty would be encountered in learning more about him. The
Shadow checked again. He studied the next name on the list.
Roger Parchell. Nephew of Hildrew Parchell and the old man's sole heir. At
present in San Francisco, Roger Parchell would certainly come East when he had
learned of his uncle's death. The Shadow left the name unchecked, as indication
that he would await the young man's arrival.
The last name on the list was that of Homer Hothan. The Shadow noted the
name of the ex-secretary's home town - Chalwood, Ohio - which Cardona had
written down and Clyde Burke had copied. The Shadow considered the case of
Homer Hothan.
This man had been in Hildrew Parchell's employ. He had lived in the house
with the old man. He could have known certain facts regarding Hildrew
Parchell's private business. Moreover, there was another factor that concerned
Hothan.
The Shadow was positive that some one had entered the Parchell house,
there to deal death to the old man. Some lurker who had watched Tristram's
departure. A person who must have been familiar with the interior of the house;
one who could enter, act, and leave with no lost time.
Homer Hothan, the only man whom Tristram had named as doubtful, was one
who possessed the knowledge that the murderer must have had.
With a whispered laugh, The Shadow marked Hothan's name. He reached for
the earphones.
The Shadow spoke. Burbank's voice answered across the wire. The Shadow
gave brief instructions; then terminated the call. Earphones were replaced. The
blue light clicked out. The Shadow was ready to leave his sanctum.
In that call to Burbank, he had given orders to be forwarded to Harry
Vincent, one of The Shadow's trusted aids. Harry was to leave New York tonight;
his destination would be Chalwood, Ohio. Through his agent, The Shadow intended
to learn the whereabouts and recent activities of Homer Hothan.

CHAPTER IV

WINGATE'S VISITORS

IT was late the next afternoon. Weldon Wingate was seated at a large desk
in a room that was equipped as an office. This room formed a portion of the
attorney's large apartment. A consulting lawyer, Wingate had arranged a
penthouse as both office and living quarters.
The door of the office opened. A dreary-faced man entered carrying a sheaf
of papers. He laid these on the desk, then spoke to Wingate.
"A gentleman is here, sir," declared the man. "His name is Lamont
Cranston. He wishes to see you."
Wingate cocked his gray head and peered at the informant through his
horn-rimmed spectacles. The lawyer had heard of Lamont Cranston, the
millionaire globe-trotter.
"What does he wish to see me about, Braddock?" queried Wingate. "Did Mr.
Cranston state the purpose of his visit?"
"Not exactly, sir. He said that it concerned the death of old Mr.
Parchell."
"Show Mr. Cranston in, Braddock."

THE visitor who entered the office a few minutes later was tall and of
distinguished appearance.
Weldon Wingate saw Lamont Cranston as a man whose features were as
chiseled as those of a statue. There was something hawklike about Cranston's
expression; and the mold of his face was accentuated by the immobility of his
features.
Wingate noted the glimmer of keen eyes that peered from the masklike
visage. The light lessened as the visitor shook hands in a leisurely fashion.
Cranston appeared blase as he seated himself opposite the white-haired
attorney. This lethargic action caused Wingate's shrewd inspection to end.
The lawyer did not suspect that he was face to face with that incredible
being known as The Shadow. The guise of Lamont Cranston was one that The Shadow
had practiced to perfection. Wingate was still wondering what had brought the
visitor here but he was lulled by The Shadow's manner.
"Is there something, Mr. Cranston," inquired Wingate, "that you wish to
know about the estate of Hildrew Parchell? Or do you have information that
might be of interest to me?"
"Both." The Shadow pronounced the word in a quiet effortless tone. "It
happens, Mr. Wingate, that I was once acquainted with Hildrew Parchell."
There was doubt in Wingate's quizzical air. The Shadow appeared not to
notice it.
"As a traveler," resumed The Shadow, "I am also a collector of rare
curios. Some few years ago, I learned that Hildrew Parchell owned a collection
of Egyptian scarabs. I was anxious to purchase them, so I discussed that matter
with Parchell."
"Just where," questioned Wingate, "did you visit Hildrew Parchell?"
The lawyer's smooth question was a trapping one. The Shadow countered it
with a slight smile.
"Hildrew Parchell came to see me," he responded, in the tone of Cranston.
"He had heard of my collection of scarabs. He called me by telephone,
introduced himself, and arranged a visit to my home. It was there that he told
me of the scarabs which he owned."
"How long ago was that?"
"I disremember. My trips abroad are so frequent and so varied that I find
it difficult to recall my meetings with different persons. The point, Mr.
Wingate, is that Hildrew Parchell made it emphatic that he intended to keep his
scarabs. That is why I have come to see you. Should the scarabs be in the
possession of the estate, I should like to be the first bidder when they are
offered for sale."

WINGATE nodded slowly. The lawyer was evidently undergoing a complexity of
thought. He rubbed his chin in meditation; then spoke frankly and directly.
"Mr. Cranston," he declared, "I am in possession of all of Hildrew
Parchell's papers and correspondence. I have duplicates as well as the
originals that were at his home. The originals were brought here last night by
Parchell's servant.
"I have checked the duplicates with the originals. They correspond. I know
all the details of Hildrew Parchell's estate. He owned no Egyptian scarabs."
"Quite odd," mused The Shadow.
"That Hildrew Parchell owned no scarabs?" inquired Wingate.
"No," returned The Shadow. "The oddity is that you should know all the
details of Hildrew Parchell's estate."
"I was his attorney."
"Yes; but Hildrew Parchell was immensely wealthy. It seems impossible that
all his affairs could be remembered in full detail."
Wingate smiled dryly.
"You are wrong, Mr. Cranston," he insisted. "Hildrew Parchell was not
wealthy. Fifty thousand dollars would be a high estimate for the value of his
estate.
The Shadow's gaze was penetrating. It was his turn to show doubt. Wingate
noticed it and became uneasy.
"Perhaps," observed The Shadow, calmly, "the missing scarabs may be the
key to other wealth. Possibly Hildrew Parchell had more than his visible
estate."
Wingate shifted his gaze. He drummed the desk in meditative fashion. At
last he spoke, looking directly at his visitor.
"I believe that you are right, Mr. Cranston," declared the lawyer,
frankly. "I tried to turn you from the trail, because I felt that it would be
unwise to express my opinions to a stranger. But since you have already formed
your own conclusion, I can see no harm in stating my own.
"I presume, of course, that you read of Hildrew Parchell's sudden death in
the morning newspapers. Though Parchell had not anticipated death so soon, the
circumstances of his passing were not startling, in view of his condition. It
is possible, however, that death may have prevented him from giving me added
information regarding his possessions.
"You are right, Mr. Cranston, when you state the belief that Hildrew
Parchell should have been worth far more than fifty thousand dollars. He was
something of a miser; it is possible that he may have stored away a
considerable mass of wealth."
Wingate paused; then added:
"As Hildrew Parchell's attorney, it is my duty to institute a search for
such hidden funds and to bestow that wealth, if found, upon the person or
persons entitled to it."
Again Wingate paused. The Shadow spoke.
"I suppose, Mr. Wingate," he inquired, in Cranston's tone, "that you have
already evolved a plan of search?"
"I have," assured Wingate. "Hildrew Parchell had certain friends and
associates. I intend to write them in reference to this matter. Their names are
at my disposal. They were in Hildrew Parchell's files."
"Persons like myself?" remarked The Shadow, quietly. "Ones who had certain
contact with Hildrew Parchell?"
"Not chance acquaintances," returned Wingate, emphatically. "The persons
to whom I refer, Mr. Cranston, are those with whom Hildrew Parchell had actual
correspondence. They are few - very few - in number. I do not feel at liberty
to reveal their names."

WITH this declaration, Wingate arose. He extended his hand to the visitor.
"I thank you, Mr. Cranston," said the attorney, "for informing me about
the matter of the scarabs. Should we uncover hidden possessions belonging to
Hildrew Parchell, we may find the scarabs among them. If so, I shall have the
heir notify you."
"The heir?" questioned The Shadow.
"Yes," replied Wingate. "Roger Parchell, the old man's nephew. I have
wired him in San Francisco. I received a reply that he is leaving for the East
today."
The door opened as The Shadow was shaking hands with Wingate. Braddock
entered; behind him was a quiet-looking, well-dressed man of about thirty. The
visitor stepped past Braddock. Wingate pursed his lips in annoyed fashion,
realizing that he would have to make an introduction.
"Mr. Cranston," said the lawyer, "this is Mr. Royce. His father was a
friend of Hildrew Parchell."
"Lamont Cranston?" inquired Royce, with interest. "I have heard of you,
sir. It is a pleasure to meet you."
"I have heard of Selwood Royce," returned The Shadow, extending his hand.
"The privilege of meeting is a mutual one." Then, to Wingate: "I see that you
have an appointment with Mr. Royce. I am glad to have met you, Mr. Wingate. Let
me know if anything turns up regarding the scarabs."

AS soon as The Shadow had departed, Wingate turned to Royce. The lawyer
requested Royce to be seated; then stated that he would return within a few
minutes.
Leaving his office, Wingate passed into a hallway, then continued hastily
into the living room of the penthouse apartment.
Closing the door behind him, Wingate pounced upon a telephone. He called
the lobby of the apartment house and asked for Hastings. Another voice came
over the wire. Wingate spoke rapidly.
"A man is coming downstairs, Hastings," informed the lawyer. "Tall, with
distinguished features. Lamont Cranston, a millionaire. Trail him."
An affirmative response came from the receiver. Wingate hung up and
returned to the office to rejoin Royce. The young man had a prompt question.
"What was Cranston doing here?" he inquired. "Something concerning Hildrew
Parchell?"
"So he claimed," returned Wingate, dryly. "He said that he had once tried
to buy some scarabs from Hildrew Parchell."
"I did not know that Parchell was a collector of such curios."
"Nor did I. But I do know, Royce, that Parchell may have hidden a certain
amount of wealth before his death. It might be in jewels - in cash - or in
rarities."
"Such as scarabs?"
"Such objects might be among the hidden wealth. Understand, Royce, I do
not say that Hildrew Parchell did bury a large amount of wealth. I say merely
that he may have hidden certain valuables or funds. That is why I called your
home to ask if you could stop here to see me."
"In hope that I might furnish some clue?"
"Exactly. Hildrew Parchell was a close friend of your father's."
"But my own acquaintance with Hildrew Parchell was decidedly limited. No,
I know of no such matter. I had not even suspected the existence of such
wealth."
Wingate was studying the young man steadily. There was a tone of sincerity
in Royce's voice. Wingate terminated the subject.
"Very well," he decided. "There are others with whom I shall communicate.
I doubt, however, that it will lead to tangible results. Probably the funds are
imaginary."
"If they exist," questioned Royce, suddenly, "would they go to Roger
Parchell?"
"The nephew is the only heir." admitted Wingate. "The will, however, is
unusually specific. It declares each item of Hildrew Parchell's known estate
and names Roger Parchell as beneficiary in every case.
"If other possessions are uncovered, they would go to Roger Parchell in
absence of other heirs or instructions concerning disposal of such hidden
funds. Inasmuch as Roger Parchell is his uncle's only living relation, it is
safe to assume that the wealth would be Roger's."
"I should like to meet young Roger Parchell," observed Royce. "The
friendship between my father and his uncle would indicate that a friendship
between myself and Roger would be in order."
"Quite true. I shall arrange the meeting, Royce. Your friendship should
prove quite acceptable to Roger Parchell."
Selwood Royce made his departure. Wingate watched him stroll from the
room. The lawyer smiled dryly. He had learned all that he had needed to know
from Selwood Royce.
Braddock entered. He announced that Hastings was phoning from downstairs.
Wingate hastened through the hallway. He was eager as he made query over the
wire. Then the lawyer's expression became irritable.
"What's that?" he demanded. "You lost the trail? Incredible, Hastings... I
said incredible... No, no. Do not resort to an excuse. It was broad daylight...
Do you expect me to believe such folly, Hastings? A man could not have vanished
right before your eyes... Here one moment, gone the next - a poor excuse for
blundering, Hastings!"
Irritated, Wingate hung up the receiver. He stalked from the living room
and reentered his office. He went to a large safe, opened it and brought out a
flat box that bore the title: "Documents - Hildrew Parchell."
Seating himself behind the desk, Wingate unlocked the box and began to go
over papers. After a short interval, he paused to fume about the inefficiency
that Hastings had displayed. Then the attorney resumed his work. He began to
forget about Lamont Cranston's visit.

ELSEWHERE, other hands were going over papers. The Shadow was in his
sanctum. As Lamont Cranston, he had spotted Hastings following him. Artfully,
he had given the fellow the slip.
Here in his secret abode, The Shadow was reading a coded message that had
come through an investment broker named Rutledge Mann.
A report from Harry Vincent. The agent had reached the town of Chalwood.
There, he had learned that Homer Hothan had left the town a few weeks ago. The
man was supposed to be in Chicago; but he had left no forwarding address.
A soft laugh came from The Shadow. Deductions were bringing results. The
Shadow inscribed a coded note and sealed it in an envelope. The bluish light
clicked off. The Shadow had work to do this evening.
His mission, however, lay here in New York. Though Weldon Wingate had
partially forgotten Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had not forgotten Weldon
Wingate.

CHAPTER V

THE SHADOW CHOOSES

EARLY evening. Weldon Wingate's penthouse office was dark. The lawyer was
in his apartment quarters. Outside the doorway of the office was a small
anteroom that opened on the elevators. This room was lighted, but empty.
Past the elevators was a steel door that led to a fire tower. Dull light
showed the metal barrier moving. A figure edged through as the door opened. The
Shadow had arrived at Wingate's.
Coming into the anteroom, The Shadow passed a door that led directly into
the apartment. He took the second door - the one to the office. It was locked,
but that made but little difference to this cloaked intruder. The Shadow picked
the lock with prompt and efficient skill.
Entering the darkened office, the cloaked investigator began an inspection
with his tiny flashlight. He reached the safe and worked on the combination.
Keen ears listened for falling tumblers while uncanny fingers manipulated
the dial. The safe opened.
With his flashlight, The Shadow discovered the box that Wingate had
replaced in the safe. The Shadow removed the box and placed it on the desk. He
went to a filing cabinet, made a search there and discovered a folio bearing
the name of Hildrew Parchell. Moving over to the desk, The Shadow turned on a
lamp. He began a study of the documents that he had uncovered.

WELDON WINGATE had spoken truthfully when he had said that Hildrew
Parchell's affairs were lacking in complexity. Actual papers and carbon copies
corresponded. The old man's assets consisted chiefly of cash and securities.
Letters and replies showed that his correspondence had been brief and
infrequent.
The Shadow discovered Hildrew Parchell's will. Keenly, he read its terms.
The will was a statement of his various assets; all these items of the known
estate were bequeathed, separately, to Roger Parchell, the nephew.
In the files, The Shadow discovered brief correspondence between Hildrew
Parchell and his nephew. The caustic tone of old Parchell's letters indicated
the man's miserly traits. Certain passages were reproving; others carried
condemnation. Apparently, Hildrew Parchell had not been overfriendly with his
nephew.
Roger's letters, on the contrary, showed efforts to humor the old man. In
one note, the nephew spoke frankly, stating that he needed money.
Hildrew Parchell's answer denounced Roger as a gambler and spendthrift.
The nephew, in his reply, denied the charges, added that he had gained money
elsewhere and would not need financial aid from his uncle.
Outside of the letters between uncle and nephew, Hildrew Parchell's
correspondence was brief. Studying the names of various persons who were
represented, The Shadow discovered only three that showed traces of frequent
contact.
First was the correspondence between Hildrew Parchell and Thatcher Royce,
Selwood's father. It was plain that the elder Parchell and the elder Royce had
been close friends.
Their letters spoke of visits that they had paid to each other; and of
trips that they had taken together. They had evidently been closely associated
up until the time of Thatcher Royce's death. In his last letter to Hildrew
Parchell, Thatcher Royce had mentioned his son, Selwood, and had urged Hildrew
to always regard Selwood as a friend.
Second were letters that had passed from Hildrew Parchell to Professor
Tyson Morth. The Shadow had heard of Morth. The man was an anthropologist who
had written several volumes on the history of the human race. Apparently,
Hildrew Parchell had been interested in the same study.
In their correspondence, both Hildrew Parchell and Tyson Morth spoke of
visits which the miser had made to the savant's home.
Professor Morth was an extensive traveler, but he made his headquarters in
New York. During his sojourns in Manhattan, he had evidently found Hildrew
Parchell a welcome visitor.
Third was a small packet of letters that held unusual significance because
of a document attached to them. These letters were between Hildrew Parchell and
a pawnbroker named Channing Tobold. The paper with the letters was a pawn
ticket that represented jewels which Hildrew Parchell had given as security for
five thousand dollars.
The correspondence showed that the miser and the pawnbroker were friends.
Channing Tobold had promised to keep the gems intact; he had added that he
would not dispose of them even if interest payments were delayed. Moreover, the
jewelry could be redeemed by Hildrew Parchell's estate in case of the old man's
death.
It was specified, also, that the gems would be kept in a metal box, closed
by a combination lock which Hildrew Parchell alone could open.
Tobold had seen the rings and other jewelry in the box; he had allowed
Parchell to lock it. This made it positive that the pawnbroker would not
dispose of the gems without recourse to Hildrew Parchell.
Attached to the correspondence was a small slip that bore a single word of
five letters:

THYME

This, The Shadow knew, must be the key word. Hildrew Parchell had written
it down in case of death. Thus Weldon Wingate, in settling the estate, could,
if he desired, redeem the pledged jewels for the sum of five thousand dollars.

THE SHADOW considered this correspondence as he viewed it beneath the desk
lamp. Of all Hildrew Parchell's affairs, this one, alone, showed signs of
unusual circumstances.
It was not strange that the old man had pawned the jewels for ready cash.
He could have decided that they were not safe in his own possession; and since
he had no safe-deposit vault, it was not surprising that he had placed the gems
with Tobold.
Nevertheless, this lot of jewelry represented a separate type of
possession, differing from cash and securities.
A whispered laugh came from The Shadow's lips. This was something that
required investigation. The existence of these jewels was known to Weldon
Wingate; probably to Homer Hothan also, for the original papers had come from
Hildrew Parchell's files.
Channing Tobold was not unknown to The Shadow. The pawnbroker was an old,
conservative fellow, who still kept his business going in a district that had
once been reputable but which had later turned into slums.
Perhaps old Tobold was one of those persons with whom Weldon Wingate
intended to communicate. If so, The Shadow could see good reason for visiting
Tobold beforehand. More than that, The Shadow saw menace hovering over the old
pawnbroker.
Hildrew Parchell's death had not been accidental. The old man had been
murdered; the killer had fled without disturbing any of the victim's
possessions. That had been a good policy; not an indication, however, that the
murderer was through so far as Hildrew Parchell's affairs were concerned.
If a follow-up should be intended, it would strike first at Tobold's. Of
all persons with whom Parchell had held personal dealings, Tobold was the only
one who had received valuables and had given money in return.
There was a telephone on Wingate's desk; an outside line that the lawyer
used for business calls. The Shadow knew that it was separate from the
apartment telephone; reference to the telephone book, before his call at
Wingate's, had given him that information.
Picking up the telephone, The Shadow put in a call to Burbank. In a low
whisper, he issued instructions to certain agents. That done, The Shadow hung
up; he replaced the papers in the filing cabinet and put the box back in the
safe.
Scarcely had The Shadow's gloved fingers turned the dial of the safe
before a sound attracted his attention. The door from the apartment was
opening. Some one must have noticed the glow of the desk lamp, shining through
the key hole.
The Shadow was too far from the desk. He had not opportunity to return;
instead, he performed a fading twist and blended partially with the blackness
just beyond the safe.
An instant later, the door came completely open; Braddock appeared upon
the threshold.

WINGATE'S secretary was carrying a revolver. Pausing, the man glanced
sharply about the room. He did not see The Shadow; but Braddock, himself, was
viewed plainly by the cloaked invader who stood beside the safe.
Braddock's expression told The Shadow much. The tenseness of the
secretary's face was proof that the man was alone. Wingate must have gone out;
Braddock, chancing to see the light from the office, had decided to investigate
alone.
The Shadow waited. Braddock entered the office. There was something in the
man's tenseness that showed him to be dangerous. That glowing lamp on the desk
was proof to Braddock that an intruder lurked within the office.
Braddock swung toward the safe. He advanced step by step, until he was no
more than eight paces distant. All the while, The Shadow remained motionless,
crouching. He wanted Braddock to come closer. He was waiting for the final
instant.
It came. A swift change appeared on Braddock's features as the secretary
spied the dim outline of the cloaked shape. A gasp from the man's lips became a
sharp, triumphant cry. The revolver swung; a finger started to press the trigger.
But Braddock was too late. Split-seconds had separated his successive
actions. To The Shadow, a split-second was an opportunity. Coincident with
Braddock's gasping cry, The Shadow was in motion. An avalanche in black, he
came diving forward in a mammoth spring.
Braddock dropped back instinctively as he sought to fire. That action was
his final undoing. The Shadow struck him before he could press the trigger. As
the hurtling blackness bowled the secretary to the floor, a piston-like arm
swung upward.
A gloved fist dealt a powerful blow to Braddock's wrist. The revolver flew
from the secretary's hand and skidded along the floor.
Swept from his feet, Braddock went rolling over and over with whirlwind
speed. The impetus carried him to the wall, where he stopped short with a thud.
Dazed and limp, the secretary remained motionless. His head turned upward;
his blurred gaze saw a mass of blackness, swinging toward the desk. The light
went out.
A swish sounded in the darkness. The office door opened. Then Braddock
heard the clicking sound of the intruder's departure.
With a mad gasp, the secretary came to his feet. He stumbled to the desk
and turned on the lamp. He saw his gun upon the floor. He regained it.
Braddock dashed to the door that led into the anteroom. It was locked. The
Shadow had taken the key from the inside and had used it on the outside.
Revolver in hand, Braddock dashed back to the desk and grabbed the
telephone. Then he realized that it was an outside wire.
The secretary ran through to the apartment. He reached the telephone in
the living room and put in a call to the lobby. He asked for Hastings, who was
always there in Wingate's service. To Hastings, Braddock poured forth details.
Hastings announced that he would send help up while he searched below.
Pale faced, Braddock slumped into a chair, hoping that the intruder would be
stopped before he escaped from the building. But this was not to be.

ALREADY, The Shadow had reached the outside darkness. Moving away from the
apartment house, he was approaching a limousine that was parked in the blackness
of a rear street.
The Shadow had timed Braddock's recovery. He had allowed a sufficient
period for unmolested departure.
The Shadow had no quarrel with Braddock. His aim had been to prevent the
secretary's interference. The fact that Wingate was out; the importance of
getting to Tobold's - these were the elements that had caused The Shadow to
make all speed.
A soft laugh was The Shadow's recollection of that swift fracas.
Braddock's only remembrance would be of a shapeless form that had hurled him
weaponless; the departure of a phantom figure that might have been a ghost for
all that Braddock knew.
The Shadow had reached the limousine. Entering it noiselessly, he spoke
through the speaking tube, giving directions in the quiet tones of Lamont
Cranston.
The uniformed chauffeur nodded. He drove away in the direction that The
Shadow had ordered.
The destination was in the vicinity of Channing Tobold's pawnshop. There,
The Shadow would dismiss the limousine and fare forth through the darkness. He
was on his way to a spot where danger might well be due.

CHAPTER VI

THE SILVER SKULL

THE SHADOW had chosen Channing Tobold's pawnshop as his destination. In
doing so, he had picked a goal that was far from Weldon Wingate's. The
apartment building where the lawyer lived was in the Fifties, west of Broadway.
The old pawnshop was located on the fringe of the lower East Side, below the
numbered streets.
A battered brick building, it stood like a skeleton scarecrow upon a
poorly lighted corner. A relic of the past; a structure that had survived while
those about it had been crumbling. Such was the edifice that Channing Tobold had
kept for residence and business.
Located in a forgotten district of Manhattan, where decayed buildings were
standing only because their owners had postponed tearing them down, the old
pawnshop remained as a landmark of the Nineteenth Century.
Rusted bars showed on the front of dingy windows. Dull light gleamed from
grimy panes on the second story where Channing Tobold lived.
It was behind those upper windows that a scene was occurring at the very
time when The Shadow was leaving the proximity of Wingate's apartment.

TWO men formed a strange contrast as they faced each other across a
scarred wooden counter in an upstairs office. One was Channing Tobold, a
withered old man who was hunched almost double. He was wearing thick-lensed
spectacles; his white-haired head was topped with a black skullcap.
His hands cupped to his ears, the old pawnbroker was trying to catch the
words that a visitor was uttering. Meanwhile, he eyed the man with partial
suspicion. For the customer that Tobold had admitted was a sallow, shrewd-faced
individual whom the pawnbroker mistrusted.
Hunched across the counter, the visitor was leaning close to Tobold.
Harshly, directly in the old man's ear, he was announcing his identity,
explaining the reason for his visit.
"I've told you my name," he insisted. "It's Hothan. Homer Hothan. I've
talked to you over the telephone. Some months ago. I'm Hildrew Parchell's
secretary."
"Hey?" questioned Tobold sharply. "You say Hildrew Parchell sent you?"
"He couldn't send me. Hildrew Parchell is dead. Dead! Didn't you read
about it in the newspapers?"
"Dead - Hildrew Parchell dead!" Tobold's face saddened. The old man
mumbled to himself. "My old friend dead."
"That's why I'm here," announced Hothan, making his own tone gloomy. "He
wanted me to come here. To talk to you."
Tobold caught these words. He could hear more readily after he had
accustomed himself to the tone of the stranger's voice. Hothan, too, had
changed the pitch of his words. He kept the new modulation, seeing that it was
bringing results.
"I came here," he explained, "to talk to you about some jewels that
Hildrew Parchell pawned. Five thousand dollars was their value."
Old Tobold shook his head. Grief had changed to new mistrust.
"I take no jewels here," declared the pawnbroker. "I do not want to be
robbed. I keep only stock that people will not steal. I am an old man - a poor
man -"
"I know that story," broke in Hothan. "I'll agree that you don't take gems
as a rule. But you took this lot."
"Always," objected Tobold, "I give a ticket. It must be brought to claim
whatever has been pawned here."
"This ticket was lost. That's why old Parchell told me to come and see
you. He thought you would remember me. Look" - Hothan dug into his pocket and
brought out a wad of money - "I have the five thousand dollars. That's as good
as a ticket, isn't it?"
"I need the ticket."
"But it's been lost. I tell you. Burned up, in a fire." Hothan smiled at
his own bluff. "I'll tell you what, Mr. Tobold. I can show you something better
than the ticket. Bring out that box. I'll open it for you."
The pawnbroker stared.
"Come on," urged Hothan. "I tell you that I'm all right. I'm from Hildrew
Parchell. He gave me the combination, and here's the money. I want to see those
gems. I can open the box."

