Shadowed Millions

CHAPTER XII DEATH IN THE DARK

A LONG, tense series of moments followed. The three men in the office of the financier’s apartment formed a startled tableau. Jermyn, closest to the door, was standing petrified with fear. Powell, seated beside the desk, was solemn and tense. Hendrix, telephone in hand, was plainly startled.

Not a word was spoken from the little hallway. The man there held the three at his mercy. He made no announcement of his intention. He seemed content for the moment to hold matters as they were.

Ten minutes of nine!

The thought worried Hendrix. Unless this call went through, Legira could obtain the money from Cody. Was that the purpose of this threat? Had some accomplice arrived to hold these men at bay until Legira’s work had ended?

Hardly so, thought Hendrix. He realized that Legira could not have known of that special message to Cody, telling him to hold the delivery of the funds until after nine o’clock.

Angered, despite his bewilderment, Hendrix tried to scan the face behind the gun. He suddenly decided that it might be Legira, back again. Had the South American seen Martin Powell enter here?

The man was still in darkness, keeping well away so his face could not be seen. That gave Hendrix the cue. He doubted that the man would dare to fire. The financier gained sudden boldness. He spoke deliberately.

“Legira,” he said. “Legira, or whoever you are, it will do you no good to threaten. We outnumber you three to one. A shot here will spread the alarm. Murder will not help you. Put away that gun and leave this place.”

From the corner of his eye, Hendrix noted that Jermyn was edging toward the door. The quiet words that the financier had uttered had changed Jermyn’s fear to loyalty. It was obvious what Jermyn intended. He was ready to attack to save his master. If Jermyn could divert attention, all would be well.

Hendrix saw Jermyn’s gaze turn in his direction. The financier nodded, almost imperceptibly. At the same moment, his hand tightened on the receiver of the telephone. Jermyn trembled as though restrained by a leash. With sudden boldness, Hendrix started to lift the receiver from the hook.

Events followed with confused rapidity. John Hendrix had not placed false reliance in his faithful servant. Like a wild man, Jermyn sprang toward the door, throwing his body between the revolver and his master.

Martin Powell was on his feet, leaping toward the wall close by the door, where a little alcove offered momentary shelter. The investigator was pulling a short automatic from his pocket even as he moved.

With the telephone in his hand, Hendrix was diving for safety, the long wire stringing after him as his portly body swung around the edge of the desk. A few feet would mean safety from wild shots.

THE attack had been a swift one — its speed sufficient to startle the invader. Each of the three men had followed his own dictates. A prearranged plan could not have been more effectively executed.

Jermyn was the attacker. Powell was planning to aid him. Hendrix, intent upon making the warning call, was choosing the nearest point of safety.

The keenest thought of this swift action was Jermyn’s bold deed of thrusting himself between the invader and Hendrix. Instinctively, Jermyn knew that the financier would be the first intended victim.

In this he was right. The foeman was ready to kill; but he was anxious to stop Hendrix from phoning, no matter what the cost might be. Yet he could not shoot Hendrix without first disposing of Jermyn.

Had Hendrix remained at the desk, the enemy might have been thwarted. It was the financier’s instinctive action of leaping for safety that caused his own undoing.

Jermyn was some six feet from his enemy. He was covering the chair in which Hendrix sat. But when the portly financier sprang away from that spot, he automatically removed himself from the coverage which Jermyn was affording.

The man in the hallway saw the bulky form. He swung his revolver away from Jermyn. He fired twice at the moving target. Hendrix, at the edge of the desk, plunged headlong. The telephone shot from his grasp and struck the wall.

Now Jermyn was grappling with the enemy. The sound of those shots had maddened the faithful employee. He was fighting with terrific frenzy, grappling for the revolver, seeking to dominate the man who had shot his master.

Into the room staggered the pair, Jermyn’s left hand holding the other man’s right wrist so the revolver pointed upward. Martin Powell, grim-faced, was watching his chance. Let those strugglers break for an instant, and it would mean death to the invader.

Luck was with the enemy. Chance had given him his opportunity to shoot John Hendrix. Again, the wiles of fate were to serve him well in this fight with Jermyn.

The brawlers crashed against the wall. The light switch was beside them. Martin Powell could not see the invader’s face, for Jermyn was crushing him toward the wall. But the investigator did see that free left hand as it encountered the switch.

Click!

The room was in total darkness as the invader saw his opportunity. It was a struggle in the dark. Powell could not distinguish Jermyn from his foe.

