Hidden Death

CHAPTER XXIV THE LAST DEATH

To Doctor George Fredericks, the expression on Cardona’s face meant much. He had seen the detective stooping over the form of Roger Biscayne. Had the dying man confessed?

The physician stooped beside the helpless body.

Weston and Wilhelm stood back, supposing that he was giving aid and attention. But Fredericks had a different purpose. Too well did he know the true nature of Roger Biscayne.

“Damn you!” he whispered. “You tried to double-cross me. To kill me, eh? What have you told? Answer me! What have you told?”

None but the dying man heard the words. To Roger Biscayne, they brought an evil satisfaction.

His mind could not grasp these strange events that had thwarted his efforts to kill by gas and by bomb. But his eyes glared glassily as he realized the dilemma that had confronted his accomplice.

“I — told — all—”

These were the words that came in slow gasps from the dying man’s lips.

Fredericks gripped the other man’s throat. Dying or not, he was enraged at the man who had double-crossed him.

Weston and Wilhelm thought the physician had gone mad. Cardona, alone, understood.

He seized Fredericks by the shoulders and jerked him from his helpless victim.

Cardona’s lunge flung Fredericks half across the room. The stout man staggered and fell against the wall. He seemed too helpless to return the attack. But in that, Cardona was mistaken.

Rising slowly, Fredericks suddenly jerked his hand upward. A stub-nosed revolver shone in his hands. He covered Joe Cardona. Weston and Wilhelm were also in line as targets.

“Got me, eh?” questioned Fredericks. “Think you’ve got me?”

He glowered as he sidled toward the door. His quick recovery had caught Cardona weaponless. The detective’s gun was in his pocket; he could not obtain it now.

Fredericks was at the door that led to the hallway. He opened it slightly, with his left hand, which was bent behind his back.

“So Biscayne double-crossed me, eh?” Fredericks snarled. “Double-crossed me. Wanted me to die with Wilhelm. Squealed to you, too, did he? You know too much — all three of you, now. So this is the end of you!”

Fredericks had his finger on the trigger. A shot resounded. Smoke appeared about the physician’s gun. But it was not from his revolver.

An automatic pistol had spoken. Thrust from behind, its muzzle had pressed against the physician’s arm.

The hand of The Shadow had delivered that shot. Through the opening of the door, the man in black had sent the bullet that thwarted the intended crime.

Fredericks staggered forward. His revolver fell from his helpless fingers.

Joe Cardona was firing, now, taking no chances, pumping bullets into the man who menaced three lives.

Fredericks lay dead upon the floor.

The Shadow was gone. No one in that room caught even a fleeting glimpse of his departing figure.

FOOTSTEPS were coming up the stairs. Mayhew, in the lobby, had heard the explosion. He had not waited for the elevator, which was somewhere in the shaft.

He had hurried upward with all possible speed. But events had been moving swiftly in the apartment of death.

From the moment of the explosion until now, action had come and gone in split seconds.

Cardona was explaining all to Commissioner Ralph Weston and Arthur Wilhelm. They were listening with bated breath. Roger Biscayne, archfiend, was dead. So was his accomplice, George Fredericks.

As the truth dawned, Commissioner Weston was loud in his praise for Joe Cardona, whose excellent use of facts and keen intuition, said the commissioner, had brought these strange events to their amazing finish.

Joe Cardona was honest. He liked credit, but did not want that which he did not deserve. Yet he was forced to claim all honors for himself.

Once again, only the hand of The Shadow had been seen. The man himself had remained a mystery. Yet, it was he who had performed the deeds of action.

But Joe Cardona could not state that fact. The Shadow, Cardona realized, must still stand unacclaimed.

The Shadow, alone, knew — and still he was the unknown.