CHANNING TOBOLD turned about. He went into a little alcove behind the
counter and stooped before a safe. He turned the combination. The safe came
open.
Hothan could see that the interior was almost empty. But from it, Tobold
produced one object: a metal box.
The pawnbroker brought the box to the counter. He laid it there, but kept
his hands upon it. He looked up challengingly at Hothan. The sallow-faced man
reached down and began to turn dialed letters that controlled the lock of the
box.
Carefully, Hothan formed a single word. He pointed to it. Old Tobold
leaned forward and studied the combination. He noted the word that Hothan had
made. The letters spelled:

THYME

"Open the box," suggested Hothan. The pawnbroker tugged at the lid. It
swung upward. Within it lay a glistening array of rings and other jewelry.
Brooches and bracelets vied with their sparkles.
"Some belonged to Mrs. Parchell," remarked Tobold. "She died many years
ago. A few of the others - rings, of course - were Hildrew's. Poor Hildrew.
Dead!"
Hothan made no effort to touch any of the jewelry. He was working to gain
Tobold's confidence. He looked warily about. Past the counter was a
metal-sheathed doorway, unbolted, that led into the living quarters, where
Hothan knew there must be a stairway at the rear.
Behind Hothan was the door through which Tobold had admitted him. It led
upstairs from the front door; the steps ended abruptly at the entrance to this
room. Tobold had neglected to lock that lower door, a point that pleased Hothan.
Close by the flickering gas jet was a window that opened into a side
courtyard. This room could not be seen from either street. Another point that
Hothan regarded in his favor.

OLD Tobold was fingering the gems. He pushed some of them aside and drew
out a crumpled sheet of paper. Hothan, observing, made comment.
"Are these all the gems?" he inquired. "You are sure Mr. Parchell left no
others?"
"This is the list," returned the pawnbroker, hearing clearly. "In Hildrew
Parchell's own handwriting. See" - he opened the paper and pointed -
"twenty-one items. You can check them if you wish. I have my own list, also."
"I'll look at the list later." Hothan was eyeing the gems. "You are sure"
- his tone was sharply quizzical - "that these are actually worth redeeming?
That their value is in excess of five thousand dollars?"
The pawnbroker shook his head.
"I am an honest man," he declared. "I took Hildrew Parchell's word for it
when he said that these jewels had been appraised at six thousand dollars. I
know little about gems, as I have told you."
"I allowed him five thousand dollars. But now" - the old man shrugged his
shoulders - "now they should be worth less. That is one reason why I must be
sure that Hildrew Parchell wanted them."
"I have told you that he wants them."
"You have no ticket!"
"But I opened the box!"
"That is not enough. Listen, young man" - Tobold wagged a finger -
"Hildrew Parchell had a lawyer. A man named Weldon Wingate. If he wants them
and does not have the ticket -"
"I know Wingate," interrupted Hothan. "I talked with him after Hildrew
Parchell died. Wingate told me to come here. I am from him."
"Mr. Wingate should have come himself. You can come again and bring him
with you. But I shall tell him, too, that these jewels are not worth five
thousand dollars."
"You are going on Hildrew Parchell's say-so?"
"Yes; and because I know that the jewels are worth less today. No, young
man. It will not do."
With these words, the pawnbroker started to close the box. Hothan,
clutching his wad of money, was almost ready to yield to persuasion. Then,
suddenly, he stopped Tobold's hand.
"Let me look at the jewelry," he pleaded. "So I can report to Wingate and
save him the trouble of a trip here."
"Very well," acceded Tobold. "You can see the gems."

TOBOLD lifted the half-closed lid. Hothan began to pick out different
articles, laying them one by one upon the counter. Like Tobold, he claimed no
knowledge of gem values. Hothan could not guess whether this jewelry was cheap,
or immensely valuable. But as he came toward the end of the lot, Hothan's eyes
became suddenly fixed as his fingers lifted a heavy silver ring from the box.
The ring was shaped like a signet. Its bulge formed a skull with red, ruby
eyes. Hothan's hands trembled with eagerness as he raised the ring to the light!
Tobold, suspicious, reached forth with a withered hand. Hothan stepped
back; his gaze was venomous.
"You thought you'd trick me!" he spat. "You thought I wouldn't know the
real value of these gems. You, a pawnbroker, claiming that you don't know what
jewelry is worth!"
"What I told you was true," Tobold. "Come, young man! That ring!"
"Not a chance," sneered Hothan, stepping back. "I'm taking this ring; and
the other jewelry with it. I'll tell you why." He held up the tiny silver skull
so that Tobold could see its red eyes. "I'm looking for the wealth that lies
with the skull. With the skull, do you understand?"
Tobold was scowling from the counter. Again the old man shot out a
preventing hand. Hothan jeered.
"Your bluff didn't work," he told the pawnbroker. "But mine did. You
thought I didn't know. Wealth with the skull. You thought I'd muff it. Say" -
Hothan's gaze narrowed - "maybe you didn't know yourself! Maybe old Parchell
did kid you about this stuff!"
Tobold, quavering, was staring in perplexity. His right hand, faltering,
was digging down beneath the counter.
Hothan, snarling, grabbed money and ring in his left hand while he shot
his right into his coat pocket. His fist came out of the pocket with a
glimmering .32.
"No, you don't!" snapped Hothan, covering Tobold with the revolver. "Stick
up your paws, old codger! Maybe you're smarter than I thought, fishing for a gun
like that. Maybe you do know what this skull means, what it meant to old
Parchell."
Tobold, trembling, had no reply. His face was white beneath the black
skullcap.
"But I'll tell you what this skull ring means to you," snarled Hothan. "It
means curtains! If I hadn't thought this stuff was worth while, I'd have left it
here. That's why I didn't mind telling you my real name.
"Now that I figure it's worth thousands, I'm taking no chances. You're
going out" - he gestured with the .32 - "and I'm leaving in a hurry. This dough
was a bluff to make you show the sparklers."
Thrusting his left hand into his coat pocket, Hothan left the wad of money
there. He brought out the same hand, still holding the silver skull ring. He
used his right to thrust his revolver between Tobold's eyes. At the same time,
he raised the ring so that the red eyes of the death's head were directly in
the pawnbroker's view.
"Death!" sneered Hothan. "Death for you! See those red eyes? Keep watching
them; they're the last sight you're going to see. This skull -"
Hothan stopped short. His gun muzzle wavered. Slowly, it sagged away from
the bridge of Tobold's nose. A startling sound, a terrifying tone, had halted
the murderer in his quest for new killing. Startled, Hothan was staring at the
door beyond the counter.
The unbolted barrier had opened. There, upon the fringe of blackness,
stood a shrouded figure clad in black.

BURNING eyes were fixed on Homer Hothan. The murderer quivered. His gun
dropped from his hand and thudded to the counter. Then the skull ring fell from
his nerveless fingers.
Tiny ruby eyes sparkled upward from the silver skull. Hothan did not see
them. He had forgotten his prize; he was backing away in terror from the menace
that confronted him.
Burning eyes were fierce as they gazed from beneath a hat brim. The muzzle
of an automatic loomed from a black fist that was thrust from the folds of a
sable-hued coat. Just as the red eyes in the silver skull were insignificant
compared to those burning optics, so was Hothan's discarded .32 puny in
comparison to this huge .45.
Stark terror had gripped Homer Hothan. He was faced by the enemy who made
men of evil tremble. Caught on the verge of a new murder, Hothan was helpless
before the power of The Shadow. The killer's new crime was thwarted.
The Shadow had arrived in time. Speeding to the spot where he believed
danger lay, the master of vengeance had entered to dominate the scene.

CHAPTER VII

THE SHADOW FIGHTS

DELIBERATELY, The Shadow studied his victim. Though he had arrived too
late to hear Hothan's talk with Tobold, he had keenly sensed the identity of
this sallow-faced man who had held the pawnbroker covered.
The Shadow knew that the jewels on the counter must be the ones referred
to in the pawn ticket. Only two men knew about those gems: Weldon Wingate and
Homer Hothan.
It was Hothan, logically, who had come to Parchell's last night. It was
Hothan, again, whom The Shadow had expected to find here. The man fitted with
The Shadow's picture. Yet there was something in Hothan's bearing that gave The
Shadow new understanding.
This man was a tool. He had all the makings of an underling. Some one
higher up had directed him. He was the type of crook who would squawk when
beaten. The Shadow laughed. His whispered tones were chilling.
With his free hand, The Shadow bolted the sheathed door behind him. He had
entered by the back; he wanted no one else to do the same. He thrust his gun
hand forward.
Hothan backed away. He went in the direction that The Shadow wanted -
toward the gas jet by the window.
While old Tobold stood staring at his weird deliverer, The Shadow reached
his free hand to the counter and picked up the skull ring. Hothan quivered as
he saw the accusing death's-head shining from between the gloved fingers. He
backed closer to the light.
The murderer was in the spot where The Shadow wanted him. With sallow face
paling in the light, Hothan was where he would betray any emotion that seized
him. He was a fit subject for a grueling inquisition.

"YOU are Homer Hothan," announced The Shadow, his stern eyes upon the
killer's face. "Speak, in answer to my statement."
"Yes," gulped Hothan.
"You murdered Hildrew Parchell," continued The Shadow, in his sinister
tone. "You sought to learn the secret of his hidden wealth."
Hothan hesitated.
"Speak!" ordained The Shadow.
"Yes," gulped Hothan. "I - I killed Parchell! But - but it was because I
wanted -"
He stopped again, trying to withhold the words that The Shadow commanded.
A taunting laugh was the cloaked inquisitor's next urge.
"Speak," repeated The Shadow. "Name the man who put you to this task."
"It - it was" - Hothan broke, pleadingly - "I - I can't speak. He - he
would kill me! I found out what he wanted - as much as I could. The - the paper
was half burned; but - but I found out about - about -"
He paused, staring at the tiny skull that showed between The Shadow's
forefinger and thumb. With one half-upraised hand, Hothan tried to point to the
ring. The Shadow laughed again. He dropped his hand and let the ring fall upon
the counter.
The black cloak swished as The Shadow stepped forward. A crimson lining
flashed as the folds swung wide. Then blazing eyes came closer to Hothan's.
Preliminaries were ended. A threatening gun muzzle, a sinister voice; both
brooked no more hesitancy.
"Speak," hissed The Shadow. "Lose no time. Tell the details of your evil
deeds."
Hothan quivered; he dropped back helplessly, almost against the window.
Completely a victim to The Shadow's will, this cringing criminal was ready to
tell everything. The whole truth was to be The Shadow's. Then came the
intervention.
Before Hothan could respond to The Shadow's bidding, a sound made the
cloaked avenger swing. It was from the front door of the little room. Wheeling,
The Shadow was just in time to see the barrier swing open. Revolvers glimmered
in the flickering light.
A cry from old Tobold. A gasp of relief from Hothan. A fierce laugh from
The Shadow. Sweater-clad ruffians were in view. A squad of mobsmen, denizens of
this district, had come as cover-up men to back Homer Hothan.

WITH his swing, The Shadow had thrust his free hand beneath his cloak. A
second automatic swung into view beside the first. Both weapons belched flame
as mobsmen opened fire. With the roars of his guns, The Shadow faded, twisting,
toward the center of the room.
It was that move that tricked the mobsters. Revolvers fired wide in
swinging toward the wall. But automatics did not fail. Two thugs sprawled
inward from the doorway. The others dropped back to the steps that ran straight
down from the door.
A crash came from the window. The Shadow whirled to see Hothan diving
straight through the glass. The rickety frame crashed from its moorings as the
killer took this wild opportunity to escape. A thud sounded from a spot below
the window. Hothan had landed on the roof of an old shed.
Pounding footsteps sounded on the paving below. Hothan was keeping on, mad
in his desire to get clear of this vicinity. By a lucky break, the desperate
murderer had eluded The Shadow for the time being.
The Shadow had let Hothan wait for the moment, in order to meet the crooks
from the door. He knew that Hothan would not have time to regain his gun. The
Shadow had figured correctly; but he had not expected Hothan to take that
desperate plunge.
Ordinarily, The Shadow could have reached the shattered window in time to
drop Hothan as he fled. But again, the killer's allies were coming to his aid.
Those steps outside the doorway were a barricade behind which they had dropped
to fire new shots.
Revolvers blazed at The Shadow's swinging figure. As The Shadow whirled
toward the front wall, old Tobold dived beneath the counter.
With hoarse shouts, mobsters leaped to their feet. They were out to get
The Shadow; ready to riddle the counter; determined to seize the gems that lay
in view.
They had taken The Shadow's move for flight. They thought they had their
enemy trapped. Three gunmen sprang into view. Two turned to look for The
Shadow; the third aimed for Tobold's counter. Another pair of sweatered
fighters bobbed up in the rear.

THE SHADOW'S counterstroke came with terrific suddenness. As gorillas
swung to find him, The Shadow came springing forward from the gloomiest corner
of the room. Automatics blazed. Aiming mobsters keeled over.
The rogue who was aiming for the counter turned suddenly to find The
Shadow full upon him. Wildly the man grappled. The rear guard came piling up to
aid him. The Shadow lost no single instant.
Though he might battle it out with these enemies, trusting to his
quickness and his aim, The Shadow had thought of old Tobold's safety. In
dropping behind the counter, the pawnbroker had rendered himself helpless. Thin
boards could not stop bullets.
To save Tobold again, The Shadow had to carry the fight from this room.
His prompt action had been for that purpose. Blazing at two who had tried to
stop him, he had grabbed the one aiming for Tobold. With a helpless mobster
swaying in his grasp, he swung to thwart the next two.
Swinging the gorilla's body like a mighty bludgeon, The Shadow hurled
himself squarely upon the pair at the head of the stairs. There was no half
measure in his stroke. He was out to clear the way completely. The weight of
the man he had hurled was not sufficient. The Shadow came plunging through
behind his human weapon.
Hurtling bodies crashed. Two mobsters staggered on the stairs, then went
plunging headlong to the lower entry, uttering fierce shouts as bodies pounded
down upon them. Their fellow mobsters went jouncing heavily along with them.
Like a cluster of rolling sacks, the group went tumbling downward in long
bounds.
Plunging hard in their wake came The Shadow. Unlike the mobsters, he did
not seek to stay his plunge. Instead, he was driving onward, adding impetus to
the combined plunge, breaking each shock by using the forms before him as
buffers.
One mobster pitched squarely on his head at the bottom of the steps. The
fellow sprawled crazily. The second kept on; his unobstructed dive sent him
skidding through the opened door, out across the sidewalk and into the gutter
past the curb.
The third hit the first man, bounded forward and lay flat. The Shadow,
ending a mammoth dive, landed with elbows squarely on the third mobster, while
his body broke its fall upon the first. The other two gorillas lay motionless.
The Shadow arose, his fists still clutching his automatics.
Oddly, the gorilla who had hit the sidewalk was the one who suffered
least. Rolling to his feet, the fellow let out a wild snarl as he yanked out a
gun. He aimed for the opened door. Before he could fire, an automatic roared.
As the gangster sagged, The Shadow's form came into view from the doorway.
The gorilla, though sinking, fired wild shots in return. The barks of his gun
came almost as a signal. Bursts of flame broke loose from across the street.
Swinging back into the doorway, The Shadow returned the spasmodic fire.
There were others with whom he had to deal. The neighborhood was a nest for
reserve snipers. The Shadow was engaged in new fray.
While The Shadow fired, his sinister laugh rang suddenly out above the
barks of guns. The Shadow wanted these skulking foemen to know who battled
them. He had conquered odds; here was opportunity to end the fray.
The Shadow had left Channing Tobold safe upstairs. He could return there
after he had cleared away the remnants of this beaten mob. That was why The
Shadow laughed, adding weird crescendo to the staccato of his automatics.
Yet, while The Shadow was battling below, fate was tricking him above.
The man whom he had saved - Channing Tobold - was doomed to die despite
The Shadow's aid!

CHAPTER VIII

DEATH FROM DARKNESS

THE end of the gunfire had brought Channing Tobold up from behind his
counter. Bobbing into view, the old pawnbroker stared at the scene before him.
The Shadow and a group of mobsters had plunged down the front stairs. Guns were
booming from below.
Here, too, were remnants of the fray. Sprawled forms of mobsters were
testimony to The Shadow's marksmanship. The shattered window frame showed the
course that Homer Hothan had followed. Tobold stood safe behind his battered
counter.
Gems glittered in the eerie light. A breeze from the window was fanning
the bare flame of the gas jet. That tongue of fire took on fantastic, quivering
shapes. At moments, the room was well illuminated; at other intervals, the light
went dim.
A ghoulish scene it was: The white-faced man with the black skullcap; the
sprawled bodies on the floor; quivering light that seemed inspired by the
weirdness of the fray that had occurred within these walls.
Glittering jewels reposed on the counter. The baubles caught Tobold's eye.
The pawnbroker forced a happy laugh as he shoved the jewelry back into the box.
He managed a joyful cackle as he again noted the combination word.
He could close this box and reopen it as he chose. He could keep it until
the proper party called for it. Weldon Wingate, probably. Old Tobold had
recalled the name of Hildrew Parchell's lawyer: Weldon Wingate. He would come
here soon.
The last ring of all - the tiny silver skull with the ruby eyes, Tobold
held it up into the quivering light. The features of the skull were plain as he
discerned them through his thick-lensed glasses.
The gas jet flickered. The skull's glitter lessened. Then Tobold turned,
to blink wonderingly as he faced the sheathed door through which The Shadow had
come.
Tap - tap - tap -
Some one was knocking steadily at that barrier. There was something evil
in the summons. Old Tobold shrugged his shoulders. He edged further behind the
counter.
Tap - tap -
Something about the rapping was firm and irresistible. Tobold recalled
that his cloaked rescuer had bolted that very door. Sufficient reason to leave
it barred. Yet there was something in the rapping that impressed the old
pawnbroker.
Had some one been beating at the door in fierce demand, Tobold would not
have answered it. If the knocks had been in frantic, pleading fashion, the old
man would have suspected trickery. But this rhythmic tapping held compelling
force. Curiosity overcame discretion.

TOBOLD, still holding the tiny ring with the skull uppermost, walked to
the sheathed door and drew the bolt. There was no action from the other side.
The door remained closed. Tobold opened it.
The rear of the house was dark. The flicker of the gas jet was confined to
this room. Tobold, blinking, could not see who stood beyond the door. But the
man there could see the pawnbroker; more than that, he had spotted the silver
skull in the old man's hand.
An arm shot forward.
With a wild cry, Tobold leaped away. He dived for the counter, expecting
that the intruder would follow. No move was made. From below came bursts of
intermittent gunfire. Tobold felt helpless.
The old man spied Hothan's gun on the counter. He dropped the skull ring
and seized the weapon. That was his last chance. It was too late. Channing
Tobold had been slated for doom from the moment that he had foolishly answered
the tappings at the door.
A revolver spurted from the inner doorway. Tobold uttered a mad gasp. He
tried to raise his own weapon; he dropped the gun as he staggered.
Circling across the flickering room; Tobold slumped against the wall
beside the window. Hands pressed close to his body, he sank slowly toward the
floor.
The flame in the gas jet had elongated, like a living thing, bending
downward to study the wounded man's agony. Came a puff of wind through the
window; as if in payment for over-curiosity, the gas flame succumbed with
Tobold. The light went out; the hiss of escaping gas replaced it.
A flashlight glimmered. A figure strode forward through the darkness from
the inner door. Tobold's killer reached the counter. He picked up the skull
ring from the flashlight's glowing circle. He dropped it into the box with the
other jewelry.
The light shone on the combination. The hidden killer noted the word
"THYME." He closed the box, spun the letters of the dial and extinguished his
torch. Turning in the darkness, the murderer strode out by the path that he had
chosen for his entry.

DOWN by the front doorway, The Shadow had been keeping up his fire with a
fresh brace of automatics. His own shots had drowned the sound of the killer's
single burst.
The Shadow had thinned the opposition. Mobsters were in retreat. To spur
them to more rapid flight, new shots were coming from down the street.
Agents of The Shadow had arrived. These were two men summoned by Burbank:
namely, Cliff Marsland and "Hawkeye," capable marksmen who knew the ways of the
underworld. The Shadow had beaten them in the race to the pawnshop. Since they
had now arrived, the field could be left to them.
Swinging back into the open doorway, The Shadow moved swiftly up the
stairs. Near the top, he realized that something was wrong. The absence of the
gas light was proof of that fact. An automatic in one hand, The Shadow produced
a flashlight with the other.
A circle of light showed the counter unoccupied. The metal box was gone.
Then, near the window, The Shadow spied Tobold gasping on the floor. Rays of
light came from the inner doorway. The Shadow saw that the barrier was unbarred.
Several minutes had been the extent of The Shadow's absence. Tobold's
murderer could not have traveled very far. Swiftly, The Shadow cut through to
the rear of the house. He knew the route to the stairway. He followed it,
descending.

ON the street below, a taxicab was rolling up beside the curb. This was
the thoroughfare beyond the pawnshop. Fleeing mobsters had taken an opposite
direction. A shrewd-faced driver was peering from the cab window.
This man was Moe Shrevnitz. He, too, was an agent of The Shadow. Burbank
had ordered him here, at The Shadow's bidding. Time and again, Moe's cab had
proven useful in moving agents from the scene of a rapid fray.
A man stepped forward from beside the building. Moe could hear him panting
from a run. The cab driver wondered what the fellow was doing here. There was a
simple way to find out
"Taxi?" questioned Moe.
The suggestion had worked before. Moe had previously picked out men of
crime to offer them what seemed to be aid in time of need. This man stepped
forward. Moe leaned out to open the cab door.
Like a shot, the fellow leaped forward and grabbed Moe by the neck. With
one swift yank, he pulled the taxi driver headlong. Moe sprawled upon the
sidewalk. His assailant yanked open the door of the cab and sprang to the
wheel. Moe had left the motor running. The cab shot away.
Tobold's killer was bound on a swift escape. Moe Shrevnitz, coming dazedly
to an upright position, was unable to start in pursuit. He heard footsteps
pounding on the sidewalk. Cliff Marsland came dashing up - also too late to
prevent the killer's flight.
A few moments later, The Shadow arrived from the rear door of the pawn
shop. The taxi had rounded the next corner; but the sight of Cliff lifting Moe
to his feet told The Shadow what had happened.
Halting in the blackness of the doorway, The Shadow heard wailing sirens.
Then came the clatter of nightsticks on distant pavement.
Scurrying mobsters had fled. Patrolmen were coming toward this vicinity.
Patrol cars had heard the firing. Soon the police would be on the job. A
quick-moving, hunch-shouldered man was coming up from the corner. It was
Hawkeye, looking for Cliff.
Moe had been detailed to pick up Cliff and Hawkeye. His cab gone, Moe was
unable to perform this duty. It was up to the other agents to take him along
with them. Mobsters defeated, there was no cause to linger.
Moe was on his feet, steady enough to travel. Cliff pointed across the
street. Hawkeye nodded, agreeing that that was the proper direction to take.
A hiss from the doorway. The Shadow's agents turned. They heard a
commanding whisper, brief instructions from their darkness-shrouded chief.
Acting in response, they changed direction. The trio headed into a little
passageway behind the pawnshop. The Shadow had pointed them to the course that
Homer Hothan had taken, through to the courtyard by the shed.
For The Shadow knew that Hothan must have found an open path. The same way
would give his agents opportunity to depart before the police arrived. As the
three men ducked through the passage to the courtyard, The Shadow wheeled and
returned into the pawnshop.
He reached the upstairs room. His flashlight glimmered upon old Tobold's
prostrate form. The pawnbroker was almost gone. His breathing was forced and
wheezy. Glassy-eyed, he blinked into The Shadow's light.
"The - the skull," gasped Tobold. "They - they took the jewels - with the
skull. They wanted - the silver skull. I - I don't know why. The silver - the
silver skull -"
Wearily, the old man closed his eyelids. His voice ended with a sigh.
Muscles relaxed; the withered form rolled upon the floor. Channing Tobold was
dead, murdered like Hildrew Parchell.

BUT the aged pawnbroker was no victim of Homer Hothan. The sallow-faced
killer had failed tonight. His wild flight had been genuine. The Shadow knew
that Hothan would have lacked the nerve required to return.
Channing Tobold had been slain by a more potent murderer. A new killer had
entered the picture. The big-shot who was after wealth had taken a hand in the
game. The evil worker had backed Hothan with a squad of mobsters, in case a
raid should prove necessary at Tobold's.
Hothan had fled. The Shadow had dispelled the mobster crew. The fight had
been carried to the front of the old building. All the while, the big crook of
the lot had been in readiness. He had lurked somewhere in reserve; then had
stepped in to act when others had failed.
That this unknown killer had nerve was an apparent fact. Gunfire must have
told him that his plans had gone awry; nevertheless, he had moved straight into
the danger zone. In some fashion, he had persuaded Channing Tobold to unbolt
the door. This was added proof of the killer's cold-blooded ability.
As The Shadow had divined, Homer Hothan was no more than a tool. The
one-time secretary was a weakling, inspired to action by a chief who dominated
him. The elimination of Hothan, should The Shadow find new opportunity for it,
would still leave the big-shot at large.
Whistles sounded outside of the building. Pounding footsteps echoed on
both stairways of the pawnshop. The police were here, closing in on this room
where death had struck.
The Shadow's flashlight clicked out. A swish sounded by the window.
The Shadow had chosen Hothan's route: Through the window, to the shed
below. Reaching the courtyard, he had time to pick his way through darkened
spaces toward a street a block away.

FLASHLIGHTS came on in the room where Tobold's body lay. A patrolman noted
the gas jet; he heard its hiss. Striking a match, the uniformed man lighted the
gas.
The flickering flame showed four bluecoats. Two had entered from one
doorway; two from the other. These were the vanguard of the law.
Among the sprawled mobsters, only one showed any signs of life. Dying,
this gorilla opened his eyes and stared at the police. He snarled at sight of
the harness bulls; then coughed his last.
Patrol cars were coming up a block away. Hastening to the scene of strife,
the occupants failed to see the blackened figure that was gliding across a
deserted street. Others, foes and friends, had left before The Shadow.
He, too, was departing from the area where crime had struck.
A whispered laugh echoed in darkness. The Shadow's mirth could well have
been interpreted as a grim warning to the enemies of crime who had escaped him.
Theft and murder had been accomplished tonight, despite The Shadow. A trail had
been broken.
But, to The Shadow, this was just a new beginning. He had gained steps
along the needed track. This master of vengeance was determined to trace men of
evil to their lairs.

CHAPTER IX

THE HEIR ARRIVES

IT was the next evening. Weldon Wingate was seated at the big desk in the
office of his penthouse. Opposite him was Selwood Royce. The young millionaire
was reading an evening newspaper.
"Very odd circumstances," remarked Royce, as Wingate watched him. "Even if
there is no connection between this robbery at the pawnshop and -"
Royce broke off. The door had opened from the anteroom. Braddock stood
there with an announcement.
"Roger Parchell has arrived?" inquired Wingate. "Show him in, Braddock."
"It is not Roger Parchell, sir," returned Braddock. "It is the gentleman
who was here yesterday. Mr. Lamont Cranston, sir; and he wants to see you."
"Show him in," ordered Wingate, in an irritated tone.
The Shadow entered. Calm in his guise of Lamont Cranston, he noted a
certain hostility on the part of Weldon Wingate. Selwood Royce, however, was
affable. The young millionaire seemed highly pleased by Lamont Cranston's
arrival.
"We thought you were Roger Parchell," remarked Royce. "He is due here
tonight."
"Already?" questioned The Shadow, with a trace of surprise: "I thought
Roger Parchell was in San Francisco yesterday."
"He was," declared Wingate. "I told you that I had wired him there and
received a reply that he was coming East at once. This afternoon, Roger called
me by long distance from Cincinnati. He had taken a plane from California and
had traveled that far east. He is coming in to New York on another fast ship."
"Excellent," remarked The Shadow. "I shall be pleased to meet Roger
Parchell. Perhaps he will know something about his uncle's scarab collection."
Wingate was about to make a caustic remark when the door opened. It was
Braddock again; this time to announce that Roger Parchell had arrived. A few
moments later, the heir himself entered.