The men crashed across the room at an angle. They were away from the wall. Powell dashed toward the light switch. His hand fumbled in the dark. Try as desperately as he could, the switch evaded him.

Meanwhile the men were struggling, rolling on the floor. Harsh, fierce cries came from the fighters. In the midst of long, weird seconds, Powell’s fingers touched the metal switch. Before he could press it, a muffled shot came from the center of the room.

On went the light. Powell looked. Jermyn was sprawled upon the floor. Crouched beside him was the panting enemy. The man looked up, a menacing glance in his eye.

Powell saw his face and uttered a sudden cry as he recognized the killer. The investigator aimed his automatic. The other man swung his revolver desperately and made a forward dive.

Powell’s shot was a trifle high. It seared the killer’s shoulder. Again, the investigator’s finger was pressing the trigger. Then the revolver spoke in reply.

The invader’s shot was hasty, but effective. Powell staggered. He caught himself and fired twice, but his shots were wild. Then his enemy, with calm deliberation, pressed the trigger of the revolver, and a second bullet reached the investigator’s body. Martin Powell slumped to the floor.

STAGGERING forward, the killer reached the wall and extinguished the light. He leaned there, breathing heavily. The darkness seemed to give him renewed courage.

He moved slowly across the room, and a flashlight glimmered in his hand. He threw its rays upon the desk, and uttered a muffled laugh. The edge of the light showed the form of John Hendrix lying face downward. The financier was dead.

Turning, the murderer threw a beam upon Martin Powell. The investigator lay motionless. He, too, appeared dead. The killer went to the third victim. Jermyn was alive, groaning monotonously. His eyes were closed. The slayer listened. The groaning stopped.

Now came a disturbing sound that attracted the murderer’s attention. It was the clicking of the telephone receiver. The killer listened intently. He realized that the shots must have been heard by the central operator. That meant that help might already be on the way!

The beams of the flashlight showed the killer’s right hand with its menacing weapon. Beyond the revolver was the face of Jermyn.

The man’s eyes opened. They saw the hand in front of the light. The killer, listening, was not watching Jermyn. Up came Jermyn’s hands. With a wild, renewed frenzy, he grasped the revolver and tried to wrest it from the hand that held it.

The struggle was on again. Dropping his light, the maddened murderer tried to beat Jermyn’s hand from the barrel of the revolver. He still held the butt, and his finger found the trigger. He fired to no avail. Jermyn had turned the muzzle of the gun away.

With a quick twist, Jermyn managed to yank the revolver from the man who held it. The weapon clattered across the floor as Jermyn flung it toward the wall.

Heavy fists struck downward. The fierce murderer pounded the man beneath him. His fingers clutched Jermyn’s throat. A thumb pressed deeply into the flesh. Jermyn suddenly relaxed.

It was not the choking that had overcome him. His wound was a mortal one. He had been fighting on nerve alone. Now, his strength was gone.

The murderer knew that his victim lived no longer. With a low, muttered exclamation, he arose and picked up the glowing flashlight. Then he paused and extinguished the light. Some one was pounding at the outer door of the apartment, the way by which the killer had entered.

Help was here. Escape must be made at once. The killer pushed the button of the flashlight. The rays turned toward Martin Powell. Beside the investigator lay the automatic which Powell had used so ineffectually.

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

His own gun was gone. It was the object of his search. He wanted his own revolver, but the heavy beating at the door was alarming. There was no time for either choice or delay. The hand of the killer seized the automatic. The man dashed toward a window, extinguishing the light as he went.

Peering from the window, he saw the balcony of a fire tower. He drew up the sash, swung his body clear, and clung to a cornice as he stretched toward the rail. He lost his footing, but his wild, clutching hands managed to grasp the rail.

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

Back in the room where three men lay, all was silent, save for the sound of pounding that came from the outer door, far down the hallway. Then the pounding ceased suddenly. The rescuers, thwarted, had gone for assistance.

Silence followed. Then a slight moan. One of the three was not dead. A second moan; then silence. From far down the hall came a distant click, as though the lock of the heavy outer door had yielded. A few seconds passed, then the silence of the room was broken by a new sound that was scarcely audible.

Something was swishing through the darkness. A tiny ray of light gleamed along the wall. A spot, no larger than a silver dollar, was focused upon the light switch which the murderer had pressed. A hand reached forth and pressed the switch.

Some one had entered this room of death!