ROGER PARCHELL was a man in his early thirties. Broad-shouldered, with a
tanned, square-jawed face, he possessed a ruggedness that smacked of the West.
His manner, however, was that of a New Yorker. He shook hands with Wingate;
then with the others as the lawyer introduced him.
"Sorry to hear about my uncle's death," stated Roger. "He and I were quite
remote. Very little in common between us. Except for our occasional
correspondence, he was no more than a name to me. But" - the young man paused
in a sober manner - "he was my only living relative on my father's side of the
family. That always meant something to me, even if it did not to Uncle Hildrew."
"It meant enough to him," rejoined Wingate. "He made you the sole heir to
his estate."
"He did?" queried Roger, in surprise. "That is astonishing! I had thought
that he might leave me a small percentage of his wealth. Maybe as high as a
hundred thousand dollars. But I never dreamed that I would be the sole heir."
"You are," interjected Wingate, "but you have gained a false impression of
your uncle's estate. His total assets - to which you are fully entitled - will
not be in excess of fifty thousand dollars!"
Roger Parchell gaped. His face showed an unbelieving stare. He looked from
Wingate to the others. Then he shook his head and laughed.
"I don't believe it," he affirmed. "My uncle - with no disrespect to his
memory - was a miser. So far as his money is concerned, I can do without it,
whatever the amount. I am speaking in purely an impersonal fashion when I say
that Uncle Hildrew must have been worth a full million dollars, at the very
least."
"There is no way," snapped Wingate, "in which any one could estimate the
amount of wealth that Hildrew Parchell possessed. I am going only by the
records which are in my possession. They are accurate.
"Fifty thousand dollars. His assets totaled that sum. I do agree that it
is possible that Hildrew Parchell may have placed certain money elsewhere. But
there is no clue to any source where stored wealth might be."
"Except for this," interposed The Shadow. His tone was Cranston's; his
smile was slight as he picked up the newspaper that Selwood Royce had been
reading. "The jewelry, stolen last night, belonged to Hildrew Parchell."
"It did not," retorted Wingate. "That jewelry was in the possession of
Channing Tobold. It had been pledged for a paltry sum of five thousand dollars
and was probably worth less at present values."
"But possibly," added The Shadow, his tone as quiet as before, "worth far
more than the amount for which the gems were pawned. Hildrew Parchell could
have placed it with the pawnbroker, naming a figure far smaller than the actual
worth of the jewels."

WINGATE glared. Royce shot a keen glance toward The Shadow. Roger Parchell
looked puzzled.
"What's this all about?" inquired the heir. "A robbery? Of jewelry
belonging to my uncle? When did it occur?"
"Last night," replied Royce. "A murder was involved. The newspapers were
filled with the accounts of a battle among mobsters."
"All news to me," returned Roger. "I have been on the go for two days. You
see" - he turned to Wingate - "I was not in San Francisco when your wire came. I
had closed my office; a friend happened in there at the time the wire arrived.
He called me by long distance in Los Angeles; I told him to send you a wired
reply, that I was coming East. Then I took off from Los Angeles by plane."
"And you read no newspapers?" asked Wingate.
"None today," returned Roger. "I was asleep when we stopped at Cincinnati.
I had time to call you; then we took off and I went to sleep again."
He reached for the newspaper. Wingate stopped him. Putting the journal to
one side, the attorney held up his hand and began to speak.
"Let me explain the circumstances from the beginning," he suggested.
"That, I believe, will clarify all that has happened. First of all, Roger, your
uncle's death was due to heart failure; but circumstances surrounding it were
accidental.
"Doctor Raymond Deseurre, your uncle's physician, stated that death might
well have been expected. Your uncle's condition had long been a serious one. He
was in bed when stricken; falling, he overturned a table and a candle set fire
to the bedstead. Tristram, your uncle's servant, extinguished the blaze."
Wingate paused after this brief statement. He continued with added details.
"A headquarters inspector came to the house," declared the lawyer. "This
man - his name is Cardona - is reputed to be the most competent member of the
New York force. He conducted a thorough investigation and finally decided that
your uncle's death had been accidental.
"I had assured Cardona that all of Hildrew Parchell's documents were in
order. He called me yesterday, after I had gone over the original papers,
comparing them with duplicates. Cardona was fully satisfied that nothing was
amiss.
"Last night, thugs entered an obscure pawnshop owned by an old man named
Channing Tobold. Apparently, rival factions attempted to rifle the place at the
same time. They battled; mobsters were slain, and Tobold, himself, was killed.
"Police, investigating, found Tobold's safe opened. They referred to the
pawnbroker's books. There had been nothing of value in the place except a box
containing jewels valued at five thousand dollars. That box was gone.
"Detective Cardona was again the acting inspector on the case. On the
floor behind Tobold's counter, he discovered a crumpled list that corresponded
with one in the safe. This list named the items in the stolen box. Cardona also
learned that the stolen jewelry had once belonged to Hildrew Parchell."
"My uncle had pawned it with Tobold?" inquired Roger.
"Yes," replied Wingate. "Discovering that, Cardona came here to see me. I
produced the pawn ticket and correspondence between Hildrew Parchell and
Channing Tobold. Discussing the matter, Cardona and I agreed that the robbery
at the pawnshop was merely a coincidence; that it had nothing to do with your
uncle's death."
"But," began Roger, "sometimes coincidences are important -"

"NOT in this case." interposed Wingate. "Tobold's pawnshop was an open
target for crooks. It was a wonder that they had not attacked it before.
Naturally, they took only articles that appeared to be of value. Those jewels
were all that were in the place. Moreover, we are sure to learn more about them
shortly."
"How so?" inquired Roger.
"It is obvious," returned Wingate, "that hoodlums of the crudest type were
responsible for the robbery at Tobold's. Such thieves have no way of obtaining
high value, for goods that they purloin.
"They 'fence' stolen articles for a small percentage of the actual worth.
Where murder is involved with robbery, small-fry crooks were anxious to get rid
of their spoils quickly. To use their own parlance, the stuff is 'hot' and must
be dropped in a hurry."
"If Mr. Cranston were familiar with ways of criminals" - Wingate paused to
stare steadily at his calm-faced visitor - "he would realize that there is
nothing complex or mysterious in a pawnshop robbery. I predict" - Wingate was
emphatic - "that the gems stolen from Tobold's will be recovered by the police
within one week!
"Then we shall see the folly of the theory that Mr. Cranston has
suggested. The police hold complete lists of the stolen items. One list in
Hildrew Parchell's handwriting; the other in Channing Tobold's. Those lists
will identify the gems."
"I grant you this, however" - Wingate was almost sarcastic - "if the
jewelry is not uncovered it may be possible - slightly possible - that others
than mere hoodlums were concerned in their theft."
"If some one suspected that Hildrew Parchell might have stored away
unknown wealth; if that same person had learned of the jewelry at Tobold's; if,
again, that individual had suddenly gained the theory that those gems were
overrated in value - well" - Wingate paused to smirk - "well, if all those
'ifs' were possible, a smart crook might have been behind the robbery at the
pawnshop."
"To such a man, if he existed" - Wingate was wagging a forefinger in
emphasis - "five thousand dollars would be a paltry sum. If - a probable 'if' -
at last, this impossible sort of thief found that the jewelry was worth only the
five thousand dollars at which it is rated, he would never attempt to 'fence'
it. Being a man of brains, he would not run the risk of throwing clues into
view."
"But suppose," put in Selwood Royce, "the gems were actually worth an
immense sum? What would happen then?"
"They would be fenced," replied Wingate, "probably somewhere else than in
New York. And let me tell you this" - the forefinger was still wagging - "the
appearance of gems of high value in the open market would attract immediate
attention."
"But why all this foolish speculation?" Wingate laughed as he settled back
in his chair and folded both hands. "I have told you that the jewels were
trifles. If they do not show up, we shall know that some would-be master crook
fooled himself and has destroyed them so that evidence will be lacking."
"If the jewels are recovered, their low value will be proven and we shall
know that common thugs were responsible. This is not my sole opinion. Detective
Cardona shares it also. Just as he and I agree upon the matter of what happened
here last night."
"Something happened here?" questioned Royce.
"Yes," replied Wingate, "A sneak thief came into this office. Braddock
surprised the fellow. They had a brief set-to and the thief escaped. There, Mr.
Cranston, would be another problem for a sleuth. A connection. Robbery at
Tobold's; attempted theft here.
"But men of fact, like Detective Cardona and myself, know that small-time
crime is so prevalent in Manhattan that ninety-nine per cent of supposed
connections are no more than coincidences. I told Cardona about a sneak thief
being here. We both laughed at the thought of Braddock frightening the rogue
away."
There was a pause; then Wingate arose. In a mild, indulgent tone, the
lawyer spoke with finality.

"I DO not blame you for your theory, Cranston," said Wingate, dryly.
"Naturally, you are interested in those scarabs that you believed Hildrew
Parchell owned. You would, of course, think that they might have been with the
rifled jewelry. But they were not. I saw the bona fide lists. The gems were old
family jewelry that had belonged to Hildrew Parchell and his wife. The old man
pawned the jewels because he knew Tobold and because he had no place of his own
in which to keep them.
"Well, Roger" - Wingate had turned toward the heir - "I had not expected
you to come East so promptly. Could you spare a week? It will be that long
before your uncle's estate can be settled."
"I can stay indefinitely," replied Roger. "I intend to stop at the Hotel
Metrolite. I'm going there right now, to get some sleep."
"Suppose you come out to Long Island," suggested Selwood Royce. "Not
tonight, for I am not returning there until later. Nor tomorrow, when I shall
be busy. But if you can come out the day after tomorrow, you can remain at my
home during the rest of your stay."
"Thanks," said Roger. "But of course, Royce, I should not want to put you
out."
"You won't," chuckled Royce. "You should see my place, Roger. It was my
father's, and he added wings to the house until it became the size of a young
hotel. It even has an art gallery, filled with paintings that my father
collected."
"Paintings of much value?" queried Wingate.
"No," returned Royce. "Father went in for oddities in art. Portraits that
look at you wherever you go; faces that seem to smile if you watch them.
Bizarre scenes of mobs and executions. The gallery is one of freaks."
Pausing, Royce turned toward The Shadow.
"The gallery would interest you, Mr. Cranston," he said. "You have
collected curios. Some of these paintings could be placed in that class. Any
time you choose, you will be a welcome visitor.
"Some time ago, one of the newspapers called up to arrange an interview
with me on the subject of art. I stalled them off; but I suppose if a reporter
comes out to see me, I shall have to show him the gallery."
"Well, Roger, don't forget that I shall expect you. I have just time" -
Royce glanced at his watch - "to keep an appointment at my club. I must be
leaving."
Royce departed; The Shadow, remembering a mythical Cranston appointment,
left also. Roger Parchell started at the same time for his hotel. The meeting
at Wingate's was ended.

BENEATH the blue light in his sanctum, The Shadow read reports from his
agents. Moe Shrevnitz had recovered his cab. Police had picked it up abandoned
as a stolen car. Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye were in the underworld, scouring
for information concerning dead mobsters.
Harry Vincent had returned to New York. He was at the Hotel Metrolite, his
usual headquarters; Roger Parchell had merely chanced to choose the same hotel.
Clyde Burke, visiting police headquarters, had learned nothing of importance
from Joe Cardona.
The Shadow reached for the earphones on the wall. His whispered voice
spoke to Burbank, giving new orders. Every agent had functions to perform; in
fact, The Shadow was calling in the services of another man, whom he seldom
used, to aid him.
There was reason for The Shadow's action. In sounding Weldon Wingate, The
Shadow had listened while the lawyer had stated possibilities that The Shadow,
himself, had already considered. Though The Shadow knew that Homer Hothan had
gone to Tobold's pawnshop in search of hidden wealth, he also realized that
those stolen jewels represented a long shot.
The presence of the silver skull ring had evidently prompted both Hothan
and the master crook to their fullest effort. Somehow, evil workers had gained
some clue to wealth that involved a skull.
Yet the chance still existed that a wrong bet had been made; that the
stolen jewelry was of comparatively little value. If so, crime might soon again
be rampant. That was why The Shadow was again preparing.
From now on, every person concerned with Hildrew Parchell would be watched
by The Shadow. Some of them might need protection. Among the others, there might
be one The Shadow wanted.
The big-shot. The man who had hired Homer Hothan. For The Shadow was sure
that the hiding ex-secretary was serving a master who had long since gained
knowledge concerning the affairs of old Hildrew Parchell.
The unknown crook, slayer of Channing Tobold, had shown himself too bold
to leave all to a weakling such as Hothan. The big-shot must be ready to play
his own cards when occasion demanded. This, The Shadow knew.

CHAPTER X

SPOILS RECLAIMED

"THAT'S all, Burke."
Joe Cardona was emphatic as he made the statement. The detective was
seated behind his desk at headquarters. Standing near him was another police
officer: Detective Sergeant Markham. Clyde Burke was lounging at the opposite
side of the desk.
It was late afternoon. Clyde Burke had come here for a story. The jewelry
stolen from Tobold's pawnshop had been reclaimed and the reporter wanted the
details. But Cardona had been more than usually stingy with his information.
"It's not much dope, Joe," declared Clyde, ruefully. "You say you got the
jewels back through a fence; but you don't tell me who the fence was -"
"Why should I?" interrupted Cardona. "Do you think I want to make trouble
for the fellow by giving his name to the newspapers?"
"I won't print it, Joe -"
"Then why do you want it?"
Clyde had no answer to Cardona's question. The ace detective scowled.
"Listen, Burke," he said, "you've got all you need to know. I'll repeat
it. The stolen stuff was left with a jeweler for appraisal -"
"Who left it?"
"An unidentified stranger. Looked like a rowdy. The jeweler was
suspicious. He notified the police. We looked over the gems and found them all
there, according to the list."
"And the value?"
"Between four and five thousand dollars. We're looking for the man who
left them with the jeweler."
"You mean the fence."
"Call him what you want: jeweler or fence. It doesn't matter to me. We've
got the jewelry if you want to see it."
"Where?"
"Right here."
Cardona yanked open a desk drawer. He pulled out a metal box and poured
the contents on the desk. Clyde saw a mass of rings, brooches, and bracelets.
Leaning forward, he noted an odd ring. It was of silver, with tiny ruby
settings.
"See that, Markham?" chuckled Cardona. "Everybody that's seen the stuff
has looked at that ring. Kind of odd, isn't it - a skull with red eyes."
"Worth much?" queried Markham, leaning forward. It was his first look at
the jewelry. "Looks like platinum."
"It's silver," returned Cardona, "and it's only worth about fifteen bucks.
Those eyes aren't real rubies. They're a couple of garnets."
Clyde Burke finished his inspection of the articles. He looked at Cardona.
The detective shook his head.
"Nothing else, Burke," decided Joe. "I've told you all that you're going
to get."
Clyde shrugged his shoulders and strolled from the office. He knew that
Cardona's decision was final. Clyde had already reported to The Shadow that the
jewels had been recovered; and Burbank had called back to assign him to the task
of learning more about them. But Clyde had reached his limit.

LIGHTS had been turned on in Cardona's office, for it was after sunset.
The corridor that Clyde entered was a gloomy one, with dull lights.
As he started toward the outer door, the reporter jostled against a
stoop-shouldered figure. He saw a pale, dull-faced man who was carrying a mop
and bucket. One of the janitors.
"Sorry," said Clyde.
"Yah," returned the stooped man, with a meaningless grin.
Clyde went on. The janitor continued up the hallway, saw the lighted
doorway of Cardona's office and looked in. Cardona spied him.
"Hello," Fritz greeted the detective. "We'll be here a while yet. You can
clean up here, later."
The janitor did not appear to understand Cardona's injunction. Instead of
leaving, he came into the office and set down the mop and bucket. Cardona
looked at Markham, then laughed.
"We'll let him stay," decided Joe. Then, to the janitor: "Say, Fritz -
come over here and take a look at this stuff."
The detective indicated the jewelry on the desk. Fritz shambled over. He
stretched out a pale hand and began to fumble with the objects on the desk.
Suddenly, he picked out the skull ring and held it up.
"Yah," he declared, with an approving nod. "Yah. Goot, this one. Goot!"
"You're wrong, Fritz," chuckled Joe. "No good, that one. Cheap. Only
fifteen dollars. Not much pfennig."
"Yah," grunted Fritz, half dubious. The janitor laid the ring on the desk,
then went back to the mop and bucket. He started to clean the floor.
Ignoring the janitor, Cardona turned to Markham.
"You heard what I said to Burke," announced Joe. "Well, there isn't a lot
more to it; but I couldn't tell him the works. It was old Koko Gluss who had
this jewelry handed to him."
"The guy with the hockshop down on the Bowery?" questioned Markham. "Say -
he quit fencing stuff after we put the clamps on him. I didn't know he'd started
in again."
"He hasn't. He wouldn't have taken this swag, except for what the guy that
brought it told him. The stuff was handed to him for appraisal."
"Who by?"
"Some gorilla. The guy brought the jewelry into the hockshop along about
ten o'clock. Asked old Koko to appraise it. Said Benny Lungo wanted to know
what it was worth."
"Benny Lungo! Say - he wouldn't have been in on a job like this. He sticks
with the dock-wallopers."
"I know that. But it scared old Koko. He knew Benny by rep. So he
appraised the stuff and did a right job of it. Figured the jewelry worth about
forty-five hundred."
"Then what?"
"The gorilla said Benny wanted to soak it. Told Koko to hold it until
noon. The gorilla beat it and didn't come back. Koko began to get worried."
"What'd he do, call Benny?"
"That's just what he did do. Sort of fished around when he talked over the
telephone - Koko's no dummy, you know - and found out that Benny hadn't sent the
mug. So Koko called me."
"Scared to keep the stuff?"
"Sure. He figured it was hot and he knew he was in wrong already. Wanted
to come clean. Said he was afraid somebody was trying to fence the stuff by
putting it in soak. Its been done before."
"So you went over there?"
"Yeah. And I've had a couple of men watching the place in case the gorilla
comes back. I want you to relieve them this evening. That's why I sent for you,
Markham."
"Probably the gorilla's gotten cold feet by this time. Well, that proves
just what you figured. A bunch of mugs pulled that job at Tobold's, and after
killing the old guy they wanted to ditch the swag in a hurry."
Cardona nodded.
"What did Koko Gluss say the gorilla looked like?" asked Markham. "Suppose
the guy shows up? How'm I going to know him?"
"Gluss can't tell us much," returned Cardona. "That hockshop of his is a
dark sort of place. He used a light when he looked at the jewelry through a
magnifier; but the gorilla kept away from it. Man about five-feet-ten, Gluss
said, but not over heavy. Sort of wiry build."
"Doesn't sound like one of Benny's dock-wallopers."
"Why should it?" Cardona snorted. "Say, I went around to see Benny. Had
to, in order to square Gluss. Naturally, the guy didn't come from Benny. That
was just a stall to scare Gluss."
"Was Benny sore?"

"PLENTY!" Cardona chuckled at the recollection of his interview with the
"pride of the dock-wallopers." "He didn't blame Koko Gluss, though. He'd like
to get the guy that pulled the gag. I asked him who he figured it could be."
"Did he say?"
"He thought it over; then said there was only one bird lousy enough to
have tried to get him in wrong. By that he meant there was only one who had
nerve enough."
"Who was that?"
"Flick Sherrad."
Markham snorted. It was plain that the detective sergeant disagreed. So,
for that matter, did Cardona.
"It couldn't have been Flick," stated the acting inspector. "That bozo
took it on the lam after we busted his racket. Flick hasn't been around for
months. Benny just figured Flick because Flick's the one guy who has Benny's
number."
"What's more, Markham, Flick Sherrad wouldn't have been so dumb as to try
to fence this stuff through Koko Gluss. Flick wouldn't have used a gorilla as
an errand boy."
"It was just a bunch of nuts that tried that funny stuff at Tobold's. They
grabbed the swag and had a fight among themselves, unless -"
"Unless what?" inquired Markham.
"Nothing," returned Cardona. "Call it a fight in which somebody grabbed
the boodle. Let it go at that." He paused to shove the jewelry back into the
box. "Well, I'm taking this stuff to Weldon Wingate, the lawyer, along with the
lists. He'll decide whether he wants to take it for five thousand or pass it
back to Channing Tobold's estate. Come along, Markham; you're going over to the
hockshop."
"A swell chance that the gorilla will come back to see Gluss," grunted the
detective sergeant.
The two men left the office. Fritz remained with his mop and bucket. The
janitor had overheard the entire conversation, including Cardona's lapse when
speaking of the gunfight.
There had been a reason for Cardona's pause. The ace detective had been
about to advance the theory that The Shadow had been at Tobold's. For Joe
Cardona knew well that The Shadow was an active warrior who had frequently
broken up attempts at crime.
Fritz completed his mopping shortly after Cardona and Markham had left.
The janitor's mode of action changed. From a shuffling, lethargic worker, he
became a swift-moving figure. Picking up mop and bucket, he went out into the
corridor.
The long hall was deserted. With long stride, Fritz followed it and turned
off to a room where he stopped before a locker. Dropping his utensils, he opened
the locker and drew forth black garments. Cloak folds slipped over shoulders; a
slouch hat settled on Fritz's head.
Overalls dropped from beneath the cloak. The shrouded figure stooped,
picked them up and put them in the locker. A soft laugh came from hidden lips.
This was not Fritz, the shuffling janitor, early on the clean-up job. This was
The Shadow!

CLYDE BURKE'S chief had learned what the reporter had failed to get. The
details of how the spoils from Tobold's pawnshop had been reclaimed. The Shadow
had gained the facts that Joe Cardona had learned; and from the detective's
discourse he had gleaned a unique picture that Joe had failed to grasp.
The valueless skull ring was proof of one thing only. Men of crime had
been searching for wealth that lay with a skull. Homer Hothan had long been the
spy of a hidden crook who was interested in old Hildrew Parchell's affairs.
After gaining a half-destroyed document from old Parchell's bedroom, Hothan had
convened with his chief.
They knew that Hildrew Parchell must have placed wealth in some safe
storage place. So they had taken the most logical guess as a beginning. They
had gambled that the jewelry at Tobold's might be worth far more than its
supposed value of five thousand dollars.
Hothan, covered by thugs, with his chief in the background, had gone to
get the jewelry. The half-burned document must have mentioned the word "skull,"
for Hothan, seeing the skull ring, had prepared to murder Tobold and take the
gems.
Hothan had been frustrated. His chief had stepped in to grab the swag.
Like Hothan, the unknown murderer had fallen for the lure of the skull ring.
Later, however, both had learned that the swag was comparatively
valueless; that it did not represent the treasure that they had sought.
Today, oddly enough, the crooks had acted exactly as Weldon Wingate had
predicted. That is, they had acted as small-fry criminals would act. But these
were clever crooks; in their action, The Shadow saw keen scheming.
By pretending that they had blundered, by sending a gorilla to "Koko"
Gluss, the big-shot had created the definite impression that only ordinary
thugs were responsible. Joe Cardona, reasoning along the lines of Wingate's
wise statements, had fallen for the bluff. But The Shadow had not.

GLIDING forth from headquarters, The Shadow had become a phantom shape,
blending with the darkness that had settled above Manhattan. His obscure course
was untraceable in the dusk. Only a soft-whispered laugh announced his presence
in a darkened side street.
The Shadow had guessed another point. He knew that the smart crook who
ruled Homer Hothan must also have had contact with some capable mob-leader who
had supplied the gorillas for the battle at Tobold's.
Picturing that fact, The Shadow had the key to the mob leader. Logically,
the rogue would be the very man whose name Cardona had rejected. No ordinary
gorilla had spoken of Benny Lungo just by chance. The thug who had taken the
swag to Koko Gluss must have come from "Flick" Sherrad.
Spoils had been deliberately thrown into the hands of the law; and the law
was blind to the fact. The Shadow, however, had gained another objective; one
that would lead him to issue new orders the moment that he reached his sanctum.
Agents were already searching for traces of Homer Hothan; they would have
another to look for now: namely, Flick Sherrad. Two underlings to find: a
furtive killer and a clever mob leader. Through one or both of these henchmen,
The Shadow intended to meet the master crook himself!

CHAPTER XI

MOVES IN THE NIGHT

NINE o'clock. Manhattan was aglow. From the glittering area of Times
Square to the lights along the water fronts, the great metropolis presented a
man-made glare that cast a huge reflection against a sullen sky.
The illumination was deceptive. Manhattan was not one mass of blazing
lights. There were spots where the brilliance equaled that of daylight; there
were other places where darkness lurked. The island, itself, was actually a
patchwork contrast.
Night was The Shadow's habitat. This night, also, was important to his
agents. Each man had an appointed task. Some were where lights glimmered;
others where blackness dominated. From Broadway to the Bowery, workers were on
the job.
A young man was seated in the lobby of the Hotel Metrolite. Keen of face,
clean-cut of appearance, he was watching the elevators. This was Harry Vincent,
returned from Ohio.
A man stepped from an elevator and approached the desk. It was Roger
Parchell. Harry had been appointed to watch the man from California. He had
learned Roger's room number and had spotted him from a description sent by
Burbank.
As Roger Parchell reached the desk, Harry sauntered up and waited near by.
He heard the heir speak to the clerk. Roger was asking for any messages. There
were none.
"I am going out," stated Roger. "If any one calls, state that I shall be
back by half past eleven."
That word given, Roger sauntered from the lobby. Harry followed. The two
joined a Broadway throng. Harry had no difficulty in keeping close behind the
man whom he was guarding. Roger Parchell was in no hurry. He stopped in front
of a large motion-picture theater.
Reaching into a pocket, Roger produced a dollar bill; he stepped up to the
box office and bought a ticket. Harry followed suit; by the time that he had
made his purchase, Roger had walked to the entrance. Harry followed.
This theater had no lighted, inner lobby. As Harry passed the
ticket-chopper, he came directly into darkness. He saw people walking toward
the aisles; it was impossible to distinguish faces.
Spying a man who looked like Roger Parchell, Harry followed him, only to
discover, when closer, that he had picked the wrong man.
Harry went back to the entrance. He decided that the best plan was to
remain in the theater until the program had made a complete round. The place
was well filled; there would be no chance to spot Roger Parchell until the
fellow went out again.
One bad point was that the theater possessed several exits, all of which
were in regular use. There was no telling which way Roger would eventually go
out. However, Harry decided that by staying, he might spy Roger; and by going
out soon enough, he could at least reach the hotel and watch for Roger's return
at eleven thirty.

WHILE Harry Vincent was thus engaged, another of The Shadow's agents was
having more troublesome difficulties. Clyde Burke, enthroned at a telephone
desk in the Classic office, was having an argument across the wire.
"What's the matter, Burke?" inquired the assistant city editor, as Clyde
hung up the receiver. "That's the fourth call you've made. Missing out on
something?"
"Yes," returned Clyde. "It's this fellow Royce. The Long Island
millionaire. I made an appointment with him to go out and see his art gallery."
"Can't you locate him?"
"No. His club says he's at home. His home says he's at the club. What
bothers me is that each time I call either place I get some one different on
the wire. I have to explain the whole thing over - why I want to talk with
Selwood Royce."
"Maybe they're giving you the run-around."
"Nobody knows anything about the appointment. Sounds like he has half a
dozen servants out at the house."
"Well, I guess Royce just forgot the matter, Burke. Why don't you postpone
the interview."
"It's my assignment for tonight. I've arranged it; and I'm going to keep
calling until I locate Royce."
With that statement, Clyde lifted the receiver to make another call to
Royce's club.

WEST of Broadway, Moe Shrevnitz was seated behind the wheel of his
reclaimed cab. The shrewd-faced taxi driver was parked outside the apartment
that was topped by Weldon Wingate's penthouse. It was Moe's job to watch for
Wingate.
Some one came out of the building. Leaning forward, Moe recognized the
white-haired lawyer. Wingate was looking for a cab. Moe, parked at the hack
stand, was ready. He stepped on the starter.
At that instant, another cab whisked by. Its driver saw Wingate. The cab
cut in hard ahead of Moe's. Brakes ground as the driver opened the door.
Wingate stepped aboard.
Moe Shrevnitz fumed. This was against the ethics of the taxi drivers. Had
a doorman been on duty, Moe could have made a protest. But there was no
doorman. Wingate was already aboard the rival cab.
Moe followed the cab ahead. This was his only way to keep tabs on Wingate.
When it came to trailing another cab, Moe had no rival. He made a science of the
game.
The first cab swung around a corner; Moe slowed for a moment, then made
the turn and cut behind a truck to avoid notice as he continued on the trail.
It looked like an easy task, but Moe was not counting on what was to come.
Wingate's cab shot suddenly forward as it came to a corner. Hardly had it passed
the crossing before Moe, a hundred feet behind, heard the clangor of a fire
truck, accompanied by sirens.
A motorcycle policeman sped by. A patrolman sprang out into the avenue and
spread his arms to block traffic. Moe was forced to stop. A fire engine roared
across the avenue. Moe jammed his cab into gear; the cop barked an order to
remain stopped. Ten seconds later, a hook-and-ladder truck clattered by.
Another siren was wailing. The patrolman still held traffic. Twenty
seconds more; an ambulance came into view, clanged across the avenue, and kept
on in back of the fire apparatus. The cop made sure that no more vehicles were
coming; then motioned for traffic to proceed.
Moe muttered angrily. He had lost fully a minute and a half. Wingate's
taxi had turned off the avenue. Traffic was thick about Moe's cab, with cars
cutting in from the opposite direction. No chance of regaining the trail. Moe
could do nothing but return to Wingate's apartment and watch for the lawyer's
return.

THE Gray Room of the Hotel Goliath was a place reserved for small
banquets. Situated on the mezzanine of the hotel, it occupied a corner just
beyond the stairway to the lobby.
Tonight, the Gray Room was in use. Thirty surgeons were holding a banquet
in honor of a prominent physician who had returned from the Orient, bringing
new data on tropical diseases.
Invitations to this dinner had been difficult to obtain. Among the lucky
guests was a young physician who was seated at a corner table. His name was
Rupert Sayre and his invitation had come unexpectedly, only an hour before the
banquet had begun.
Among his friends, Doctor Sayre numbered Lamont Cranston. It was through
Cranston that Sayre had gained the invitation here. And Cranston had requested
a favor on the part of Doctor Sayre. In accordance with Cranston's wish, Sayre
was watching a physician who was seated at a table near the door.
Sayre knew the man by sight and by reputation: Doctor Raymond Deseurre, a
keen-faced man of middle age: Sayre could not help but wonder why Cranston had
requested a close observation of this reputable physician.
For Sayre - through circumstances which he had encountered - had long
since identified Lamont Cranston with a strange personage called The Shadow.
(Note: See Vol. VII, No. 2, "The Master of Death.") Sayre knew that those whom
came under The Shadow's vigilance were apt to be men of crime. Sometimes,
though, they were persons who needed protection.
Which was Deseurre? Was he a plotter, or a threatened victim? What could
he do here; or what might happen to him?
As Sayre considered these questions, an attendant entered the Gray Room.
Sayre saw the hotel employee speak to Doctor Deseurre.
The middle-aged man arose and quietly left the room. Sayre watched the
doorway, expecting his return. Several minutes passed; then came the ring of a
telephone near Sayre's corner. A waiter answered it; Sayre heard the man take
the message.
"Very well, sir," said the waiter. "Yes... I'll tell the speaker... Yes, I
understand, sir. Doctor Deseurre has had a call from a patient and will not be
able to return..."
Another agent of The Shadow - for Rupert Sayre was serving in that
capacity pro tem - had lost the trail of a man whom he was supposed to watch.
Coincidences were running strong tonight. In no case was there any indication
of the unusual.

DOWN in the underworld, two aids of The Shadow were on duty together.
Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye formed a competent team as they stalked the
badlands. They had received a tip through Burbank, a few hours previously. They
were making good use of it.
Neither Cliff nor Hawkeye had found out any worthwhile facts regarding the
gorillas who had fallen at Tobold's. All of those thugs had been free-lance
mobsmen of lesser consequence. Some one had hired them, perhaps; but the
"grapevine," that secret telegraph of the underworld, disclaimed the fact.
According to the whisper, the thugs had been on their own. The grapevine,
however, was sometimes wrong. Evidence, though, supported it, for no connection
could be found between the dead thugs and any known band of hoodlums.
The tracking of Homer Hothan had proven a hopeless task. The man had never
been heard of in the underworld. There was no starting point from which to trace
him. Thus Cliff and Hawkeye had been blocked until this new tip had come from
Burbank.
"Trace Flick Sherrad." That had been The Shadow's order. Cliff and
Hawkeye, separating, had started work with determination. Meeting, they had
compared notes. Together, they had something.
Cliff had heard two dips talking about a hideout, not far from the Bowery,
a place that was guarded by a fake blind peddler. The faker was back on his old
stand. He had hired out his lodging to some one who wanted to keep under cover.
Hawkeye had talked with a hophead whom he had met in an underworld dive.
In the course of conversation, the hophead had mentioned cautiously that he had
seen Flick Sherrad two days before. He had named the locality where he had spied
the missing mob-leader. Hawkeye had made a mental note of it.
Added facts brought results. Cliff and Hawkeye, telling each other their
findings, agreed that the occupied hideout might well be Flick Sherrad's. It
was close to the place where the hophead had seen Flick.
Going along the Bowery, The Shadow's agents reached the street that they
wanted. This thoroughfare was fairly well lighted. A good spot for a peddler.
Strolling along, they passed the fake blind man standing in front of a
building that bore a "for-rent" sign. The door of the building was almost in
darkness.

CLIFF and Hawkeye separated. Cliff came back along the street. Though
roughly dressed, he looked like a man who might have money. There was nothing
unusual in a chap of his type stopping to look in pitying fashion at the blind
peddler.
Cliff reached in his pocket. He brought out some coins and held them in
the light. He noted pencils in the peddler's hand. Cliff reached for them.
"How much?" he queried, as he tapped the pencils.
"Five cents each," returned the peddler, in a wheezy tone. "Or whatever
you want to pay for them."
Cliff was holding the man's attention. He knew that behind those dark
glasses were eyes that could see. But the faker was turned away from the
doorway. He could not observe what Cliff was noticing. Hawkeye had sneaked up
to the door, to find it unlocked. Hawkeye was entering the house.
"I'll take three pencils," decided Cliff. "Here's a quarter. You keep the
change."
Drawing away the pencils with his left hand, Cliff pushed a
twenty-five-cent piece between the thumb and forefinger of his right. He
flipped the coin for the peddler's cup. The quarter fell short, as Cliff had
intended it. The coin struck the outside of the cup and clinked to the sidewalk.
The peddler dropped to his knees and began to feel around for the money.
Cliff urged him away. Stooping, The Shadow's agent began a search of his own.
"I'll find it for you," he promised. "Here - hold the pencils while I
look."
The quarter was lying in a crack of the sidewalk. Cliff pushed it farther
away as he pawed about. The peddler started to help again. Cliff motioned the
man upward and arose to his own feet.
"Guess it's lost," he said. "I'll have to strike a match to look for it.
But here - I'll pay you for the pencils in the meantime. I have another
quarter."
Cliff produced the second coin. The peddler was stooping again. Cliff
withheld him and plunked the new quarter in the cup. At the same moment, he
slid his foot over so it covered the quarter on the sidewalk.
Cliff wanted time to make his next search. He intended to keep the peddler
occupied while Hawkeye scoured the hideout. Thus he would be present if Hawkeye
needed him; and he would also be able to cover Hawkeye's departure if no
trouble should occur while the little man was searching.
Three or four minutes had already passed. Cliff struck a match. It blew
out. He lighted another. It also failed. More trouble with matches. Another
minute had gone by.
At last, Cliff held one burning. He stooped and looked about by his right
foot, the one that covered the coin. His match burned out in the hollow cup of
his hand. Cliff started to light another.
A flicker of flame showed a slow motion of the peddler's right foot.
Something in the action warned Cliff. It was the way a man would move before
dealing a blow. Cliff looked up. He shot his left hand toward a descending
wrist.
The peddler had yanked a blackjack and was starting a short swing for
Cliff's head.

CLIFF caught the man's wrist; as he twisted it, the fellow lost his hold
on the implement. The blackjack thudded on the sidewalk. With a snarl, the fake
blind man leaped for Cliff's throat.
Cliff was rising too late. The man had the advantage. As they grappled,
Cliff's feet slipped. Cliff fell back upon his shoulders and clutched wildly to
stop his attacker. The faker grabbed Cliff's throat.
The man's idea was to pound the back of Cliff's head on the sidewalk.
Cliff resisted with full force; but his arms were pinioned beneath the faker's
knees. Only by shifting his head from side to side could Cliff escape the
inevitable.
Choking fingers gripped Cliff's throat. The Shadow's agent wrenched his
neck away from the beggar's grasp. Then the fingers clutched again. Cliff
gurgled; the peddler issued a triumphant snarl.
Then, at this crucial instant, a bunched-up form came hurtling downward
from the wall above. A doubled body landed squarely on the peddler's shoulders.
The faker went down into a heap and rolled from Cliff's body. Fingers left
Cliff's throat.
As he rolled over to gain his feet, Cliff saw his rescuer gripping the
peddler. It was Hawkeye who had made this timely attack. From the second floor,
Hawkeye had seen the fight. He had plunged from a front window to put an end to
it.
Hawkeye was half lifting the peddler. The man's dark glasses were gone as
Hawkeye backed him against the wall. Helpless, he was coughing answers to
questions that Hawkeye was giving him.
"Whose hideout is it?" Hawkeye was demanding. "Come on - spill it!"
"Flick Sherrad's," gasped the peddler. "Flick -"
"Flick's not in town," snapped Hawkeye. "Come on - who's the mug that's
got you working as look-out?"
"It's Flick - Flick Sherrad. Honest it is -"
Half sagging as his voice broke, the peddler loosed a sudden, lucky jab to
Hawkeye's chin. Hawkeye staggered; as Cliff sprang forward, the peddler made a
dive away from him. He kicked over the cup that he had laid upon the sidewalk.
Coins went scattering as the peddler took to his heels. Pencils dropped along
the man's trail.
Cliff stopped Hawkeye as the little man was about to pursue. Together,
they hurried along the street and took temporary cover in a doorway; then,
satisfied that the coast was clear, they headed toward the Bowery.
"No use chasing him," grunted Cliff. "We muffed it - that's all. We found
Flick's hideout, right enough, but he won't head in here now that the lookout's
missing."
"Anyway, I bluffed that guy," remarked Hawkeye. "He'll think we were after
somebody else, the way I talked to him. I didn't make out that we wanted Flick."
"Good headwork," complimented Cliff. "But it won't bring Flick back. He'll
be off the place after this. What did you find upstairs?"
"A room that looked like a hideout. But there wasn't anybody there."
"All right. Stick here while I make a report."
They had neared a cigar store on the Bowery. Hawkeye remained outside
while Cliff went in to make a call to Burbank. Agents of The Shadow had again
struck ill luck.

IN the reading room of the exclusive Cobalt Club, a rotund, chubby-faced
man was reading an evening newspaper while he smoked a fat cigar. This
individual was named Rutledge Mann. By profession, he was an investment broker.
Mann was pleased with his surroundings. He had been admitted to this
swanky club through the recommendation of an important member - Lamont
Cranston. Mann spent much of his leisure time here.
A smile showed on Mann's chubby face as he noted an item in the newspaper.
It was a dispatch from Philadelphia, stating that Professor Tyson Morth was
delivering a speech in that city this evening.
Mann smiled because he had read a similar item in a Philadelphia morning
newspaper, earlier this very day. The report in the Philadelphia journal had
stated, in addition, that Professor Morth was leaving for New York directly
after his dinner speech. That meant he would take a train at eight o'clock,
arriving in New York before ten.
Mann had clipped that item from the Philadelphia newspaper. He had placed
it in an envelope, had carried it to Twenty-third Street, and had left it in
The Shadow's post box. By this time, it had reached The Shadow.
Rutledge Mann had cause to smile. Action was not his forte; his was a
passive part. But on this occasion, he was the only one of all The Shadow's
agents who had experienced no set-back in the moves against impending crime.

CHAPTER XII

THE ROOM OF SKULLS

LISTED first among the names of old Hildrew Parchell's associates had been
Channing Tobold. Crooks had raided the pawnbroker's shop; they had failed to get
the wealth they sought. The silver skull ring had been a blind.
The Shadow had anticipated the criminal move; but he had been too late to
stop the evil thrust. Chance had tricked The Shadow. Channing Tobold was dead.
But tonight, The Shadow was playing for better luck.
Knowing that wealth was still missing, The Shadow had picked the name of
Hildrew Parchell's second associate. That was Professor Tyson Morth, the
well-known anthropologist. The Shadow had sought for information concerning
Professor Morth; he had learned that the man was out of town. Morth's house was
closed.
Then Mann had seen the item in the Philadelphia newspaper. Detail work was
Mann's business. He went through files of out-of-town journals every day. Mann
had passed the word to The Shadow, who, in turn, saw every reason to believe
that Morth would be home tonight.
With ten o'clock approaching, The Shadow was riding toward a destination.
He was traveling as Lamont Cranston; he was lounging in the rear seat of a big
limousine. The car was rolling southward on Seventh Avenue, toward the
outskirts of Greenwich Village.
There was a radio in the limousine. The Shadow turned the knob. The
zing-zing of a wireless sounded. Some amateur sender, using short wave. But the
code was not the International. Dots and dashes formed an odd jargon as The
Shadow listened.
A soft laugh echoed as the limousine rolled onward. Riding luxuriously
through Manhattan, The Shadow was receiving a last-minute report from Burbank.
The contact man was using a short-wave set from his hidden post.
The message was in special code devised by The Shadow. A tricky
combination that included key words which only The Shadow could recognize when
he had translated them.
Burbank was reporting calls from various agents; he was mentioning briefly
the fact that they had lost sight of the men whom they were set to watch.
Again, The Shadow laughed. His agents had encountered bad breaks; yet he
was unperturbed. Some one among the watched men might be the big-shot. It was
impossible to determine which one. But while others were innocently on the
move, the supercrook was apparently designing evil.
The Shadow was ready for trouble; its approach pleased him. Particularly
when Burbank's final report buzzed through, telling that Cliff and Hawkeye had
uncovered Flick Sherrad's hideout, only to find it empty. That meant that
minions, like their evil chief, would be on the job.

THE limousine was in the edge of the Village, weaving its way through a
curious network of twisted streets. Stanley, the chauffeur, was familiar with
this district. The car rolled through a thoroughfare no wider than an alley. It
turned into a cross street.
Radio turned off, The Shadow was peering from the window of the big car.
He noticed an isolated house, an old-fashioned building that remained a
homestead among other edifices that had been transformed into apartments.
Across the street, he observed an Italian fruit vendor standing by a heavy
pushcart. The fellow was mopping his forehead with a bandanna handkerchief.
"Stop here, Stanley," spoke The Shadow, through the speaking tube. His
voice was the quiet tone of Cranston. "Go over and ask that fruit seller how
much he wants for a whole bunch of bananas."
The chauffeur pulled up at the curb. Wondering he alighted. Stanley was
used to his employer's quirks, but the threat of buying out a fruit peddler's
entire supply of bananas was something new. Nevertheless, Stanley obeyed the
order.
The Shadow watched him talk with the Italian, who gesticulated with much
gusto. Stanley returned. "Three dollars and twenty-five cents," reported the
chauffeur, through the speaking tube. "Do you wish to purchase the bananas, Mr.
Cranston?"
"No," returned The Shadow, quietly. "Tell the man he is asking
seventy-five cents too much. Then return here, Stanley. We shall proceed."
The chauffeur went back to the fruit wagon. The Italian became indignant
when he heard the news. Stanley backed away from the gesticulating fellow.
Anxious to avoid an argument, the chauffeur scrambled aboard the big car.
"Drive around the block, Stanley," commented The Shadow, dryly.
The chauffeur drove off, gladly. The Shadow, looking back, emitted a soft
laugh, as he saw the fruit peddler standing in the center of the street,
clenching his fists and glaring.
The fellow had played his part well. This was no ordinary fruit peddler.
The Italian's name was Pietro; he was an agent of The Shadow.
Pietro had been posted there by Burbank. The Italian had been pushing his
cart along this Street exclusively, always watching that old, sequestered
house. For that building was the closed home of Professor Tyson Morth.
Stanley was not an agent of The Shadow. He was merely Lamont Cranston's
chauffeur. Yet, unwittingly, Stanley had passed a message to Pietro. The
argument over the price of bananas was actually a cue to the Italian.
Pietro's statement of three dollars and a quarter meant that no one had
entered the old house. Word coming back that the sum was too much meant that
Pietro was to remain on duty in case of emergency only, for The Shadow had
taken charge.

THE limousine reached the back street. It was rolling past the rear of
Morth's darkened house. Again, The Shadow used Cranston's voice to request a
stop. He gave Stanley another order.
"Step over to that tea room," said The Shadow. "Ask the door man how much
they charge for their regular dinner. If the price is no more than a dollar,
find out how long they remain open."
Again, Stanley alighted. Approaching the obscure basement entrance to the
little tea room, the chauffeur encountered a huge African attired in gorgeous
uniform. The fellow bowed politely as he saw Stanley.
"How much is the dinner here?" questioned the chauffeur.
"One dollah, sah," returned the African.
"And how late do you stay open?" added Stanley.
"Until midnight, sah," was the reply.
Stanley returned to the car. He gave the information through the speaking
tube. Again, the chauffeur had unwittingly formed contact for The Shadow. The
big African was another worker whom The Shadow used on occasion. His name was
Jericho, and he made a specialty of hiring out as a doorman.
Jericho had practically wished himself into the present job. Following
Burbank's orders, he had come to this tea room with his splendid uniform and
had offered to work in return for meals alone. The proprietor had naturally
given him the job. As doorman at the tea room, Jericho had been watching the
rear of Morth's residence.
Jericho's statement of one dollar was the cue that nothing had occurred
here. Had any one entered the rear of Morth's house, Jericho would have stated
that dinners cost one dollar and a quarter. Then Stanley would have come back
to the limousine immediately. As it was, Stanley had put another question
regarding closing time. That told Jericho that he was henceforth on emergency
duty only. The Shadow himself would be in charge.
When Stanley used the speaking tube to report his conversation to Lamont
Cranston, he heard his master reply in a quiet tone:
"Drive to the Cobalt Club, Stanley." The chauffeur pressed the starter. As
he did, the rear door of the limousine opened noiselessly. A silent, shrouded
figure stepped to the curb and moved swiftly toward the wall of Morth's house.
The limousine pulled away without The Shadow.
Driving toward the Cobalt Club, Stanley was puzzled. His boss had been
more eccentric than usual. First he had changed his mind about buying a bunch
of bananas; then he had passed up a dollar dinner. Now he was riding back to
the Cobalt Club.
So thought Stanley. The chauffeur did not know that the rear of the car
was empty. That would bewilder him further when he reached his destination.

MEANWHILE, The Shadow was testing a rear door that opened into Morth's
house. It was locked and bolted from the inside. The barrier, too, was
formidable. The Shadow probed the lock, which was located in a large keyhole.
He picked it after a brief process.
The bolt remained as a problem. The Shadow settled it. His gloved fingers
pushed an instrument through the keyhole. This was a coiling wire with a
pliable loop on the ends. It twisted upward inside the door; probing, The
Shadow worked until the loop had hooked the inner bolthead. Then he manipulated
the instrument in twisting fashion. He heard the inner bolt grind back.
The Shadow opened the door and entered. His advance was shrouded, for this
door was in darkness. The Shadow locked the barrier behind him. A tiny
flashlight glimmered as he looked about on the ground floor.
The house was musty. Its lower windows were barred. No chance for entry
here; huge iron shutters would keep out intruders. The Shadow found a stairway
and ascended to the second floor. He saw another flight that led to the third
story. Instead of following it, he began a search of the second floor. He
entered a room which had a lowered shade. Closing the door, The Shadow pressed
a light switch.
His flashlight's glimmer had given him a brief view; he knew that this was
the room he wanted. As he viewed the apartment in full light, The Shadow laughed
softly. He was standing in Professor Morth's study - and it was a most curious
room.
In the center was a desk, with book-racks that were laden with technical
volumes that dealt with anthropology. At one corner of the room was a small
curtained alcove, which appeared to be used for storing articles. In the far
corner was a large cupboard with open front.
The contents of the cupboard intrigued The Shadow. Every shelf contained a
row of grinning skulls. From specimens of the cave-man type to heads of modern
proportions, this was an exhibit of man's cranial evolution.
Skulls large and small. Leering, eyeless objects that looked like
formidable guardians left on duty by Professor Morth.
The Shadow approached the cupboard. He noted that the shelves were
unbacked. A plain wall lay behind them.
Crooks were in search of a skull. There were skulls here in plenty; but
there was no choice among those in the cupboard. But as The Shadow turned, he
spied a skull that stood alone. Fierce and grim, it was resting, open-jawed,
upon a low, squatty cabinet that stood in another corner of the room.
A clock on the wall tingled ten as The Shadow approached this
cabinet-mounted skull. He noted that the solitary death's-head was a
manufactured article, not a genuine skull. It was attached to the cabinet, and
as The Shadow gazed into the open jaws, he spied what appeared to be a
nickel-plated knob directly beneath the center hollow of the skull.
A whispered laugh came from hidden lips. The Shadow, weirdly cloaked,
looked like the symbol of death in this room of human relics. The skull on the
cabinet looked up as though viewing a visible master. The skulls in the
cupboard were grinning as in greeting. The soft mirth ended suddenly. The
Shadow's keen ears had caught a sound from below. Footsteps in a lower hall.
Voices. Men were coming up the stairs. They were moving closer to this room.
Quickly, The Shadow pressed out the lights. He swished through darkness and
gained the curtained alcove.

THE door of the room opened. Two men entered. One was past middle age; his
Vandyke beard was gray. Slight of build, he was, however, brisk and domineering
in manner. Peering from the curtain, The Shadow knew that this must be
Professor Morth.
The other man, middle-aged and pasty-faced, looked like a servant.
"Very well, Logan," stated Professor Morth. "You may begin to put the
house in order. Leave the downstairs windows closed until tomorrow; but uncover
the furniture."
"Yes, sir," replied the servant.
"I am glad you met me at the station," resumed Morth. "I had forgotten my
keys. Let me see" - he pulled open a desk drawer - "ah, yes, here they are."
Professor Morth went to a door at the rear of the study. He unlocked it.
The Shadow caught a glimpse of a bedroom, as the professor entered. Returning
with a meerschaum pipe, Morth filled the bowl from a humidor on the desk, then
waved a hand to Logan.
"Go downstairs," he repeated. "Put things in order. Then you can continue
your work up here."
Logan departed, closing the door behind him. Professor Morth lighted his
pipe. With a pleased sigh, he looked toward the skull-filled cupboard. He
seemed to regard those grinning heads as friends.
Puffing at the meerschaum, the bearded anthropologist turned toward the
squatty cabinet. He chuckled as he viewed the mounted skull; he approached and
placed his hand upon the artificial death's-head, stroking it as one would pat
a faithful dog.
There was a telephone on Morth's desk. A buzz attracted the professor's
attention. He approached and picked up the receiver. It was a call from Logan,
downstairs.
"What's that?" queried Morth, sharply. "A visitor? I did not hear the
doorbell... Ah, yes, I recall now that one can not hear it here in the study
when the door is closed. But I wish to see no one, Logan...
"Something important? What is the visitor's name?... Homer Hothan... Never
heard of him... What's that? Did you say he came from Hildrew Parchell? Hildrew
Parchell is dead... Ah, I begin to understand... This man Hothan was Hildrew's
secretary...Very well, Logan...
"Yes, I shall see him... Certainly, here in the study... Yes, bring up the
mail also. Quite an accumulation of it, I suppose... Very well, Logan."
Professor Morth hung up. He seated himself behind the desk and puffed at
the meerschaum. His bearded face was reflective. Morth was thinking of his dead
friend, Hildrew Parchell.
From behind the curtain, The Shadow watched the flickers of emotion on the
savant's face. Like Morth, The Shadow was awaiting the arrival of Homer Hothan.

CHAPTER XIII

THE SECOND SKULL

FIVE minutes had passed since Logan's announcement of a visitor. Professor
Morth was still behind his desk, busy opening his mail. Across from him was
Homer Hothan.
The sallow man was looking curiously about. Logan had gone downstairs
again. The door of the study was closed.
After shaking hands with Hothan, Morth had requested the visitor to sit
down and wait a few minutes. Morth wanted to go through his mail before he
talked with Hildrew Parchell's ex-secretary. At times, Hothan watched the
professor; at other moments, he continued his roving inspection of the study.
The Shadow, in darkness behind the curtain, saw a keen flicker on Hothan's
face as the fellow viewed the skull-filled cupboard. Then he saw disappointment
reflected in Hothan's gaze. Keenness returned, however, when Hothan spied that
squatty cabinet in the corner. The sallow man spotted the glimmer from within
the mounted skull.
Professor Morth looked up suddenly as he heard a slight chuckle that
Hothan gave unconsciously. Hothan was quick to look in another direction. His
face became dull as he sought to cover up his mistake. Morth laid letters aside
and relighted his meerschaum.
"Very well, young man," declared the professor. "I am ready to converse
with you. What is the purpose of this visit? You say you were once Hildrew
Parchell's secretary?"
"Yes," nodded Hothan, "and at present I am acting in behalf of his estate.
I was sent here by Weldon Wingate, Mr. Parchell's attorney."
"Wingate sent you here?"
There was something doubtful in Morth's tone. Hothan was smart enough to
know the reason. He had not been idle while watching Morth read his mail.
"I believe," purred Hothan, suavely, "that Mr. Wingate wrote you. He
indicated that fact to me. He said that he had expected to hear from you.
Because he had not, he suggested that I call here."
"Ah, yes." Morth nodded. "That would explain it. I have just been reading
a brief letter from Wingate. He wants me to communicate with him, in reference
to Hildrew Parchell. But he stated nothing else."
"He believed that he would hear from you," remarked Hothan. "He told me
that when he called me on the telephone tonight. Our conversation was brief; he
merely asked me to call here and discuss matters with you."
"What matters?"
"Relating to Hildrew Parchell's estate."
"I know nothing of Hildrew Parchell's affairs."
"You were his friend."
"We had a mutual interest in anthropology. Hildrew used to call here to
discuss his theories on evolution. That was our only connection."
"But correspondence passed between you -"
"Come, come!" Morth was irritable in his interjection. "Why this
fol-de-rol, young man? What is this fellow Wingate, a blather-skite? - to send
you here on an errand that had no purpose?"
"Let me explain." urged Hothan. "Mr. Wingate intends to settle Hildrew
Parchell's estate."
"Certainly. Then let him settle it."
"But in order to do so, he requires more information. Papers in the
Parchell files are incomplete. Mr. Wingate believes that perhaps some friends
of Hildrew Parchell could furnish letters that might add information."
"This is understandable," decided Morth, in a mollified tone. "Yet it is
ridiculous to suppose that I could supply any data. I have a few letters from
Parchell. They all pertain to anthropology."
"Where are they, professor?"
"I believe" - Morth paused reflectively and puffed a smoke screen from his
pipe - "I believe that they must be in the bedroom. There is an old box in the
closet that contains old letters. It would take me ten minutes, though, to
search through them."
"I would appreciate it, sir -"
"The letters would be of no value to Wingate."
"Perhaps not, professor. But I could at least report that I had seen them."
"Very well." Professor Morth arose and placed his big pipe on an ash
stand. "Remain here, Mr. Hothan, until I return."

THE professor went into the bedroom, closing the connecting door behind
him. The Shadow, listening from the study alcove, heard the click of a light
switch; then footsteps going across the adjoining room.
The Shadow peered toward Hothan. He saw an eager, cunning look on the
sallow face. The Shadow expected action. It came.
Rising, Hothan sneaked quickly to the squatty cabinet. He thrust his hand
between the open jaws of the artificial skull. He turned the knob that he had
seen within, expecting that it would open the cabinet, which had no visible
door.
As Hothan performed this action, the unexpected came. With a sharp click,
the jaws of the skull snapped shut. Strong teeth, backed by metal rowels,
caught the interloper's hand in a ferocious, mechanical bite.
A howl came from Hothan. Pain and surprise caused his instinctive cry.
Helplessly trapped, Hothan could not move. His right hand was in a viselike
clutch; the heavy cabinet was clamped to the floor.
The door of the bedroom opened. Professor Morth appeared in response to
Hothan's outcry. The anthropologist was chuckling as he viewed Hothan's plight.
Snarling, the trapped man reached across his body with his left hand,
striving to pull a gun from his coat pocket on the right.
Morth sprang spryly forward. He found the pocket before Hothan could reach
it. The anthropologist brought forth a shiny .32 revolver.
"A dangerous toy," chuckled Morth, retiring to his desk. "Well, well,
young man! Curiosity has caused you trouble."
"Let me out of this!" pleaded Hothan.
"Not yet," replied Morth. "We must talk things over first. "Suppose" - he
was relighting his meerschaum as he spoke - "that you first use your left hand
to reach beneath the cabinet. You will find a knob there. Turn it."
"And get myself in worse?"
"Do as I order."

MORTH'S tone was commanding. To add to its force, the professor picked up
the .32 and wagged the weapon.
Hothan reached beneath the cabinet and found the knob. He turned it. A
close-fitted door sprang open in the front of the cabinet. Stooping, Hothan
stared. The cabinet was empty.
"Merely a trap," declared Morth. "You see, young man, I frequently leave
town; and this house might prove attractive to some burglar. So I devised this
trap to be in keeping with the setting. The skull that holds you is
mechanically designed to lure prospective thieves.
"Just an empty cabinet. In fact, there is nothing of great value anywhere
in this house. I designed the cabinet, however, as a safe for any valuables,
should I choose to keep them here. I always wanted to see how the snare would
work. I am satisfied."
"Then let me out."
"Why?" Morth's tone was harsh. "You have proven yourself a prospective
thief. I want to see what action the law will take in such a case as this. It
will be useful for future reference."
With that, Morth reached for the telephone. Hothan protested wildly. The
professor paused.
"Don't call the police!" was Hothan's plea. "It - it would ruin my
reputation with Mr. Wingate. Honestly, professor, I was only trying to - to be
of aid to him."
"By trying to rob me?" quizzed Morth, sarcastically.
"No," returned Hothan. "I'll be honest professor. I - I was looking for
something that belonged to Hildrew Parchell. I - I thought it might be in this
cabinet."
"Preposterous!"
"No, professor. You see, old Mr. Parchell wrote - I mean he told me before
he - that is, he told me once that there was something important with the skull."
"With what skull?"
"Just the skull. His message - that is, what he said, was incomplete.
There was more that he didn't - that he didn't tell, but might have. Wealth
with the skull. That's why I wanted - why Mr. Wingate wanted to talk with old
friends of Hildrew Parchell."
"Why didn't you state this at first?"
"I intended to bring up the matter. I didn't notice the skull when I first
came in. I did see those there in the rack" - Hothan pointed with his left hand
- "but it wasn't until you left the study that I realized this might be the
skull. I - I was excited. I forgot myself."
"Unwise of you." Morth's tone was dry. "Well, young man, you made a
mistake. You walked into a coincidence. As an anthropologist, I have collected
skulls. But none of them are concerned with any secret that belongs to Hildrew
Parchell."
"Then you will let me go?"
"Yes, I shall release you - after the police have come."

DETERMINED in his statement, Professor Morth reached for the telephone.
Hothan struggled at the skull; his efforts were futile. He tried to pry the
lower jaw with his left hand. He could not. The skull had clamped to stay. Some
secret device alone would open it. Only Professor Morth knew the method.
From the alcove, The Shadow watched Hothan's desperate effort. He realized
the man's plight. Hothan had taken a wrong track. Like the silver skull, this
second skull was not the one that guarded Hildrew Parchell's treasure.
But should the police arrive, Hothan would be forced to confess.
Foolishly, he had talked too much in urging Professor Morth to release him.
This time, Joe Cardona would certainly see a connection. Hothan was afraid that
police questioning would force him to admission of his crimes.
The Shadow's gaze turned toward the desk. Morth had raised the receiver of
the telephone, he was trying to get an outside line. But the wire was dead.
Morth looked perplexed as he jiggled the hook. The Shadow, however, was not
puzzled. The failure of the telephone came to him as a warning.
Quickly, The Shadow looked toward the door that led to the hall. The
Shadow had remembered that that door prevented any one in the study from
hearing a ring at the front door of the house.
The Shadow was picturing what might have happened; and as he directed his
eyes toward the door of the room, he spied the barrier swinging inward.
With a quick thrust, The Shadow swung the curtain of the alcove to one
side. His gloved hands shot beneath his cloak; they swept out again, bringing a
brace of automatics. At the same instant, Professor Morth leaped up from his
desk, grabbing Hothan's revolver. The savant, too, was turning toward the door.
Armed men were coming into the lighted study. They were mobsters,
hard-faced rogues like the troupe that had invaded Tobold's pawnshop.
Once again, fighters from the underworld were backing Homer Hothan.

CHAPTER XIV

THE FUTILE FRAY

THE SHADOW'S automatics boomed their opening shots. Two gorillas were
beaten on the draw. One mobster sprawled forward from the doorway. The second,
partly covered by his falling pal, sagged out into the hall. The Shadow had
gained the edge. His sinister laugh came with the echoes of his fire.
But with those two rounds, The Shadow's vantage ended. This was destined
to be a battle replete with surprises. These first mobsters had been sent as
shock troops. Some competent leader had profited by the setback at Tobold's.
The reserves were not so unwary as before.
Barks burst from the depths of the outside hall. Mobsters were under
cover, ready in case The Shadow intervened. They were opening from ambush; had
they been less hasty, they might have scored a triumph.
As it was, whistling bullets did not more than give The Shadow warning.
The zipping slugs were wide, discharged from long range. The Shadow saw
Professor Morth diving to cover behind the big desk. Built of heavy wood, the
desk was sufficient protection. It was not flimsy, like Tobold's counter.
That meant that The Shadow, too, could seek a bulwark. With a quick swish,
the cloaked fighter leaped for the curtained alcove. Shouts from the hall;
futile guns barked wildly as The Shadow dived for shelter. Aiming mobsters
missed their whirling target.
Bullets clipped skulls in Professor Morth's cupboard. Plop - plop - plop -
three heads went toppling like tin birds from the rack of a shooting gallery.
Morth uttered a mad gabble from behind his desk, as he saw his prizes
fall. The professor's outcry was drowned by new shots.
Mobsters were aiming for the alcove. Its opening was at right angles to
the doorway of the room. They had no chance to clip The Shadow in his shelter.
But The Shadow, thrusting a gun muzzle from the curtain, was returning the fire.
One cry from the hallway. Another. Mobsters were writhing, wounded. The
Shadow had picked the spurts of their guns. Sharpshooter extraordinary, he was
dealing havoc to the ranks of the foe. He was crippling a man with every shot.
An enemy sprang boldly into view, to open rapid fire. The Shadow glimpsed
a fierce, hardened face. He knew its owner: Flick Sherrad. The hired mob-leader
was not staying back tonight, as he must have done at Tobold's. Flick was out to
get The Shadow.
Revolver bullets chiseled chunks from the woodwork by the alcove. The
Shadow's fire had halted. Flick was delivering the full contents of his
revolver. He thought that he had clipped The Shadow. He did not know that The
Shadow was waiting.
As Flick's fire ended, an odd break came in the fray. Flick had loosed
five swift shots. The Shadow expected another. Back in the alcove, he waited,
believing that the hot-headed mob-leader would loose a final slug for good
measure. The Shadow had calculated well. Flick pressed the trigger of his gun
to dispatch a useless bullet.
At that instant, Professor Morth bobbed up from behind the desk. Opening
with Hothan's .32, Morth fired at Flick Sherrad. The professor's aim was bad.
His shots went wide of the mob-leader.
This new attack, however, sent Flick diving for cover just as The Shadow
swung out from the alcove.
Automatics thundered through the narrow-walled room. But for Morth's
intervention, The Shadow would have dropped Flick Sherrad. As it was, the
mob-leader escaped death by a hair's breadth. His strategy spoiled by Morth's
unexpected action, The Shadow quickly took a new course. He whirled forward
toward the outer door.
Stopping short, he used the side of the doorway as a new bulwark. He fired
out into the hall. Shouting men went clumping down stairways, front and back.
Flick Sherrad and the remnants of his crew had taken flight.
The Shadow did not follow. Instead, he swung quickly back into the study.
He had a reason for avoiding that darkened hall; one that was to become
apparent later. He knew that he had shattered the venomous morale of Flick
Sherrad's band; but he suspected that another enemy might be present.

ALL during the fast fray, Homer Hothan had been squirming madly, trying to
release himself from the mechanical skull. His right hand was lacerated by the
pressure of the rowels against which he had tugged. Blood was showing about the
clamping skull teeth.
Out of the path of bullets, Hothan was gasping frantically. As he saw The
Shadow turning in his direction, Hothan displayed his cowardice. He wailed for
mercy.
"Don't kill me!" cried the sneaky murderer. "I'll - I'll squeal! I - I'll
tell everything -"
As Hothan's voice broke, The Shadow turned quickly toward the door. A
gorilla was crawling in from the hallway. Wounded, the man was on his hands and
knees; he was the rogue whom The Shadow had clipped at the beginning of the
fight.
The thug had heard Hothan's plea. Possessed of the mistaken sense of duty
that rules the underworld, he wanted to finish this squealer. Alone of all the
scattered mobsters, this one knew that Hothan was yellow.
The gorilla could not have clipped The Shadow. Already, the cloaked
fighter was swinging an automatic to beat the thug to the shot. But Hothan was
a target that the gunman had already spotted. Half sagging, the gorilla fired;
then collapsed with a vicious gasp.
The gorilla's gat was a big "smokewagon." The slug that it delivered
produced a result that not even The Shadow had expected. Aim slipping, the
gorilla missed Hothan; but the bullet found another mark - the jaw joint of the
mechanical skull that held the squealer prisoner.
The jaws of the skull snapped open. Hothan, tugging, went staggering
forward. Straight in his path was The Shadow, turning. With a frantic cry,
Hothan leaped wildly upon this formidable foe.
Lucky in his attack, wild with frantic desire for escape, Hothan sent The
Shadow staggering backward. Madly, Hothan grappled for The Shadow's throat but
his clutching hands fell short of their mark. The Shadow's tall form sagged; as
Hothan cried out in fury, powerful shoulders came straight upward.
One gloved hand, dropping its automatic, caught Hothan in a quick jujitsu
hold. An instant later, Hothan's body shot straight upward into the air; it
seemed to poise there; then the struggling squealer went plunging headlong for
the wall behind The Shadow's back.
Again, luck was with Hothan. By rights, he should have landed head-first
on the floor. But the very power of The Shadow's thrust brought a different
result. Thrown almost to the wall, Hothan, wildly clutching, encountered the
cupboard that contained the rows of skulls.

HOTHAN grabbed; then pitched backward. With him came the cupboard. The
Shadow, swinging about to stop its fall, was too late in new action. The heavy
shelves toppled forward, Hothan with them. The cupboard trapped The Shadow
where he stood.
Skulls scattered everywhere as The Shadow was flattened. Again Professor
Morth cried wildly. Hothan, whose grab had loosed this cataclysm, was thrown
clear of the debris. Finding his feet, he scurried madly for the door to the
hall, clutching his torn hand as he ran.
Morth fired wild shots to stop him. Again, the anthropologist showed
himself no marksman. Hothan dived past the door; Morth started forward to
pursue him. The professor did not heed a warning hiss that came from the
overturned cupboard.
The Shadow was coming up between two shelves. Half tangled in the debris,
he wanted to stop Morth's dash. Close by The Shadow's right hand lay a skull;
quickly, the cloaked fighter seized the death's-head and hurled it toward the
professor.
The missile landed against Morth's neck, just below his ear. The professor
tripped and sprawled upon the floor. The skull bounced beside him, rolled a few
feet and remained teetering back and forth, grinning as though pleased by the
part that it had played.
The fall had knocked out Morth for the moment. Though uninjured, the
professor had lost his wind. He was lying helpless, trying to recover when The
Shadow came up from the overturned shelves.
Rolling skulls aside, The Shadow recovered his automatics and sprang
toward the outer door. Nearing it, he stopped short.
Outside was the darkened entrance to stairs that led to the third floor.
Uncannily, The Shadow picked those steps as an ambush. He opened fire; a
revolver barked in answer. The Shadow loosed a fusillade, then sprang forward.
His present set of automatics was a new brace that he had introduced for
the final fray. With these weapons barking, The Shadow attacked with
irresistible fury. He had gained the start; his lurking enemy was in flight.
Had Professor Morth dashed out into that hall, he would have been slain by the
concealed assassin. But The Shadow was a fighter who moved too swiftly for the
hiding foe.
This was not Hothan. The escaping prisoner had fled downward. The Shadow
was dealing with the man who had crossed his path before - the super-crook who
had slain Channing Tobold. Fiercely, The Shadow was driving the killer upward
through the darkness. The foe was in flight toward the third floor.
Just as The Shadow reached the top of the stairs, something thumped from
above. The Shadow recognized the sound. It was a trapdoor in the room. Clamps
were grating into place. The big-shot had fled in time to close the path behind
him.

THE SHADOW laughed. Then, swiftly, he turned and descended to the lower
floor. He kept on past Mort's study; down to the ground floor. He opened the
front door. He heard the sound of police whistles; he spied bluecoats coming up
the street.
Pietro was on the other side, huddled in an alley with his pushcart. The
Shadow knew that the crooks must have come in through the front; but Pietro had
been unable to give warning. Nor had he been able to stop the flight of numerous
gorillas.
Shutting the door, The Shadow turned back into the house. He spied Logan,
bound and gagged upon a couch in a side room. The raiders under Flick Sherrad
had rung the doorbell, then had overpowered the servant. Logan was all right.
The police would release him.
The Shadow moved swiftly through the house. He found the rear door still
bolted. He opened it and moved out into the darkness. This street was quiet. No
mobsters had fled by this route. That was to be regretted.
Jericho, across the way, might have dealt with some of them. That was why
The Shadow had placed him here, the rear being the most likely exit. But the
mobsters had crossed the dope in fleeing by the front.
A foolish course, that flight to the front street; but it had worked well
for Flick Sherrad, since Pietro had been there alone. The fruit seller was not
one of The Shadow's first-line fighters. Pietro had been wise in keeping out of
it.
Off through the dark. A block away, The Shadow paused, by the blackness of
an obscure Village street. His keen eyes looked back, toward the outlines of
houses in the block where Morth lived. A solemn laugh escaped The Shadow's lips.
The master crook had gone, fleeing atop those roofs. Once again, The
Shadow had failed to stop that unseen slayer. But The Shadow's laugh, though
grim, betrayed a note of triumph.
It was still stalemate: The supercrook had gained nothing through the
futile fray. Though his two best workers, Hothan and Sherrad, were still at
large, the big-shot had played another useless hand.
The Shadow had saved Professor Tyson Morth. The anthropologist was not the
custodian of Hildrew Parchell's hidden wealth. The game of crime was scheduled
for resumption. Again, The Shadow would encounter his unknown foe.

CHAPTER XV

FACTS RECOUNTED

"LET us have your complete statement, professor. I want these gentlemen to
hear it."
Detective Joe Cardona was the speaker. He was standing in Professor
Morth's study. About the room were grouped persons whose presence Cardona had
requested: Weldon Wingate, a trifle irritable; Doctor Raymond Deseurre, almost
expressionless; Selwood Royce, keen with interest.
Roger Parchell was also present. He had come with Wingate. Tristram, too,
was present. Cardona, himself, had brought the old servant. For the ace
detective was reopening discussion concerning the death of Hildrew Parchell.
"Well, gentlemen," began Professor Morth, "last night's experience was a
most remarkable one. You see the remains of it" - he waved his hand to indicate
the cupboard, now upright, but containing battered skulls - "and all this chaos
was brought about with bewildering quickness. In fact, the trouble began very
shortly after I had arrived home from Philadelphia."
The professor paused. His eyes fell on the cabinet with the mechanical
skull. Morth smiled wryly.
"Logan announced a visitor," resumed Morth. "A man who introduced himself
as Homer Hothan -"
A hoarse exclamation from Tristram. The old servant's face was tense.
Cardona motioned him to be quiet. Morth proceeded.
"Homer Hothan," said the professor, "represented himself as having been
Hildrew Parchell's secretary. Inspector Cardona tells me that the man actually
served in that capacity. But Hothan did not stop there. He said he had been
sent to me by Weldon Wingate."
"He lied!" exclaimed Wingate, indignantly. "I never saw the scoundrel
after Hildrew Parchell discharged him. Hothan lied, I tell you!"
"I believe he did," stated Morth, with a nod. "He seemed a bit disturbed
when I mentioned that I had a letter from you. But he explained it by saying
that you wanted information from me regarding matters of Hildrew Parchell's
estate."
"That much is true," admitted Wingate. "I have believed it possible that
some friend of Hildrew Parchell might know of certain funds which are not in
the visible estate. Funds, you understand, which may be mythical - for there is
no proof that they exist -"
"Hothan seemed sure that they did," put in Morth. "He mentioned that
Hildrew Parchell had told him they were with the skull."
"With the skull!" exclaimed Wingate, in surprise. "You mean -"
"Wait a moment," injected Cardona. "Don't get ahead of your story,
professor. Tell how Hothan happened to talk."

"VERY well," chuckled Morth. "First he spoke about papers. I said I might
have some letters from Hildrew Parchell. So I went into the bedroom; while I
was there, I heard a cry. When I came back, I found Hothan trapped by my
mechanical skull.
"You see it there" - Morth pointed to the squat cabinet - "that artificial
reproduction of a mesaticephalic, mesognathous skull!"
"One moment, professor," interposed Cardona. "Tell what you had the skull
here for."
"I had it made originally." explained Morth, "to represent an articulating
skull that I could use in lecturing. It is mesaticephalic and mesognathous; it
is made in sphenoid shape because I prefer the sphenoid to the ooide -"
"I mean," interrupted Cardona, "what did you do with the skull after you
decided not to use it with your lectures?"
"I had it made into a thief trap," replied Morth, coming to the point. "I
mounted it on that cabinet, with a knob beneath it, directly under the coronal
surture of the skull. Hothan decided to open the cabinet during my absence. The
teeth of the skull closed upon his hand."
"That's it," prompted Cardona. "And then?"
"I deprived Hothan of a revolver," chuckled Morth. "I told him that I
intended to call the police. That was when he talked about wealth being with
the skull. I made him open the cabinet, to show him that he was mistaken. I had
no wealth here. Neither my own nor Hildrew Parchell's."
"Go ahead," suggested Cardona.

PROFESSOR MORTH arose and walked over by the cupboard. He was sketching a
scene for his audience. He pointed to the door to the hallway.
"That door opened," declared Morth, "while I was trying to call Logan.
Ruffians entered. I thought they were going to kill me. Then, from this alcove,
came a mysterious rescuer. I can describe him only as a human ghost. He was
cloaked in black. He shot down those enemies at the door. But they forced him
back into the alcove.
"Bullets shattered three of my skulls. On this shelf" - the professor
turned to the cupboard - "where I kept some of my finest specimens. This skull
for instance" - Morth picked out a jawless head and showed it - "which I
regarded as a fine example of the dolichocephalic type. You observe that the
mandible was shot away."
"You mean the lower jaw?" queried Cardona.
"Yes," replied Morth. "The mandible. And this skull" - he brought down
another - "was hit in the left malar bar. Compare these two skulls, gentlemen"
- Morth extended them - "and note how they show the great difference between
the dolichocephalic and the brochycephalic -"
"This is not important, professor," broke in Cardona. "Please -"
"Not important!" exclaimed Morth, indignantly. "What! You do not consider
the cephalic index to be important? Listen to me, inspector. The ratio of the
width to the length constitutes the cephalic index. This narrow skull is
dolichocephalic, an African type. This wide one - with the shattered malar bar
- is brachycephalic, a northern Mongolian type. As for the mesaticephalic, I
have here a European skull -"
"Hold it, professor," urged Joe. "We'll take all that for granted. You've
told us the important facts about skulls. If you will -"
"The cephalic index is not most important. Look, inspector: note these
facial angles. This is a prognathous skull, sloping backward, only slightly
more than the seventy-degree angle that separates man from ape. Contrast it
with this orthognathous specimen, with its perpendicular profile. The facial
angle, or gnathic index, is highly important in the study of anthropology."
"But what's that got to do with Hildrew Parchell?"
"He was a student of anthropology, inspector. I used to tell him that I
hoped some day to have his skull in my possession. It was an odd shape -
platycephalic - and such a specimen -"
"Tell us what happened after the shooting began. That is what we are here
to learn about, professor."
"Ah yes, the shooting." Morth smiled. His arms were loaded with skulls by
this time; he began to replace them carefully upon the shelf, shaking his head
as he came across broken ones. Then, turning about, he resumed:

"MY rescuer drove back the invaders. In the fray, a lucky shot struck the
artificial skull that held Hothan prisoner. The mechanism sprang open. The
mandible dropped. Hothan leaped for my rescuer. The cupboard was overturned."
"And then?"
"I was tormented by the sight. One skull, which I have always regarded as
a true subbrachycephalic, was shattered before my eyes. Even the maxillae were
broken -"
"And Hothan?"
"Ah, yes, Hothan. He fled. I wanted to stop him; but something struck me
behind the ear and I fell. Either Hothan or my rescuer, probably the latter,
had hurled a pentagonal skull of the mesaticephalic type -"
"And hit you with it," added Cardona, impatiently. "Thank you, professor.
Let me do the talking now. Well," - to the others - "are there any comments?"
"I have one." It was Doctor Deseurre who spoke. "I can see no definite
connection between the death of Hildrew Parchell and this affair here. I am
convinced that Hildrew Parchell was stricken with an expected heart attack."
"But what about Channing Tobold?" queried Cardona.
"I know nothing about his death," replied Deseurre.
"Just how could it be connected with this trouble?" queried Roger Parchell.
"Very easily," returned Cardona. "Have you seen those jewels that once
belonged to your uncle?"
"Not yet," answered Roger. "Mr. Wingate intended to show them to me; but
he has not done so, yet."
"You've seen them, Wingate," remarked Cardona. "What's your opinion?"
"I have seen them," admitted Wingate, slowly, "and I recall that in the
lot there was one ring - a silver ring - with a signet shaped like a skull -"
"That's it!" broke in Cardona. "You've hit it. The skull ring! Homer
Hothan was after the skull. But he didn't come here first. He went to Tobold's.
He and the mob that was with him grabbed the jewelry because they saw the skull
ring. They thought that junk was Hildrew Parchell's wealth."
"You mean," queried Roger, "that you are convinced that my uncle did leave
a hidden fortune?"
"It looks that way," replied Cardona, "and if I were you, young fellow,
I'd look for it. On your own. Don't worry about Homer Hothan; it's my job to
find him."
"Perhaps," commented Doctor Deseurre, dryly, "you have the theory, also,
that Homer Hothan visited Hildrew Parchell and murdered him?"
"I've got a hunch to that effect," challenged Joe, staring squarely at the
physician. "Hothan was in on Tobold's killing. He came here. He might have
bumped Hildrew Parchell and started that fire."
"Possibly," agreed Deseurre, after considering the statement. "A visit by
Hothan might have been contributory to Hildrew Parchell's heart attack."
A pause. Then Selwood Royce spoke to Roger Parchell. The young millionaire
was repeating his invitation to the heir, asking him to come out, as a guest, to
the Long Island estate. Roger was nodding his acceptance.
"That's all," declared Joe Cardona, abruptly. "I wanted you all here to
find out what was what. I'm keeping a police guard here, Professor, in case
those thugs try another raid. But I figure you're safe. Hothan must know by now
that the goods aren't here."
That settled, Cardona turned to Wingate.
"Keep in close touch with me," he told the lawyer. "You're handling the
estate; you're liable to run across something that might be a clue." Then, to
the others, Cardona added: "If I want to talk with any of you, I'll call you."

MEN filed out. Cardona remained with Professor Morth for a few moments;
then he followed the others. As he neared the door he found Clyde Burke there,
blocking the entrance. The reporter was smiling.
"How much of this do you want me to use, Joe?" queried the reporter.
"How much!" blurted Cardona. "You - you - were you in on this?"
"Right here in the hall," acknowledged Clyde. "The flatfoot downstairs let
me by. I didn't want to butt in, so I waited in the hall."
"And listened in, eh? Well, if this stuff gets in that yellow sheet of
yours, I'll -"
"It won't, Joe, unless you say so."
"All right, Burke," Cardona grinned. "Say - hold it, will you, until I've
gotten a line on Hothan? I want his name out of it."
Clyde nodded his agreement. With the detective, he strolled downstairs,
promising not to use the story until Joe gave the word.
Outside, they found Roger Parchell and Selwood Royce about to get into a
coupe. Clyde approached the millionaire and introduced himself. Royce laughed
sheepishly.
"So you're Burke of the Classic," he said. "Sorry, old top, about last
night. I forgot I was to meet you and take you out to Long Island. Come out any
time you want - I'll be there for the next week. Just breeze in, any evening,
and I'll show you the art gallery."
The coupe pulled away. Cardona was still standing on the curb. The
detective spoke a reminder.
"Remember, Burke -"
"I won't forget, Joe. Nothing goes in the Classic."
They separated. Clyde strolled off smiling. He intended to keep his news
out of the Classic for the time. But he had not promised more than that. Clyde
Burke was already on his way to visit Rutledge Mann, there to deliver a
complete report of Cardona's conference.
The detective's findings: his present theory; the reactions of those who
had heard it - all would soon be in the hands of The Shadow.

CHAPTER XVI

THE NEW TRAIL

THE meeting at Professor Morth's had taken place at ten o'clock in the
morning. Clyde Burke's report had been forwarded to The Shadow at eleven. Noon
passed; afternoon waned. Thick-clouded night descended on Manhattan.
A light burned in The Shadow's sanctum. Those bluish rays had appeared
previously today. On more than one occasion, The Shadow had reason to visit his
mysterious abode where darkness ruled except when he was present.
All agents had reported further, regarding last night. Harry Vincent had
remained at the motion-picture theater until after eleven o'clock; then he had
decided to go back to the hotel, rather than trust to luck in finding Roger
Parchell in the after-theater crowd.
Just before eleven-thirty. Roger had returned to the Hotel Metrolite. He
had inquired for messages and had learned that there were none. He had left an
eight-thirty call for the morning and had retired to his room.
Clyde Burke had not located Selwood Royce at all last night. The
millionaire had not appeared at the club nor at his home. This morning, Clyde
had received Royce's apology. That was all.
Moe Shrevnitz had seen Weldon Wingate come in at midnight. The lawyer had
returned in another taxicab. Moe had no idea where Wingate had been.
Doctor Rupert Sayre reported that Raymond Deseurre had returned
unexpectedly to the Gray Room banquet one hour after he had left. Evidently, he
had completed his emergency appointment in less time than he had expected.

MEANWHILE, The Shadow had allowed Cliff and Hawkeye but little time for
rest. He had spurred those agents to new investigations in the underworld. All
day, the pair had been taking turns in visiting underworld dives.
Cliff and Hawkeye were looking for new traces of Flick Sherrad. The
mob-leader had not reappeared at his hideout. It was probably that he had
another place of security. But in addition to the hunt for Flick, The Shadow's
aids were seeking trace of Homer Hothan.
For The Shadow had gained an important clue last night - one that he was
outlining in inked words beneath the blue light. The Shadow had learned by
observation that the supercrook who had hired Flick did not fully trust Homer
Hothan.
The Shadows clue was the shot that a wounded gorilla had taken at Hothan.
The mobster who had fired the bullet that had so oddly released the prisoner
had not performed the action purely on his own initiative.
Gorillas, as a rule, were one-track thinkers. They took orders and obeyed
them in spite of circumstances. Ordinarily, a cornered mobster would have
chanced a last shot at The Shadow, in preference to picking a squealing ally.
There was one answer: The gorilla had been acting under strict orders from
Flick Sherrad.
Unquestionably, Flick had posted his mob to drop Hothan on the spot if the
sallow man showed signs of becoming yellow. Hothan knew too much. The big-shot
who ruled Flick Sherrad had implanted that fact upon the mob-leader.
The Shadow saw Hothan as a pitiful tool in this game. One who had played a
vital part; one who could still be used. Yet one who would be sacrificed the
moment that he became a liability.
Reasoning from that point, The Shadow could visualize Hothan's present
circumstance. Hothan must be somewhere in the underworld, where he could be
watched by Flick Sherrad's henchman. The big-shot would not risk keeping Hothan
in a respectable locality, where watching mobsters would be out of place.
Moreover, Hothan himself might be suspicious if he were thrown with thugs
outside the confines of the underworld. Logic, of The Shadow's keen sort, told
that the master crook must have talked Hothan into believing that safety lay in
the bad lands.
Not that Hothan was a prisoner. That would end his usefulness entirely. He
would be blotted out before such necessity came about. Hothan was being allowed
to move; to keep on working - but always under supervision.
Flick Sherrad's new hideout would be hard to find. But not Hothan's.
Clustered mobsmen would be near it. That was why The Shadow's aids were so busy
in the underworld. They were filtering everywhere, looking for a clue.

SOON The Shadow would be with them. In these last few moments before his
departure, he paused to study the list of names of those whom his agents had
failed to follow the night before. A laugh came from The Shadow's lips.
His long right forefinger touched the name he wanted. There was the man
whom The Shadow had picked as the brain behind crime, the one who had urged
Hothan to slay Hildrew Parchell; the man who, himself, had murdered Channing
Tobold.
The same big-shot had been at Professor Morth's last night. Without seeing
him, The Shadow had guessed his identity. Agents had experienced difficulties
last night. They were still in the dark. But The Shadow, knowing the parts of
all concerned, with added information about the conference at Morth's, had
eliminated all but one of those who could possibly be suspected.
If all else failed, The Shadow could deal with that criminal direct. But
it was better to give him rope; to let him move his pawns; to catch him when he
made one last attempt to gain Hildrew Parchell's wealth.
For The Shadow knew also where Hildrew Parchell must have stored his
treasure. Tobold's pawnshop had been eliminated; so had Morth's residence. The
list of old friends had narrowed down to one. The only other man who could have
been guardian of Hildrew Parchell's wealth was Thatcher Royce, the deceased
father of Selwood.
A soft laugh that rose became an eerie, lingering whisper. The Shadow had
started his agents on the move. He had picked the potential big-shot with whom
he must fight; he had named the coming battleground. He wanted to anticipate
the moves of underlings. He was on his way to that attempt.

FAR from Broadway's glow, the shaded districts of the bad lands lay
blanketed beneath a lowered sky. This district, crime's stronghold, seemed
filled with skulking figures. Hoodlums and other riffraff were wending their
nightly courses.
Here were the holes from which rats emerged to prey upon society, then
scurry back to cover. This was the district where police hesitated to use the
dragnet, because the grapevine invariably warned of its approach and let wanted
men make for cover long before the law arrived.
In the heart of this district, two men were to meet again tonight: Cliff
and Hawkeye, to compare notes. The time for their meeting arrived. In the
darkness of an alleyway, Cliff Marsland paused, to hear a hoarse whisper:
Hawkeye's.
"What'd you get, Cliff? Anything hot?"
"Yeah. Soak Burlow was down at the Pink Rat this afternoon. He ducked out;
but I heard he was there. Nobody's seen him since. Have you?"
"No. Say - Soak Burlow used to be a pal of Flick Sherrad's, didn't he?"
"He did. And today, he was talking with Scoot Zugg. That's what I learned
-"
"Scoot Zugg! Say, I've seen him, Cliff. Heading up past that blind alley
in back of the Bowery Garage. Another mug was with him."
"Did they come back?"
"No; but they didn't look suspicious."
Cliff grunted.
"They're suspicious now," he affirmed. "We both know that Flick's got to
line up some new torpedoes. Soak picked out Scoot; Scoot drew in another
gorilla."
"Let's head over there, Cliff."
The two men moved away. A dozen paces on, Hawkeye looked over his
shoulder. The little man was suspicious. He always was; but usually with
reason. In the old days, when Hawkeye had been at odds with the law, he had
been known as the best spotter in the underworld.
Again, Hawkeye peered behind him. He had a lurking impression that he and
Cliff were being followed. Keen, thorough in observation, Hawkeye paused to
stare into darkness. Satisfied at last, he moved along to rejoin Cliff.

THEY reached the blind alley that they sought. Sneaking into the depths of
the cul-de-sac, Cliff and Hawkeye were tense. They tried doorway after doorway,
looking for lurking mobsters, ready to act together if they found one.
No results. They emerged from the entrance of the blind alley.
"Locked doors in those crumbly houses," commented Cliff, "and where
there's locked doors there'd be a lookout if the place was a hideout."
"One door wasn't locked," commented Hawkeye. "It might be" - he paused -
"listen, Cliff!"
A hiss from darkness. The Shadow! Hawkeye stood stock-still. He realized
now why he had been suspicious back at the rendezvous. Some one had been there.
The Shadow! The mysterious chief had trailed his agents here, despite Hawkeye's
final conviction that they were not being followed.
An order from The Shadow. Cliff and Hawkeye moved toward the wall. The
Shadow had heard mention of that unlocked door. He was going to investigate it.
The Shadow moved deeper into blackness.
As he neared the door, The Shadow paused. Some one was coming out. A
figure stole into the alleyway. Almost immediately, two others followed. The
Shadow waited while they blundered to the street. Swiftly, he rejoined Cliff
and Hawkeye.
Off across the street, a stoop-shouldered man was shambling toward the
next corner. On the near side, two huskies were keeping pace. The Shadow spoke
in a whisper; his words were meant for Hawkeye:
"Hothan. Trail him!"
As Hawkeye moved away, he heard The Shadow speaking again to Cliff:
"Report to Burbank. Instructions as follows -"
Hawkeye heard no more. He was out of earshot; but as he glanced back over
his shoulder, he saw Cliff coming from the alley. Cliff, too, had duty to
perform. One that meant moves by other agents of The Shadow.

BLACKNESS was moving into the blind alley. Phantom blackness that formed a
silent, unseen shape that lived. The Shadow was moving into Hothan's hideout.
He came to the unlocked door. He entered. He used no light. Feeling his
way through darkness, he came to a stairway.
Silently, The Shadow moved upward. At the top, he could hear slight sounds
from an opened doorway. A watcher was in there; another like the two mobsters
who had followed along after Hothan. As The Shadow had suspected, Hothan was
moving under surveillance.
A closed door. Locked. The Shadow probed it noiselessly. A simple lock,
the barrier opened almost immediately. The Shadow entered. Paper crinkled
softly as he pressed it in the keyhole. Then his tiny flashlight played close
to the floor.
Hothan's hideout: a dingy room, with few furnishings. A cot with a
scraggly mattress. A glimmer showed bits of straw upon the floor.
Stooping, The Shadow examined the edge of the mattress. His fingers found
a razor-blade slit. Probing, The Shadow discovered a folded paper. He brought
it out.
The flashlight showed a scrawl that ended in a succession of half-finished
lines. A soft laugh from The Shadow. The right edge of the narrow sheet was
burned. This was the half of the document that old Hildrew Parchell had set on
fire the night that he had died.
The Shadow read the incomplete scrawl. It appeared as follows:

I, Hildrew Parchell -
mind, do hereby decla-
put away the great part -
to the value of one mil-
in a place were I am c-
it will be safe.
The wealth has been w-
with the skull which I -
my old trusted friend -
To find the skull g-
home and ask to see th-
Look at them carefully -
note the right one -
With the wealth ar-
that represent my wish-
disposal of it.
Hildre-

Carefully, The Shadow copied this message, leaving dots to represent the
unfinished portion of each line. He pushed the original back into the mattress.
Extinguishing his tiny flashlight, he moved to the window. By the slight light
that came from a street lamp on the other side of the building, The Shadow
began to fill in the gaps. Three minutes later, his completed message read:

I, Hildrew Parchell, (being of sound)
mind, do hereby decla(re that I have wisely)
put away the great part (of my possessions)
to the value of one mil(lion dollars which is)
in a place where I am c(onvinced fully that)
it will be safe.
The wealth has been w(ell concealed. It is)
with the skull which I (left in the hands of)
my old, trusted friend (..........)
To find the skull, g(o to..........'s)
home and ask to see th(e ...... which he has there.)
Look at them carefully (and you will easily)
note the right one.
With the wealth ar(e full instructions)
that represent my wish (as to the ultimate)
disposal of it.
Hildre(w Parchell)

By studying the lengths of lines, The Shadow had inserted words that
represented the actual thought of Hildrew Parchell's message. Twice, a name had
been mentioned; both times, it had occurred at the right side of the document
and had thus been totally destroyed. Also, another vital word was missing from
that right side.
The name could have been Channing Tobold. It could have been Tyson Morth,
or Professor Tyson Morth. The missing word could have been "jewelry"; again, it
could have been "skulls." The word "skull" did appear on the unburned portion of
the sheet. That was why Hothan had set out in quest of a skull.
The silver skull had been a false trace. So had the mechanical skull that
had trapped Hothan. There must be another skull - a third skull - and it would
be found somewhere at Selwood Royce's. For the old friend mentioned in the
message could be none other than the young millionaire's father, Thatcher Royce.

THE SHADOW laughed softly. His mirth died. He closed with gloom by the
wall. Some one was unlocking the door of the room.
The Shadow waited while a man entered in the darkness. The arrival moved
furtively to the bed, groped by the mattress and fished out the half-burned
paper.
It was Hothan. The Shadow waited while the fellow sneaked out through the
darkness. Then The Shadow followed, slowly. No sound from the room at the head
of the stairs. Hothan's pretended bodyguards had also gone.
Reaching the blind alley, The Shadow gave a soft whisper. Hawkeye bobbed
forward and reported in a low voice to his invisible chief.
"He went to a drug store," informed Hawkeye. "Made a phone call; I
couldn't spot it on account of the gorillas being around. Then he came back.
Out again, with the gorillas tailing."
"Up to the corner - half a block from here. Looking for a taxi. Moe was on
the job. Picked him up, with two of the gorillas. Moe shot me a wad of paper
with the tip-off: Pennsylvania Station. I called Burbank."
A commending hiss from The Shadow. Hawkeye was to join Cliff at the
rendezvous, from there to move to a spot that would offer ready contact with
Burbank. With that, The Shadow moved out from the alley. Hawkeye caught a
glimpse of a fading form. The Shadow was gone.

FIVE minutes later, The Shadow entered the rear door of a small cigar
store. He stepped into an empty back room. A telephone was on the wall in one
corner. The Shadow made a call, speaking in a guarded whisper. Burbank answered.
Word to The Shadow. Burbank had received Hawkeye's prompt call. He had
phoned Harry Vincent at the Metrolite. While Moe had been taking plenty of time
on his drive to the Pennsylvania Station, Harry had headed there.
Harry had spotted Hothan and the mobsmen leaving Moe's cab. They had gone
to the Long Island ticket office. There, Hothan had bought a ticket to Cordova,
Long Island. The others had followed suit.
The Shadow whispered instructions. He hung up the receiver and departed. A
soft laugh sounded on the outside street. Cordova was the station near which
Selwood Royce's home was located.
The trail was leading to the focal point. A grim game was due tonight.
Henchmen were on their way in response to a big-shot's order. The pay-off was
coming; and The Shadow would be there.

CHAPTER XVII

ON LONG ISLAND

THREE men were sipping cordials at a massive dinner table. A butler was
removing dishes while they chatted. This trio had finished an excellent meal in
the quiet surroundings of an oak-paneled dining room.
Selwood Royce was the host; his two companions were Roger Parchell and
Clyde Burke.
"Well, Burke," queried Royce, with a pleasant smile, "have I made amends
for last night's error?"
"You have," replied Clyde, with a chuckle. "But I still maintain that I
didn't intend to breeze in here just before dinner time. I came out to see the
art gallery."
"And I invited you to have dinner first. You will have ample time to view
the paintings later. Particularly" - Royce paused to listen - "because of the
storm that is breaking. It seems that we are due for a prolonged downpour."
Heavy rain patter was increasing as Royce spoke. A storm had been
threatening all day. At last, it was coming in heavily from Long Island Sound.
Out here, on Long Island, the deluge had arrived and was sweeping in toward
Manhattan.
"Well," decided Clyde, "I have only this one assignment for the evening.
I'm in no rush to get back to New York, Mr. Royce. As long as I'm not intruding
-"
"You can stay here as long as you like, Burke. All night if you wish.
There's room enough in this mansion for a regiment."

CLYDE smiled as he lighted a cigarette. This was to his liking. He had
been sent here by The Shadow, with instructions to arrive early and stay late.
At any time, he could communicate with Burbank by faking a telephone call to
the Classic office.
Clyde knew that The Shadow expected trouble to strike this mansion.
Perhaps not as early as tonight, but eventually. Rather than start with too
close a vigil, The Shadow had relied on Clyde to keep a lookout until later.
"You are sure that Wingate will be here, Roger?" inquired Royce, turning
to young Parchell. "What did he have to say the last time he called you up?"
"Wingate is on his way," replied Roger. "That last call was from his
secretary; that chap Braddock. He said that Wingate had been delayed, but had
finally started. He has to go somewhere, though, before he comes here. So he
may be later than we expected."
Clyde Burke looked inquisitive. Selwood Royce noticed it and smiled.
"Weldon Wingate called before you arrived," explained the millionaire. "He
talked with Roger and said that he was coming out. This matter of the Parchell
estate seems to weigh heavily on his mind."
"It should," smiled Clyde.
"I have an idea" - Royce looked at Clyde closely - "that you heard
something of that discussion at Morth's this morning."
"I heard all of it," acknowledged Clyde, frankly, "but it's not going in
the Classic. I promised Cardona I'd lay off until he had a chance to nab this
fellow Hothan."
"That's fine of you, Burke," commended Roger. "I thought that ethics had
just about disappeared from the journalistic profession. Your attitude, however
convinces me that I was incorrect in that belief."
"It wasn't ethics," chuckled Clyde. "It was just good judgment. I'll pass
up half a story any time, if it will help me get the inside track on a full
story later."
Both Royce and Roger laughed.
"Since you've brought up the subject," resumed Clyde, "and since you know
I'm not spilling it, why not give me your slant on it? The whole works will
break some time. I want to be posted when it does."
"Well," decided Royce, "I hope, on Roger's account, than this wealth of
his uncle's is more than mythical. If it exists, it's Roger's. He was the sole
heir to the estate. There are no other relatives."
"Which is fortunate," remarked Roger, dryly. "Uncle Hildrew always classed
me as a 'wastrel,' to use one of his own pet terms. If there had been any one
else in the family, they might have had first share.
"As it is, I believe my uncle wanted to have a jest with me. I always
thought that his estate must be worth a half million at least. But the evidence
in his files points to fifty thousand as the limit.
"I am inclining to the belief that this supposed treasure is a double
hoax. I think that Uncle Hildrew exaggerated matters just to disappoint me. In
keeping with his plan, he probably fed some false information to his secretary,
Hothan."
"Before he discharged Hothan?" queried Clyde.
"Probably," answered Roger. "Naturally, when Uncle Hildrew died, Hothan
started out to look for the treasure himself. Apparently, Hothan is a crook of
the worst sort."

ROGER PARCHELL paused. Selwood Royce took up the comment.
"Your theory is excellent, Roger," stated the young millionaire. "Your
uncle trusted Hothan at one time. He could easily have decided that the man
would start talking after his death and thus start a treasure hunt. But I do
not believe that the trail is blind. I feel sure that the wealth exists."
"Why so?"
"Because of your uncle's actions on the evening of his death. Why should
he have told Tristram to summon me to his home?"
"Your father was his friend. He wanted to meet you, Selwood."
"Certainly. But he must have had a reason. Look at it this way, Roger.
Your uncle had talked to Hothan - unwisely - but he had not said too much. He
later decided that Hothan was not trustworthy. He wanted a new confidant. So he
sent for me."
"He had Wingate -"
"To handle his apparent estate, yes. But he probably believed that Wingate
would not approve of hiding wealth in an eccentric fashion. That's why he never
talked to Wingate."
"There was Doctor Deseurre."
"His physician, only. And Deseurre is a rather cagey bird Roger. I
couldn't fancy myself giving him sole access to important information. As for
Tristram, he was nothing but a poor old servant. Faithful in small matters; but
a dubious confidant."
Selwood Royce sat back in his chair. Roger Parchell looked unconvinced.
Clyde Burke took up the theme.
"Let me get this complete, Mr. Royce," suggested the reporter. "Your
theory is that Hildrew Parchell wanted to give you the details of where his
wealth was hidden. That he wanted Wingate - and perhaps Deseurre - to be there
as witnesses."
"That's right," acknowledged Royce.
"And Hothan was to be completely out?" inquired Clyde.
"Absolutely," affirmed Royce. "More than that, Hildrew Parchell may have
expected trouble from the fellow. He may have known that Hothan would be
waiting until his death to start a search for the buried funds. Hildrew
Parchell wanted us to start first."
All this was frankly put. It was good logic. Royce's statement brought a
lull in the conversation. For half a minute, nothing was heard except the
torrential downpour of the rain. Then Roger Parchell spoke, almost wearily.
"Hothan was hoaxed," declared the heir. "He stole jewelry from Tobold's
pawnshop, to find it comparatively valueless. He raided Morth's study and was
fooled by a crazy trap that the old professor had devised. A silver skull - a
mechanical skull - both look like bluffs that my uncle knew about. I refuse to
be humbugged by belief in treasure that does not exist.
"I shall stay here a few days, Selwood. After that, I shall collect my
heritage from Wingate and return to California. Perhaps I may prolong my visit
to a week. But one thing is certain: I shall give up all thought of this
ridiculous treasure hunt. That is final."

SELWOOD ROYCE smiled. Something was passing in his mind. Clyde Burke
watched intently. Royce spoke.
"Suppose, Roger," said the millionaire, "that I told you where the
treasure might be. Would that interest you?"
"I'm going to no more trouble -"
"But this will require none. It is worth a gamble. I believe that the
wealth is somewhere in this mansion."
Roger Parchell looked incredulous. Clyde Burke became intensely
interested. Selwood Royce vouchsafed an explanation.
"Tobold and Morth," declared the millionaire, "were close friends of your
uncle. I was merely a name; your uncle knew my father. Why, then, if he wanted
a confidant, did he choose me in preference to Tobold or Morth?"
Neither Roger nor Clyde replied. Royce answered the question himself.
"There is only one deduction." he declared. "Your uncle must have
entrusted his wealth to my father's keeping. Or perhaps he stored it secretly,
knowing it would be under my father's protection. That was why your uncle sent
for me."
"No," rejoined Parchell, wearily. "Listen, Selwood, if this is not a hoax,
my uncle must have told facts to Hothan originally. We have evidence that Hothan
was looking for a skull. Tobold had one; so did Morth."
"Yes, the skull is a clue. But -"
"So good a clue, that if you had such an object here, you would already
have remembered the fact. But you have mentioned nothing of the sort. So that
eliminates these premises."
"The skull," mused Royce. "That's true, Roger. The skull is the clue. But
since we intend to search this place anyway, that merely becomes a detail. I
have already determined, Roger, that we shall go through this house from top to
bottom until we have uncovered every cranny."
"A huge task, Selwood," commented Roger. "A great deal of trouble -"
"None at all. I have half a dozen servants. There are all sorts of rooms
in this mansion. I pointed that fact out to you this afternoon. The north wing,
for instance, is entirely closed. I, myself, do not know what the place begins
to contain. Come, Roger - when shall we begin?"
The question was pointed. It roused Roger Parchell from his lethargy. The
heir considered.
"I confess I'm beginning to be interested, Selwood," he asserted. "Suppose
we take that motor-boat trip tomorrow, on the Sound. We'll be back the next day.
I'll be pepped up. Then we can map up our plans for the search."
"I should like to begin tonight," declared Royce. "At the same time, there
is no need for rush. You are right, Roger, the boat trip will put us in fettle.
Then we can -"
Royce paused as the butler entered. He came to announce that Mr. Wingate
had arrived. The lawyer was ushered in a minute later.
Wingate nodded a greeting; then proceeded to wipe his spectacles.
"A terrific storm out." he declared. "I pulled my car up under your side
portico to keep it out of the wet. Then I came around to the front."

WINGATE donned his glasses. For the first time he noted Clyde Burke. The
lawyer stared suspiciously at the reporter. Then, in an irritated tone, he said:
"A call from a client delayed me. I don't think I would have come out at
all had I known that the storm would strike. After all, there is nothing of
importance. What do you gentlemen think?"
"We have just planned to search this house," announced Royce. "I believe
that Hildrew Parchell's wealth may be hidden here."
Wingate's sour smile was dubious.
"When do you intend to begin this wild-goose chase?" inquired the lawyer.
"In a few days," replied Royce.
Wingate was about to make a statement. Suddenly he felt in his pockets. He
arose from the chair that he had taken.
"I must go out to the car again," he stated. "Is there a side door to the
portico? I have forgotten some minor papers that I want Roger to sign. They are
in the car."
"Turn left in the hall," pointed Royce. "The door to the portico is bolted
from the inside. You can open it."
As Wingate left, Royce arose. He turned to Clyde; then to Roger.
"Suppose we visit the art gallery," suggested the millionaire. "Mr.
Wingate can join us there."
They left the dining room by another door. Royce instructed the butler
where to send Wingate. They passed through a hallway where an exit led to a
veranda. Clyde noticed that this door was bolted. Royce made a turn in the
hall; Clyde followed; Roger, lighting a cigarette, came along in leisurely
fashion.
Royce opened a door that led to a short flight of stairs. He pressed a
light switch; a glow came from the top of the steps. They went up to a passage
at the top, where Royce turned on another light. Then came footsteps on the
stairs behind them. They turned, expecting to see Wingate. Instead, it was the
butler.
"Another guest has arrived, sir," the man announced to Royce. "He said you
did not expect him -"
"Who is it, Talbot?"
"A Mr. Lamont Cranston, sir -"
"Show him here at once, Talbot! And be sure to tell Mr. Wingate where we
are."
Clyde and Roger waited with Royce at the head of the stairs. A minute
passed; then footsteps approached. Wingate was here, carrying a small document
case. Then came other footsteps. The tall form of Lamont Cranston appeared upon
the stairs.
Selwood Royce shook hands with the unexpected guest. Then, with a gesture,
he pointed to the passage that led to the art gallery. The group was ready to
view the collection of paintings that Royce had gained as a legacy from his
father.

CHAPTER XVIII

IN THE GALLERY

"THIS passage," stated Selwood Royce, "was originally intended to be a
small gallery in itself. Notice the arrangement of its paneled walls."
He pointed along a corridor that measured some thirty feet, before it
turned left. At the end of this thirty-foot extent was a door in the wall. The
barrier contained a full-length mirror. The visitors could see their
reflections as they approached.
"Is the gallery past the mirrored door?" inquired Clyde.
"No," replied Royce. "That is merely a storage closet. We take the passage
to the left. It is a short one - only a half a dozen feet - and it leads us
directly into the center of the main gallery. You will notice that the main
gallery parallels this long passage through which we are now walking."
They reached the turn. Here Royce pressed another light switch. They swung
left and came directly into the main gallery, which was dark. Royce pressed more
switches; they were set in relays all the way along.
The gallery was illuminated. The visitors were standing directly in front
of one of the pictures. It was a Moorish scene, which showed a youthful
Oriental speaking to a Moorish maiden beside an open latticed window. The
picture was entitled: "The Last Tryst."
"Not a good example of the painter's art," remarked Royce. "Despite the
fact that the gallery is wide enough to allow a proper viewing distance, those
figures appear blurred and ill-proportioned. This portrait in the next frame is
more interesting."
He pointed out a painting of a fierce-looking bandit whose attire
indicated him to be a Corsican. Splashed with colorful adornments, the lawless
chief was staring with a contemptuous expression. The picture bore a title:
"The Lost Smile," and Royce suggested that the observers watch the lips.
"They change, don't they!" exclaimed Clyde. "Sort of a Mona Lisa effect."
"Not exactly," replied Royce. "It is more like a well-known painting
called 'The Laughing Cavalier.' You will see, I think, that this rogue's
mustachios have something to do with the illusion. His lips are down; but the
point of the mustache are up."
"Are all the pictures freakish?"
"Yes. My father had a penchant for such paintings. Look at this one - 'The
Firing Squad' - it shows fine imagination. It gives you the effect that the guns
are trained on you - as if you were the prisoner, about to be executed.
"This is gruesome" - Royce paused before a painting which showed a bound
man staring upward to the huge foot of an elephant that was about to stamp on
his head and crush it. "This gives you a pleasant example of the way the old
maharajahs used to dispose of criminals."

THE group strolled on. This portion of the gallery was long; they came to
a turn at the end, a short passage that led in deeper. By this time they had
seen a picture of a revolutionary mob, close-up and wild-eyed, bearing a dead,
staring head upon a pike. They had also encountered two realistic oils of
medieval torture chambers.
They looked at the pictures in the short passage; there was even one on
the end wall. Then Royce led them back through to see the other half of the
gallery.
"Sort of a chamber of horrors, this place," remarked the millionaire. "But
that is purely accidental. My father had no particular interest in paintings of
murderous scenes. He merely liked the bizarre; and the gruesome pictures came
in that class."
Passing "The Last Tryst," the visitors followed the left side of the
gallery and found another turn leading in. This, too, was short; but instead of
ending in a solid wall covered by a painting, it displayed a door.
"That leads to the closed north wing," remarked Royce to Clyde. "The
portion of the house that I pointed out this afternoon - wait a moment, you
weren't here then - I mean the part of the house that I mentioned to you at
dinner."
"I told you about the north wing this morning, didn't I?" Royce had turned
to Wingate. "I believe that when we were at Morth's, I mentioned that his house
reminded me of the abandoned portion of my mansion? Where forgotten rooms are
filled with old furniture -"
"I don't recall that conversation," interrupted Wingate, rather testily.
"I was too concerned with important matters to be interested in houses."
"I guess I was talking to Doctor Deseurre about it," recalled Royce. "But
you were there at the time; I thought you were listening also."
"Well, Burke, have you enough notes? If so, we might as well return
downstairs. It's stuffy up here. The place is windowless."
"Just a few points." said Clyde. "You say all of these paintings were
collected by your father?"
"All of them," replied Royce. "This was his hobby."
"How long did he take to acquire the complete collection?"
"A dozen years. Perhaps more. But he made replacements. He filled the
gallery long ago; then gradually introduced new paintings, removing others for
which he cared less."
"What became of the rest?"
"They are stored in the north wing. My father intended to place them in
the paneled corridor which we first entered."
Moving out into the main stretch of the gallery, Royce stopped by one of
the paintings and asked Clyde to look closely at the frame. The reporter did
so; then exclaimed in surprise:
"The frame is part of the paneling!"
"Exactly," declared Royce, with a smile. "So is every other frame in the
entire gallery. "When my father had decided upon the ones he wanted for
permanent display, he had the old wainscoting ripped out and a new one put in,
with spaces to receive each particular painting.
"He intended to do the same with the outer passage, lining it with his
other curious art works. But he had not decided upon the final arrangement; and
he had stored away the paintings until later. He was ill; his enthusiasm in his
hobby had waned. He never completed the task.
"As for myself, I like this gallery only because it was my father's pride.
I am glad that it is permanent. I intend to keep it so. I also plan to leave the
outer passage as it is."
Royce looked to Clyde for further questions. The reporter had none. They
moved along; as they reached the entry that led from the center of the passage,
Clyde noted some one standing there, out by the turn from the thirty-foot
passage. Clyde recognized Lamont Cranston.

THE tall guest was standing half relaxed. His eyelids were almost closed.
He seemed tired, dozing on his feet; his hawklike features were facing toward
the picture of the Moorish window.
From where he stood, the tall observer had the fullest possible distance
from which to survey the painting; but he could not be seeing it plainly with
his eyes half shut.
Clyde, first to arrive, saw Cranston arouse himself. A slight smile
appeared upon his thin lips. He turned toward the outer passage just as the
others came into view. The group moved along in Cranston's direction. Royce was
last, turning out the lights.
All the while, the guests at Royce's had been conscious of the heavy
dripping of the rain. The sound had been muffled in the art gallery. It became
more intensive as they went down the steps into the main portion of the house.
"A bad drive back into town," commented Wingate, in an irritated tone, as
Royce led them along the hallway past the dining room. "The roads here-about
are terrible. I nearly wrecked my coupe driving out -"
"And you're not going to risk it back," put in Royce. "You're staying here
tonight, Mr. Wingate. I have already invited Burke to remain; and Mr. Cranston -"
The tall visitor raised his hand.
"I am going to New Jersey," he insisted. "I merely stopped by because I
chanced to be in the vicinity."
"But the driving conditions -"
"Mean nothing to my chauffeur. Stanley prefers heavy weather. He says it
keeps traffic off the roads. Thank you for your invitation, Royce, but I intend
to go along."
Cranston's tone was final. Royce called the butler, who brought the
visitor's hat and coat. Royce insisted upon going out to the front porch; there
he shook hands with his guest and saw Cranston step aboard the limousine. Under
a porch light, he waited to watch the big car drive away.

AS the limousine started along the rain-flooded gravel drive, a quiet
voice gave instructions through the speaking tube to Stanley.
"Cobalt Club," came Cranston's order. "After that, take the car to the
garage where we usually store it in New York. I am not going home tonight."
Stanley was nodding.
"And by the way," added the steady voice. "Be careful going out through
these narrow gates. We might encounter another car in the rain."
Stanley brought the limousine almost to a stop. They were at the stone
gates which marked the lower end of the drive. The chauffeur peered through the
downpour; then proceeded with care.
So intent was Stanley that he did not hear the sound of an opening door.
He probably would not have noted it under any conditions, for the sound was
almost totally inaudible. The door closed again, just before the limousine
rolled from the drive.
Stanley was taking an empty car back to Manhattan. During that brief trip
down the drive, the rider in the rear had done more than give brief
instructions. It was a different figure than Lamont Cranston's which stepped so
silently out into the rain. Cloak and hat had come from a bag in the rear seat,
weapons also. A phantom shape had emerged by Royce's gates. Through the driving
blackness of the rain, an invisible shape was moving toward the lane-like
shelter of trees that led up to the house.
Keen eyes saw Selwood Royce returning into the mansion. The porch light
went out. Through blackness, The Shadow cut over toward the portico where
Weldon Wingate's car was parked. He approached the door that the lawyer had
used when going for his papers. It was unlocked.
The Shadow entered. The dull light from the hallway showed a glisten to
the blackness of his garb. Glistening raindrops covered slouch hat and cloak
shoulders. Then The Shadow faded into the darkness of an unlighted hall. From
then on, no one could have traced the course of this mysterious being who had
returned to the confines of the huge Long Island mansion.

CHAPTER XIX

THE NEXT INTRUDER

"STILL pouring outside."
Roger Parchell made the statement as he stared at the blackness of a
living-room window. Puffing a cigarette, he was viewing the sheets of water
that were pouring down the pane.
"But we're inside," commented Clyde Burke, from an easy chair.
"Lucky we are," agreed Roger, strolling over to pick up a half-filled
glass. He clinked the ice. "I wouldn't want to be outside even in an
automobile. I don't envy that chap Cranston."
Weldon Wingate, seated at a writing table, looked up and beckoned to, the
heir.
"Here are the papers, Roger," declared the lawyer. "Mostly receipts for
the delivery of stocks and bonds. Read them over and sign them."
Roger went to the table. Silence followed as he read the papers; then came
intermittent scratches of his pen. During this interval, Selwood Royce decided
to light a fire that was built in the grate.
"This big fireplace is a dandy," the millionaire told Clyde Burke. "The
house gets musty very rapidly when it rains. It will be more pleasant with the
fire."
Talbot entered. The servant looked troubled. He approached the fireplace
and stood there until Royce looked toward him.
"What is it, Talbot?" inquired the millionaire.
"Sorry to annoy you, sir," replied the servant, "but I fear there is an
intruder about. I caught the sound of footsteps while I was in the dining room."
"How long ago?"
"Just a few minutes, sir. Now about the door, sir, I -"
"The front door is locked, Talbot. I locked it myself." Royce looked to
the mantelpiece and noted a clock. "I locked it more than half an hour ago,
just after Mr. Cranston left."
"It's not the front door, sir," protested Talbot. "I knew that it must be
locked. But I went first to the little veranda door at the rear hall, sir -"
"And found it unlocked?"
"No, sir. It was properly bolted from the inside. But then I went to the
portico door. It was unbolted, sir. Some one could have come in that way."
"Was that the door I used?" inquired Wingate, stepping up. "When I went to
my car?"
Royce nodded.
"I suppose I forgot to bolt it," mused the lawyer. "Perhaps I was thinking
too much about the papers that I brought."
"Some one could have come in there, sir," said Talbot, to Royce. "An
intruder could have crossed the dining room while I was absent. I believe, sir,
that we might do well to look up in the art gallery."
"Very well, Talbot," laughed Royce. "We have nothing else to do. Let's
form a hunting expedition. Come along, every one. We'll quell Talbot's
apprehensions."

OUT by the doorway to the gallery stairs, a waiting man was crouched,
listening. He was peering from the first turn in the hall. Dull light showed a
sallow face, watching in case any one should come. The intruder was Homer
Hothan.
Half-dried clothing indicated that Hothan had been hiding outside the
house, keeping under some cover to avoid the rain. It was he who had entered,
and Talbot had heard him. Hothan had seen the servant come out from the dining
room and go back.
Satisfied that he was safe, Hothan groped toward the door to the gallery.
He opened it, left it ajar and went up the stairs. When he reached the
thirty-foot passage, he used a flashlight. He started back in sudden alarm as
he saw a blink come from the other end. Then he emitted a nervous laugh.
Hothan had seen the reflection of his own light in the mirrored door of
the closet at the end of the passage. Recognizing that he was facing a
looking-glass, Hothan crept on. Suddenly, he extinguished his light. He had
heard a sound from below. Some one was coming up to the gallery.
Hothan seized the knob of the closet door; he tugged. The door wrenched
open, but without great noise. Hothan moved inside and pulled the door shut. He
was just in time. Lights came on in the passage. Selwood Royce had pressed a
switch from below.

THE searching party came up. They walked along the passage, Royce adding
new lights as they went. They arrived at the gallery and found it empty. After
they had looked in both extensions, they returned.
Royce spoke to Talbot as they neared the passage.
"No one up here," said the millionaire. "Your imagination was at fault,
Talbot"
"But I am sure, sir -"
"No one came in from that portico. And the other doors are bolted."
"What about the north wing?" asked Roger Parchell. "Couldn't some one have
come in from there?"
"The windows are nailed and barred," explained Royce. "The only door is
bolted from the inside. As for the door that connects the north wing with the
gallery, that is bolted on this side. We just examined it."
"Of course, sir," put in Talbot, "some one could have come through there
and bolted the door behind him."
"But how would he get through in the first place?" laughed Royce. "How
could he have gotten into the north wing before that? Be sensible, Talbot."
Royce tugged at the closet door as he spoke. This was the one place that
they had not examined. The millionaire wanted to give final satisfaction to the
matter of a supposed intruder. But as he yanked, the door failed to open.
"That closet door is very tight, sir," reminded Talbot. "I tried to open
it a few days ago. It appeared to be stuck."
"It's stuck now." added Royce, "and we're not going to waste time with it.
When we get downstairs, Talbot, you can call in other servants from the kitchen
and look about on the ground floor."
The group went through the passage and descended the stairs. Lights
clicked out. A door slammed.
Ten seconds passed; then the closet door opened. Hothan came out boldly;
he listened in the darkness. Then he found a light switch and pressed it to
illuminate the gallery.
Hothan snickered. He had heard all that was said. The closet door had been
tightly wedged; Hothan had opened it quickly because of his desperation. But
when Royce had tried the door, it had failed to open because Hothan was hanging
on to the inside knob.
Statements had indicated clearly that no further search of the art gallery
would be made; that was why Hothan had forgotten his timidity.
He was a curious sort, this killer. Fearful at times, nervy at others. He
was undergoing one of his brave spells at present.
He found the door at the end of one extension. He unbolted it and looked
into the yawning spaces of the north wing. Sneaking back, Hothan turned out the
gallery lights. Using his torch along the floor, he headed for the door that he
had opened.
Gloomy hallways. Silent rooms with covered furniture that gave the
semblance of ghostly figures. Hothan hastened nervously. He found a stairway
and descended. He located the outer door of the wing.
A big key in the lock grated as Hothan turned it. Rusty bolts above
gritted as the sallow man drew them back. The knob squeaked as Hothan turned
it; then the door groaned on its hinges as Hothan swung it inward.

DRIVING rain splashed Hothan's face. The man had extinguished his
flashlight; he was peering into total darkness. Cautiously, he blinked the
light three times.
He waited. He heard movement from the rain-soaked lawn.
"Flick!" whispered Hothan, hoarsely. A low growl from close by. Hothan
stepped back as a man shouldered his way in through the door. Others followed.
The door went shut. It was Flick Sherrad and his recruited mob.
The leader told the men to wait. With Hothan, he moved toward the stairs.
"Here's the lay," informed Hothan, "This wing's the best bet for a
starter. There couldn't be a better night to go through it. Everybody's
sticking indoors."
"Any dope on a skull?" inquired Flick.
"No," replied Hothan. "But maybe you'll run across something. I'm telling
you, this part of the house is where the chief says it ought to be. The only
way to get in here was through the art gallery.
"I've got to go back up there. So I can bolt the door on the other side
and do a sneak out of the house. I'll come back in by the door you fellows
entered. Then I can help you with the search."
"Which way's the art gallery? - just so I'll know."
"Come along. I'll show you."
Hothan was glad to have Flick accompany him up to the second floor of the
wing. Gloomy rooms with their white-garbed furnishings; the spooky patter of
the rain - these had combined to bring back the sallow killer's nervousness.
They reached the open door to the art gallery. Hothan blinked his light to
show Flick. Then he whispered:
"I'm closing it, but I'm not bolting it until I'm sure the coast is clear.
Start searching downstairs while you're waiting for me."
Hothan slid through the door and closed it behind him. He used his
flashlight through the gallery. Then he pressed a light switch. Pocketing the
flashlight, Hothan stole out into the passage.
The little entry was illuminated, but the thirty-foot corridor was away
from the light of the gallery. That was to Hothan's liking.
Reaching the stairway, Hothan descended cautiously. He opened the lower
door and peered out. He stole through darkness and peered from the turn in the
hall. He heard footsteps. Some of the servants.
Quickly, Hothan darted back. He went through the doorway to the stairs; he
pulled the door shut behind him and went breathlessly upward. He paused at the
top.
Hothan wanted to be sure that no one had heard him. He waited; then turned
toward the thirty-foot length of the passage, intending to go further down.
Hothan was tense; his alertness was partly responsible for the sudden discovery
that he made.
Looking down the long passage, Hothan stopped short and emitted a gasp.
For a moment, he trembled; then a nervous laugh came from his lips. He stood
rooted to the spot, repressing the joyous mirth that shook his frame.

HOTHAN had left the closet door ajar. There it was, set out at an angle of
forty-five degrees, nearly thirty feet ahead. Because of its chance angle, the
mirror in the door gave a reflection of the short entry passage that led into
the art gallery.
Hothan had left the lights on in the gallery. That fact, coupled with the
angle of the mirror, gave him a view of some forty feet. The passage was
thirty; to it, like a continuation of the corridor, was the reflection of the
entry in the mirror. Beyond that, also shown in the silvered glass, was the
center of the art gallery.
The sallow man was viewing the Moorish picture - "The Last Tryst" - that
visitors saw when they first arrived in the gallery. But Hothan was not seeing
a picture of gallant and lady. Those figures could not be distinguished at this
range.
Most conspicuous was the outline of the window itself. It formed a
widening oval, like a mammoth head. The figures in the painting were dark, like
eyes. Grillwork of the window looked like teeth.
From this distance, the painting represented a giant skull. (Note: The
cover of this magazine bears an exact reproduction of the skull painting in
Selwood Royce's art gallery. An exact duplicate, even to the original colors,
the cover design shows precisely how the optical illusion was created. Study
the cover at a range of less than six inches and the detail of the scene will
predominate. Hold it at arms length and features of the third skull will become
conspicuous. Because of its large size, the original painting required an
unusually long range to make head-like qualities apparent to the average
observer.) By luck, Hothan had found the necessary range. He had discovered
the place that he had been ordered to locate. The hiding spot of Hildrew
Parchell's treasure!
Behind the painting! The skull that showed so huge on canvas! There was
the goal that Hothan's chief had sought!
The sallow man's breath came in excited gasps as he started forth along
the darkened passage.

CHAPTER XX

THE KILLER TRAPPED

"BUT I am positive this time, sir -"
"Very well, Talbot, I shall hear you out."
Selwood Royce was standing in the living room, his hands behind him, his
face patient. His guests were looking on, while Talbot, more anxious than
before, was endeavoring to convince his master that all was by no means well.
"We made a thorough search downstairs, sir," explained Talbot. "The other
servants and myself. Yet all the while I kept worrying about the hallway to the
gallery stairs. I stationed myself in the door of the dining room, Mr. Royce."
"Well - and then?"
"I distinctly heard the sound of an opening door. I went into the hall and
heard the same door close. I was tempted to investigate, sir; but I decided to
speak to other servants first. They had gone toward the kitchen. I followed.
Then I heard something in the dining room."
"In the dining room? You said a moment ago that it was in the hall."
"The sound was not in the dining room itself, sir. It came from above. An
eager sort of sound, sir, like some one dashing forward, hurriedly, but on
tiptoe."
Talbot gave an imitation of the idea. He made a ludicrous sight, for he
was of portly build. Royce laughed. The others did the same. Talbot looked
abashed.
"Really, sir," he pleaded. "I am serious!"
"I understand, Talbot," said Royce. "You think the footsteps must have
come from the passage upstairs?"
"Positively, sir! The long passage to the art gallery."
"Very well. Go out in the kitchen, Talbot, and remain there. We shall
investigate."
"But if you want me, sir -"
"You heard my order. Go!"
Talbot departed. Wingate uttered a snort.
"The fellow is persistent," declared the lawyer. "You did well, Royce, to
send him where he belongs. He must have stretched his imagination further than
before. Rainfall sounds to him like footsteps."
"I don't think so." Royce spoke seriously as he unlocked a cabinet in the
corner of the room. "Talbot knows this old house too well. Something is amiss;
but I thought it better not to take him with us this time."
"You are going up to the gallery?"
"Yes. And I want volunteers to join me."

ROYCE was bringing an assortment of revolvers from the cabinet. He was
examining certain weapons to see if they were loaded. Clyde Burke stepped
forward.
"I'll take one," said the reporter.
"Help yourself," offered Royce. "The a choice is yours."
Clyde picked out a promising .38. Roger Parchell stepped up looked at a
.45, then rejected it for a weapon that matched Clyde's. Wingate remained
scoffing; then, as if to jolly the crowd, the lawyer came to the cabinet and
selected a .32.
Royce took a German Luger that was evidently his pet pistol. He replaced
the other weapons in the cabinet and locked the door. Motioning, he led his
companions out into the hallway. They passed the side door to the veranda; they
made the turn and came to the door to the gallery stairs.
"Not a sound," warned Royce, in a whisper. "If a rogue is about, we must
trap him properly."
Carefully, the millionaire opened the door. Immediately, the group became
tense. A slight glimmer showed beyond the top of the stairs. Its meaning was
unmistakable. Some one was in the art gallery, with the lights turned on.
"I shall go first," whispered Royce. "Alone until I reach the top. Burke
next; then Roger; you, Wingate, last."
Royce was the leader. The others accepted his commands. Royce advanced;
Clyde followed shortly afterward. At the top of the steps, The Shadow's agent
could see Royce tiptoeing down the passage.
The closet door was closed again. No reflection of the entry aided the
advance. Royce was moving slowly; Clyde edged in close behind him. He saw Royce
stop at the turn, then motion. Clyde came up.
Looking through the entry, they saw a man hunched in front of the central
picture. The fellow's back was toward them; he was working at the paneling
which formed the painting's frame. But he could not seem to loosen it.
Royce nudged Clyde. Together, the two sprang forward. The man leaped up;
they saw a sallow, hunted face. Then they had the intruder covered. His hands
went toward the ceiling. Royce made another gesture; Roger Parchell came into
view, Weldon Wingate close behind him.
It was the lawyer who uttered the recognition. He was the only one of the
four who could claim acquaintance with the man whom they had trapped. But as
Wingate told the fellow's identity, Clyde Burke realized that the very name was
coming to his own mind.
"Homer Hothan!"

THE prisoner cowered. He backed away as Royce nudged him with the Luger.
Hands upraised, he was moving toward the blind end of the gallery.
"I - I was doing no harm," wailed Hothan, looking from face to face.
"Honestly, I - I was only looking about!"
"As you did at Tobold's?" snorted Wingate.
"Or at Morth's?" put in Roger.
Hothan quavered. He had stopped against the wall. He shot a worried glance
about the group; then looked toward the Moorish picture. He turned his gaze
quickly away from that spot; but Clyde Burke caught something in his manner.
"Ask him why he was at the picture," suggested Clyde, to Royce. "Make him
tell what he was after."
"Now come clean, Hothan," ordered Royce. "Let's hear it."
"Nothing," Hothan stammered in reply. "Nothing - nothing..."
"Suppose we let you talk to the police?" put in Roger Parchell. "Would you
prefer to talk to them?"
"I - I don't want to talk," pleaded Hothan. "But if - but if -"
"Let us take him downstairs," suggested Wingate. "Then we can call
Detective Cardona. This man is wanted by the law."
"One minute," insisted Clyde. "Just stay where you are. Every one. I have
an idea."
Clyde had not forgotten his view of a tall form in the entry. He could
still picture the masklike features of Lamont Cranston. He could see those
half-closed eyelids, the thin smile on fixed lips. Cranston had been looking at
the Moorish painting, the very object which Hothan had found of interest.
Stepping into the entry, Clyde went to the mirrored door and partially
opened it. Eyes half closed, he looked at the Moorish painting. Gradually, he
discerned the illusion. Chuckling, Clyde rejoined the others.
"I'll watch Hothan," he declared. "Go back there, all of you. Shut your
eyes until they are almost closed. Look at that Moorish scene. Tell me what it
reminds you of."
The other three men went together. Clyde kept Hothan covered and listened
for comments. They came, in quick succession.
"It's a skull!" exclaimed Royce. "A perfect skull!"
"The skull with the treasure!" added Wingate.
"All my uncle's wealth!" ejaculated Roger.

A HOARSE scream from Hothan. Before Clyde expected it, the sallow man had
leaped forward in desperation. He was grabbing the reporter's arms, forcing up
Clyde's gun hand. Hothan had caught Clyde off guard; but the reporter was quick
to meet the attack.
He might have shot Hothan in the brief struggle, for Clyde, wiry and
alert, had managed to pull his gun arm away immediately. But there was no need
to fire. The others were coming.
Hothan knew it also. Frantically, the sallow man broke loose and dashed
down the gallery.
In his excitement, Hothan may have thought he was taking the avenue to the
north wing. Just what his impressions were, no one ever learned. The fact was
that be was heading into the blind extension of the gallery, with no chance of
escape.
Hothan was pulling a gun as he ran. Clyde was close behind him, and the
others had dashed in from the entry: Royce first, with his Luger; Wingate next;
then Roger.
Hothan dived for the blind end of the gallery. His hand wavered as he saw
both Clyde and Royce covering him. The man began to falter. His fingers were
opening to let the revolver fall when Wingate arrived. But the lawyer did not,
apparently, note that fact. Excitedly, he fired with his .32.
A bullet nicked Hothan. The sallow man sank to one knee. Clyde and Royce
dropped back together, covering, yet ready to hold their fire. It was Roger who
saw danger in Hothan's manner. Arriving late, as Wingate had, the heir fired
point-blank at the wounded man who held the gun.
Hothan sprawled head-foremost to the floor.
He lay there gasping as the four came up. He raised his head; his
expression was half venomous, half accusing. Mortally wounded, Hothan gasped
mad words. They had the import of a confession - but not the tone of it.
"I - I killed Hildrew Parchell," coughed the secretary. "I killed him
because - because I was told - told to do so -"
Effort ended. Hothan's face distorted. A final spasm shook his quivering
body. Clyde Burke was holding the killer's shoulders. He felt them relax.
Homer Hothan was dead. With his passing, he had failed in his last
endeavor. He had been about to reveal the identity of the master crook. That
wanted name had faded on his lips.

CHAPTER XXI

RAIDERS RENEW

"I KILLED him."
Weldon Wingate made the statement as he stood looking at Hothan's body.
The lawyer's face was strained. His hands were trembling. He could scarcely
hold his revolver.
"I killed him," repeated Wingate, solemnly. "But I swear it was in
self-defense. He was aiming his gun straight for me. I know" - he peered,
troubled, at the others - "that you will testify in my behalf. You heard his
confession; Hothan was a murderer by his own word."
"Don't worry. Mr. Wingate," put in Clyde Burke. "You didn't realize that
we had him covered. Your action was justified. You will be held blameless."
"You will be given credit," added Selwood Royce, soberly. "You deserve it,
Wingate. As you say, this man was a murderer."
"But I can't forget that I killed him," protested the lawyer. "It was not
my province to take over into my hands the law's work."
"I am not sure that you did kill him, Wingate." The interruption came from
Roger Parchell. "You crippled him; but he was still alive when I fired. Blame or
credit, I am willing to share it or take it. I am glad only that this man Hothan
lived long enough to confess his vile deed. He has admitted that he was my
uncle's murderer."
Wingate looked relieved. The lawyer was nodding over Roger's words. He
seemed to be willing to let the heir share the blame. A flicker on his face
showed that he might be ready to pass the buck entirely. Wingate looked at
Hothan's body; then turned to his companions.
"Roger's bullet killed this man," he decided. "It is best that we should
state the fact that way. Then I shall be able to speak for Roger as his
attorney, when the police arrive. Our duty at present is to inform the law."
"What about the body?" questioned Clyde.
"We must leave it here," emphasized Wingate. "Let us go downstairs and
notify Detective Cardona, by telephone."
"This is outside of the New York city limits," objected Royce. "It would
be better to call the local authorities."
"We can leave that to Cardona," insisted Wingate. "This is actually his
case. I shall call him personally. He must have the opportunity to view the
body first."
"But the local authorities may call us to task -"
"Not if we tell Cardona that we have not called them. It will then be his
duty to notify them. Don't you understand?" Wingate was irritable. "I am doing
this on Roger's account."
"How so?"
"If Cardona arrives here first, he will be on hand when the local police
arrive. Cardona's testimony that he was seeking Hothan will satisfy the
constabulary. But if Cardona is not here when they come, they may insist upon
taking Roger to jail. They may even arrest the rest of us."

THIS sounded sensible to Royce. He gave the order to start downstairs.
Solemnly, the group started out into the main gallery. It was then that Clyde
Burke brought up a subject that had been forgotten in the excitement.
"The picture," stated Clyde, suddenly. "The skull. It may hide the
treasure."
"That's right!" exclaimed Roger. "But if we have to inform the police
about -"
"We can come up here later," snapped Wingate. "I am an attorney. I know
the law. The picture will be safe. Leave it alone until the authorities are
here."
"But will it be safe?" queried Roger. "Suppose some one else should be in
here."
"No one could be about," returned Wingate. "Let us go downstairs." He was
in the entry as he spoke, the others following. "We can close the door at the
bottom of the stairs."
"I'm wondering," put in Royce. "First of all, about the servants. They
should have heard the shots."
"Not from the depths of this gallery," argued Wingate. "The shots would
have been muffled."
"But," added Royce, "I'm also wondering -"
"About the north wing?" questioned Roger, in sudden interruption. "You
mean the other extension of this gallery? With the connecting doorway?"
"Yes," replied Royce.
"Let us inspect it, Selwood," urged Roger. "Come. You and I can see if it
is still bolted."
As Wingate started to protest against the delay, the two young men turned
to go back into the gallery, leaving Clyde and the lawyer at the turn where
entry met passage.
Roger was first to reach the gallery. He made a sudden gesture and gave a
quick cry. Royce dropped back instinctively. Clyde and Wingate were rooted.
Then Roger, too, came backing, his hands moving upward, his revolver
dropping from his clutch. An instant later, three men pounced into view at the
gallery end of the entry. Leading them was a hard-faced man whose features were
a leer. His companions were hard-looking ruffians. All held leveled revolvers.

FLICK SHERRAD and his raiders had arrived. They had caught their prey
unaware.
Selwood Royce let his Luger fall. Clyde and Wingate, unready, followed
suit with their revolvers. Weapons clattered as Roger and Royce backed to the
outer end of the entry to join their helpless companions.
"Smart bunch, eh?" jeered Flick. "Bumped Hothan, did you? Well, that saved
me the job. Keep 'em covered, mugs" - this to the two gorillas - "while I get
the rest of the outfit. Then we'll talk turkey."
Flick's eyes glittered evilly as he surveyed the helpless group. An odd
smirk showed on his lips as he noticed something. Flick gave a slight nod. He
motioned his gorillas a few paces forward. The leader, himself, turned about to
return toward the north wing and summon the reserves.
Clyde Burke, staring, saw Flick squarely in front of the Moorish painting.
The mob-leader was obscuring the lower portion of the picture.
Somehow, now that he had recognized the illusion, Clyde could see that
painting only as a mammoth skull. The figures in it looked more blurred than
ever. "The Last Tryst" meant death. Clyde could not repress a shudder.
Then, as Flick paused, Clyde gained a sudden impression. The skull seemed
to be glaring down at the mob-leader. Its grin was mocking, as though the
death's-head counted Flick, the closest, as its lawful prey. Prompt upon this
startling thought. Clyde heard an unexpected sound: A sharp click from the
paneled wall in which the picture rested.
Flick heard it also. The mob-leader wheeled with an oath. As he did, Clyde
saw the Moorish picture slide upward into the ceiling of the gallery. Its glide
was swift. Some one had pressed a hidden switch. Blackness yawned where the
picture had been.
From that cavity came a horrendous laugh - a taunt that reverberated
weirdly from the hollow; a gibe that spelled a living doom. Beyond the space
where the picture had been were burning eyes that bored from darkness.
Eyes that Flick Sherrad saw as he wheeled. Orbs at which the mob-leader
aimed point-blank as he snarled. Flick's mobsmen were turning also, startled by
the burst of mocking laughter. Clyde and his companions were motionless,
staggered by this amazing denouement.
Flick Sherrad, swinging to fire at the eyes - that was the sight that held
Clyde fearful. He knew the author of the laugh, the being who peered from
blackness. The Shadow! And Clyde had confidence in his chief.
Yet, in this crucial instant, Clyde trembled. Flick's turn had been a
swift one; the mob-leader's gun had come up in a trice. Gorillas were leaping
about to aid their leader. One against three, The Shadow's cause was grim!

CHAPTER XXII

THE BIG-SHOT

A ROAR from yawning blackness. A tongue of flame spat dagger-like toward
Flick Sherrad. Finger on trigger of his glimmering revolver, the mob-leader
faltered and jolted backward. The slug from a .45 had found his heart.
Flick never fired. The Shadow had beaten him to the shot. Ready with
automatics from the instant that he had pressed a release within the hollow,
The Shadow had won the first thrust. Gorillas were still on the wheel as Flick
Sherrad failed.
Then came the combined barks of guns. A second tongue of flame jabbed from
blackness as a gorilla fired. Clyde saw the flash come from the very floor of
the hollow space. One mobster staggered while his companion loosed more shots.
The Shadow had tricked these ruffians. Prompt with his first shot, he had
dropped. Mobsmen had seen the flash of the automatic, high in the blackened
space. They had aimed for it. The Shadow, however, was below the fire. He had
downed the first gorilla while the fellow's bullet was zooming above his head.
The second thug had made the same mistake as the first. He had aimed high,
with his opening shots. But as he saw the burst that dropped his fellow, he
lowered his aim to a lower spot. The mobster's action, though quick, was not in
time.
Catching the split-second that he wanted, The Shadow tongued another slug
with perfect aim. The second gorilla wavered. While the first thug was thudding
to the floor, this new victim lost his hold upon his revolver. He, too,
sprawled, helpless.
A mocking laugh was The Shadow's knell. Out of blackness came blackness. A
formidable shape swung into view as The Shadow sprang from his hiding place.
There, in the exact center of the gallery, he looked like a living ghost. Half
obscured by the blackness of the space that he had left, The Shadow was a
vague, elusive figure.

CLYDE and his companions were rigid for the moment. Then they saw The
Shadow whirl. Automatics roared a welcome to new foemen. Shots answered from
the end of the gallery toward the north wing. Flick Sherrad's reserves had
arrived. The Shadow had turned to meet them.
His shots were first. The Shadow had found living targets. But hard upon
his first delivery, he whirled into the cover of the entry, so he could use the
corner of the wall as a protection. Pressed close to the wall, The Shadow was
using his right hand, extended, to pump lead at new raiders.
"Get your guns!" bawled Royce.
Men leaped for weapons. They grabbed each other's by mistake. Royce found
Wingate's .32; Roger seized Royce's Luger. Clyde and Wingate each picked up a
.38. As they came up, armed, they heard gunfire cease. Raiders had retreated in
face of The Shadow's fire.
Clyde gave a cry. Something else had happened. Victor of the fray, The
Shadow was slumping. His blackened form came to a huddled position just within
the protection of the corner. His guns were doubled under him.
"He's been hit!" cried Royce. "It's up to us! Come along! After them!"
Royce grabbed Wingate, who was beside him. He half yanked the lawyer to
the chase; the pair went hurdling into the gallery. Clyde darted after them,
ready to aid, counting upon Roger to follow.
As he made the turn into the gallery, the thought of more important duty
stirred Clyde. Sprawled thugs were at the end where the extension led to the
north wing. Others were in flight. More important than the chase was aid to The
Shadow.
Clyde stopped short. He whirled about to the entry. Then, from his
startled lips came a cry of hopeless fury, so harrowing that Roger and Wingate
stopped their dash to turn about before they had reached the end of the gallery.
Clyde was staring into the entry. His own gun was lowered; he was unable
to intervene in the situation that he saw. Crumpled on the floor was The
Shadow. Beyond him, by the mirrored door, was Roger Parchell. The heir had not
joined in the pursuit.
A venomous curl upon his lips, Roger was aiming the Luger pistol straight
for the huddled figure of The Shadow. He was out to complete the work which
mobsmen had failed to accomplish. He was ready to deliver death to that cloaked
fighter who had slumped helplessly after waging triumphant battle.

ROGER heard Clyde's cry. He darted a fierce look at the reporter and saw
that Clyde's gun was down. With the outer passage offering him protection,
Roger would have time to complete the work that he had lingered to perform;
then dive for shelter and take aim at Clyde.
Wildly, Clyde leaped forward, hoping to throw himself between Roger and
The Shadow, to take the bullet that the heir meant for the huddled fighter. As
he sprang, Clyde heard the roar of a gun. A flash of flame seared upward from
the black shape on the floor, stabbing across Clyde's very path.
Realization hit Clyde as he came to hands and knees in front of The
Shadow's form. Looking toward the mirrored door, Clyde saw Roger Parchell
sinking back against the wall. The venomous face was shaded by the darkness of
the outer passage; but Clyde could see its expression changing.
A sickly leer showed on distorted lips. It was reflected in the mirror as
well. Two faces - Roger's and its replica - showed that the would-be killer was
out. Roger's gun hand had slumped. He could not raise it. The Luger was dangling
at his finger tips.
Others beside Clyde had been there for the finish. Royce and Wingate,
reaching the entry just as Clyde leaped, had seen the cause of the reporter's
cry.
They had caught Roger aiming for The Shadow. They had seen the flash of an
automatic, upward from one of The Shadow's hidden hands.
Bounding to the middle of the entry, they watched Roger sag. The Luger
clattered. Then came a solemn laugh.
Turning about, three men saw The Shadow rising. The master fighter was
uninjured. His fall had been a feint.
The Shadow had seen the last of the mobsters dive for the north wing.
Suspending fire, he had made a bluff of being wounded, knowing that loyal men
would follow. Thus, The Shadow knew, the supercrook would have opportunity to
remain behind.

ROGER PARCHELL was the big-shot behind crime. Only The Shadow had divined
that fact. He had given the supercrook a chance to show his hand. Roger had
taken the logical option. His minions scattering, it was his last chance to
turn the game to his own advantage.
By dealing with The Shadow, out of sight of the others. Roger would have
had clear sweep. He could then have surprised his companions from the rear,
downing them from ambush at the corner where entry met gallery, catching them
coming back, as The Shadow had dealt with Flick Sherrad's reserves.
Then the supercrook would have been master. He could have recalled his
henchmen who had fled into the north wing. All this had been Roger Parchell's
aim. The Shadow had trapped him in the first step of his endeavor.
Holding his final shot until the last moment, The Shadow had allowed three
men to see the outcome of Roger Parchell's treachery.
The Shadow knew the heir for a murderer. It was Roger who must have killed
Channing Tobold. It was Roger, again, who had battled with The Shadow from the
darkness of Professor Morth's third-story stairway.
Roger Parchell had planned work on that night when Harry Vincent had
trailed him to a movie theater. Wise enough to know that some one might be
following him, he had started out in an innocent fashion; but had taken a side
exit to leave the theater. He had craftily come back to the Hotel Metrolite at
just the right time, to make it look as though he had stayed at the theater.
Roger had no real alibi for that night. No more than Wingate, who had left
his apartment in a taxi. No more than Royce, who had forgotten his appointment
with Clyde Burke. No more than Doctor Deseurre, who had left a banquet to
answer a patient's call.
All suspects at large, The Shadow had reasoned out which must be the
villain. He had picked Roger Parchell. But he had given the heir leeway - in
order that crime could be stopped in its consummation; that the world would
know the man responsible.
The Shadow had spotted the skull picture in Royce's gallery. That was why
he had changed from Cranston to The Shadow. He had come back here to find the
secret of the space behind the Moorish painting. He had located the hidden
chamber and had taken it as a hiding place when Hothan entered.
Then The Shadow had waited to trap rogues. He knew that crooks would be
searching; that their thorough job might ultimately end here. He had heard
Hothan come hurrying along the passage. He had realized from the man's excited
gasps that Hothan had recognized the illusion of the skull.
Talbot's chance hearing of Hothan's footfalls had produced a contretemps.
It had brought Selwood Royce and his guests to the art gallery. The incidents
which followed had produced rapid changes in The Shadow's plans; but all the
while he had held the key position.

ROGER PARCHELL was gasping his last. The Shadow had had no alternative in
dealing with this murderer. Roger had tried to kill The Shadow in cold blood;
in return, he had received a bullet that he deserved.
Solemn, whispered tones came from The Shadow's lips. There was no mirth in
that laugh. It sounded as a final note of doom. Harrowing, chilling, it made men
shudder. All save Roger Parchell. From the dying heir, The Shadow's token
brought a final snarl.
"I dodged you that night I killed Tobold," gasped Roger. "I - I got away
from you at Morth's! I wanted to kill you" - he coughed, as his fingers crept
toward the Luger beside him - "to kill you here - tonight - and I will -"
The gasping snarl broke. The creeping hand had reached the pistol. Fingers
clutched; then failed. Watching men saw Roger Parchell slump completely, his
dead face pressed against the silvered mirror.
A swish. The witnesses turned to see The Shadow wheeling toward the
gallery. His cloaked form swung past the corner of the entry. The Shadow was
heading toward the north wing.
A strange laugh came in parting. Rising to a weird crescendo, it quivered,
then burst into shuddering reverberations. Echoes answered from the length of
the gallery.
Eerie, ghoulish tongues had responded to The Shadow's mockery. Walls
seemed loath to lose that shivering strain. Long-lingering, the echoes finally
died; only the muffled sound of rainfall disturbed the heavy hush that followed.
Yet standing men, delivered men, were motionless. They could fancy that
they still heard ghostly laughter from afar. The memory of those parting echoes
was difficult to lose.
They had heard the triumph laugh of The Shadow!

CHAPTER XXIII

THE SHADOW REVIEWS

"IT'S easy enough to figure it, now that it's all finished. But it had me
guessing."
It was Joe Cardona who made this admission. The ace detective was standing
in Selwood Royce's living room. He had arrived there in response to a telephone
call; and he had brought Doctor Deseurre along, after hearing that Homer Hothan
had confessed to the murder of Hildrew Parchell.
Upon Royce's gun cabinet rested a metal coffer. Its top was open.
Compartments showed an assortment of wealth. Stacks of currency; piles of gold
coin; an array of glittering jewels. Clyde, Royce and Wingate had found the
treasure chest set in the floor of the secret chamber behind the Moorish
picture.
This was the wealth that had been with the skull. Wingate was holding a
document that they had found in with the treasure. The paper was inscribed in
old Hildrew Parchell's scrawl. It told how the wealth should be divided.
Sums for Channing Tobold and Professor Morth, old friends of Hildrew
Parchell. Another amount, smaller, to Selwood Royce, whose father had been the
miser's friend and keeper of the treasure. An amount for Weldon Wingate and
Doctor Deseurre; also a provision, larger than any other, for Tristram, the
faithful servant. The rest - the bulk of this wealth - was to go to charities
named in the list. Roger Parchell was not mentioned.

"YOUNG Roger was a fox," declared Joe Cardona. "He knew that he didn't
rate too high with his uncle. Those letters in the correspondence file are
proof of it. Homer Hothan was smart, too. He had access to the old man's
papers. He knew, while still working as secretary, that there must be plenty
more than the fifty thousand that Hildrew Parchell intended to leave to his
nephew."
"Do you think," inquired Wingate, "that Roger deliberately sent Hothan to
get the job with his uncle?"
"I doubt it," replied Cardona. "Either Roger made a trip East, to look
over the lay, and bribed Hothan; or Hothan may have opened correspondence with
Roger himself. Anyway, they got together; and old Hildrew Parchell was on the
spot.
"The old man must have known Roger was a bad egg. I've a hunch we'll find
out a few things about him when we look up his Frisco record. Anyway, Hildrew
Parchell found out that Hothan was a bad egg, too."
"And fired him," put in Clyde Burke.
"Yeah," agreed Cardona. "And this" - he reached to a table and picked up
the half-burned message; it had been found in Hothan's pocket - "this is what
started that fire at the old house. Hildrew Parchell must have written this to
hand it to you, Royce, with Wingate and Doctor Deseurre present. It's a cinch
the old man tried to burn it when Hothan blew in. Then Hothan killed him. It
was murder, after all, doctor."
Cardona turned to Deseurre as he spoke. The physician smiled dryly.
"Murder, yes," he agreed. "But murder of a deceptive sort. It was the
violence of the struggle that brought on Hildrew Parchell's death. His heart
could not stand the strain."
"A break for Hothan," decided Cardona. "He would have had to kill the old
man, anyway. Well, Hothan got away with this" - he gestured with the
half-burned document - "and he and Roger must have had a heavy confab about it."
"But Roger was in San Francisco," put in Wingate. "He answered my telegram
and fled East."
"A stall," retorted Cardona. "An old one of the simplest kind. Roger knew
that his uncle was going to pass out soon. He must have come East to meet up
with Hothan a good while before the real work started.
"That's why he closed his office. He knew what kind of a wire he was due
to get when his uncle kicked in. He had an answer ready for it; and he had some
friend fixed to receive your telegram when it came in. Also to send the answer."
"But he called me later from Cincinnati -"
"Because he beat it there after he bumped Tobold. Made a sleeper jump that
night and phoned you the next day, saying he'd come East by air. That helped the
telegram bluff."
"I believe you're right -"
"I am right; and I can tell you more... now that the works has busted
wide. Roger and Hothan got together. They had half a note; and the worst part
of it was this. It didn't tell just who had the swag."

CARDONA pointed to the charred edge of the half-burned paper. He nicked
the ninth line; then the tenth; finally the eleventh. Three in a row.
"Here's where they were out of luck," chuckled Joe. "The other lines could
be doped out; but these three couldn't. First off, a name was missing. In the
ninth line; in the tenth, too. Then there was an important word gone in the
eleventh.
"Who was the old friend that had the treasure? Channing Tobold? Tyson
Morth? Or Thatcher Royce, already dead? Any one of those names might have been
there. What was it they were to ask to see?
"Their first guess was jewelry; because Hothan knew Tobold had some that
belonged to old Hildrew Parchell. So they hit the hockshop and they spotted the
skull ring before they asked for it. They thought they had what they wanted; but
they were wrong. They got a bunch of junk jewelry.
"Roger Parchell must have hired Flick Sherrad in Frisco. Flick was on the
lam and probably out there. It would have been a cinch to sign up a bird like
Flick and ship him East to have a mob ready. Frisco's a good spot for making
contact like that. Anyway, Flick was on hand to help at Tobold's. After the
jewelry turned out to be junk, Roger had Flick unload it with Koko Gluss, to
make it look like a bunch of small-fry had pulled the job."
"I gave him the idea," mused Wingate. "Inadvertently, when I was talking
about the robbery at Tobold's. I mentioned that we thought apprentices had done
the work; and that if the jewelry appeared with some fence, we would have proof
of it."
"Well, he took it up," asserted Cardona. "And the next bet was Morth's.
When Hothan went there, he saw that lot of skulls. There was something he
didn't have to ask to see. Skulls! Boy - I'll bet he thought he was in luck!
"He thought he knew which skull was right. He hadn't asked to see them;
they were looking at him. And he recognized one that looked swell. It was
different from the lot. The mechanical skull on the cabinet."
"The mesaticephalic, mesognathous skull," began Selwood Royce. "The one
with the ensnaring mandible -"
Royce was chuckling. Cardona grinned.
"The tin skull with the trick jaw," interrupted the detective. "Anyway,
Hothan shoved his fist in it. We know the rest. Hothan got away; Flick was
still loose; and Roger Parchell knew he had picked another bum bet.
"All that he had left was this place here. Thatcher Royce might have been
the 'old friend' mentioned in the document. But what was to be asked for? Where
was the skull? Roger decided to find out."
"By having his crowd look through the north wing!" exclaimed Royce. "Roger
told Hothan to come out here, with the rest of them. I know how Hothan got into
the house. Through that veranda door. Roger must have unbolted it."
"He did it when we were going up to the art gallery," exclaimed Clyde.
"The first time we went up. Roger stopped to light a cigarette near that door.
And I think that he signaled later, from the window of the living room."
"Hothan bolted the door after coming in," added Royce. "Then he went to
the gallery, unbolted the connecting door to the north wing, went through and
let in the mob-leader and the crew."
"Hothan made a lucky find in the art gallery," stated Wingate. "He must
have recognized that the Moorish picture was a skull, when he came back from
the north wing. We surprised him when we arrived; and then" - the lawyer's tone
sobered - "then I killed him."

"YOU killed him?" snorted Cardona. "Where do you get that? I've been
looking at the body, along with the local doctor. Say - you only nicked him
with that .32 of yours. But you gave Roger Parchell a chance to get rid of the
guy. He finished him with the .38. He didn't want to give Hothan a chance to
squawk."
"About the fight that followed," began Wingate. "It was very strange. We
were rescued by a strange unknown fighter -"
"Let's forget those complications," interrupted Cardona. "Whoever helped
you was in the right. Whoever dropped Roger Parchell picked off a murderer.
I've got labels for all the mugs who were shot in that gallery. Just let it
pass. You fellows were fighting to resist criminal invaders. This house belongs
to Selwood Royce; he gave guns to you, Wingate, and to you, Burke. The three of
you are square with the law."
Clyde Burke smiled. He knew that Joe Cardona had figured out The Shadow's
part. Wisely, the detective was covering the fact that The Shadow had been
present.
Joe knew that The Shadow preferred to remain in the dark. Time and again,
the cloaked fighter had aided Cardona in struggles against crime. The ace was
returning the favor.
"Roger Parchell knew that fifty thousand dollars was all that he was to
get," summed up Cardona. "He wanted to grab a million - and he played a foxy
game to get it. But he shot his bolt. He got what he deserved."
Others nodded. Then Selwood Royce smiled.
"It was a terrific battle." he decided. "Too bad, in a way, that Lamont
Cranston wasn't here to aid us. I understand he's a big-game hunter. He would
have proven a valuable ally."
"I'm glad Cranston isn't here," remarked Wingate, dryly. "There are no
scarabs in with the treasure. If Hildrew Parchell had any scarabs, he must have
disposed of them. Cranston would have been disappointed."
"That's true. By the way, Wingate, you were somewhat mistrustful of
Cranston, weren't you?"
"Yes. I was suspicious of him when he first came to see me. I had him
watched after he left the apartment. But I decided later that he must have once
met Hildrew Parchell."

WHILE these men were speaking of Lamont Cranston, their own names were,
curiously, under consideration somewhere else. A light was gleaming in The
Shadow's sanctum. The cloaked fighter had returned to Manhattan.
The Shadow had come in with Cliff and Hawkeye. He had ordered those
workers to Long Island, to wait near Royce's mansion. But the storm had drowned
the sound of the house-muffled battle. The few remaining gorillas of Flick's
crew had escaped The Shadow's agents in the rainy darkness.
A huge book lay beneath the bluish light. Upon a blank page, The Shadow
was making entries in a careful handwriting that stood out as clear as print.
Names were being recorded; with them, comments.
The Shadow was reviewing his deductions - how he had narrowed down the
list of those concerned with Hildrew Parchell, until only one remained. He had
eliminated Tristram from the outset. The servant, had he had any part in
plotting, would not have extinguished the fire in the bedroom as promptly as he
had.

Doctor Raymond Deseurre

The Shadow wrote the physician's name. Beneath it, he added the conclusive
comment:

Deseurre could have eliminated Hildrew Parchell without Hothan's
aid. He could have learned more than the secretary, had he wished. The
use of Hothan cleared Deseurre from blame; but not from danger.

The comment showed why The Shadow had requested Rupert Sayre to watch
Raymond Deseurre. The Shadow wanted to make sure that Deseurre was clear from
menace. Sayre's observations, though broken, were sufficient to show that
Deseurre was not in trouble.

Weldon Wingate

The Shadow inscribed the lawyer's name and studied it for a moment. Then,
he inscribed:

Wingate would not have allowed Hothan to use his name at Morth's.
That would have been risky and unnecessary. Wingate, moreover, had all
the information that Hothan possessed. Personal visits, on his part,
to Tobold and Morth, as well as Selwood Royce, would have been his
step. Wingate did not seek the treasure.

The third name The Shadow inscribed was:

Selwood Royce

The Shadow's comment was as follows:

Royce was clear after the Morth raid. The treasure could only
have been in his mansion. If Royce had known of the wealth and had
wanted it, he could previously have appropriated it. Particularly,
since his contact with Hildrew Parchell was so slight that he could
only have known of the wealth by finding it in his own home.
Thatcher Royce was Hildrew Parchell's friend; not Selwood Royce.
Nothing would have been entrusted to Selwood. He could have removed
the treasure and disclaimed all knowledge of it. Murder would have
been error on his part. Contact with any one - particularly Hothan - a
still greater mistake.

The Shadow came to his final summary. He wrote the name of the real
villain - the only man who could logically have been the crook behind the chain
of crime.

Roger Parchell

The name showed grimly from the page. The Shadow's hand inscribed this
statement:

Roger Parchell and his uncle were apart. Correspondence showed an
estrangement between them - a fact which Roger was clever enough to
admit. Roger had good reason to believe that he might gain no
inheritance from his uncle.
Hildrew Parchell's will showed that the old man suspected trouble
from his nephew. The fifty thousand dollars was a sop, to satisfy
Roger. The listing of the entire estate in specific tabulation was
done to prevent Roger from claiming anything else.
To learn of his own status, Roger would have needed the aid of
Hothan, who had access to Hildrew Parchell's files. To continue his
own part as a legitimate heir, he needed some one to visit Tobold and
Morth. Hothan, already his tool, was the natural choice.
Roger Parchell's was plainly the hidden hand. He knew that hidden
wealth could not be his, even in part. For Hildrew Parchell would have
mentioned such a fact - guardedly, at least - in his will. That would
have been a necessary precaution in the nephew's favor. The absence of
such a statement told much to Roger Parchell.

INK was drying. A whispered laugh came from The Shadow's hidden lips. All
that Joe Cardona had figured out tonight had been previously uncovered by The
Shadow. From the moment that The Shadow had seen the presence of a master band,
he had begun a process of elimination.
Of all who had appeared in connection with Hildrew Parchell, only Roger
Parchell could have played the part of controlling crook. The Shadow had worked
out that discovery after the murder of Channing Tobold had told him that some
one other than Homer Hothan and mobsters were in the game.
Flick Sherrad had been needed to direct mob onslaughts. Some one higher up
had done the work. Yet The Shadow had not rejected another possibility; namely,
that some unknown crime master had been the backer of this evil.
The Shadow had given Roger Parchell the benefit of such doubt up until the
very climax of crime's reign. Then, in the entry to Sherwood Royce's art
gallery, The Shadow had played the trump that told all. His slump to the floor
had been the great move. It had given Roger Parchell the perfect chance to
prove himself the master murderer.
Long-fingered hands closed the massive volume wherein the ink had dried on
lettered pages. A low laugh shivered through the black-walled sanctum. The
Shadow's victory had been a triumph for the law. The muse of justice had been
upheld.
The massive tome beneath The Shadow's hands contained the details of The
Shadow's work. The amazing record belonged with other annals. Crime, like the
book, was closed. The history of "The Third Skull" had become another chronicle
for the archives of The Shadow.

THE END