Cyro

CHAPTER III UNEXPECTED VISITORS

SILENCE persisted in that lower courtyard after the departure of Tracy Lence. The murderer’s stealthy footfalls had been but slight clicks in that gloom. Stilled atmosphere clung shroudlike in the court during the five minutes that elapsed after the murderer’s exit.

Then came motion. A soft swish disturbed the darkness. Noiselessly, a figure had glided into the courtyard. Unseen, a phantom shape was moving toward the fire escape that Tracy Lence had descended.

A new presence had arrived. Some one — a being in black — was reversing the course that Lence had followed. A hidden shape arrived at the very window from which Lence had left the apartment. A soft laugh whispered in the darkness.

That sound, scarcely audible, was a token of identity. This mysterious prowler, approaching the scene of crime, was a personage to whom such journeys were commonplace. The being from darkness was The Shadow.

To crookdom, The Shadow was a living foe. Men of evil knew his prowess. Time and again, plotters of crime had gained evidence of The Shadow’s uncanny ability in bringing doom to crime. A weaving figure cloaked in black; the author of a strident laugh that accompanied the withering staccato of barking automatics — such was The Shadow.

And, as mute testimony of this master fighter’s strength, men of evil had found the silent bodies of their pals in crime. Dying mobsters had coughed his name — The Shadow — in gasping their last breaths. And always, when The Shadow arrived to deal vengeance upon foes of justice, he came with unexpected stealth.

The little, like the big, could feel The Shadow’s wrath. For his campaign was one of extermination. The Shadow knew that men of smaller schemes would become the makers of large plans. To The Shadow, crime was crime. That axiom had brought him here tonight.

Somehow, The Shadow had learned of Roke Rowden’s scheme. He knew where the swindler lived. He had full knowledge of the time set for the trimming. He knew also that a confederate would be present to aid Roke Rowden in the fleecing of Northrup Lucaster, the gentleman from Des Moines.

THE window by the fire escape opened at The Shadow’s pressure. The spectral raider had expected as much. He had seen the apartment house from the outside. He knew that Rowden would have chosen an apartment with an emergency exit. The unlatched window was proof that this was part of apartment 516. It was ready for a quick getaway.

The Shadow entered the darkened room. Straight ahead, a door stood ajar. As The Shadow advanced with stealthy glide, a clock in the living room chimed the hour of ten — the time set for Lucaster’s arrival. The Shadow knew.

No voices from the living room. Yet Rowden had expected another friend before Lucaster’s arrival. By the usual procedure of con men, conversation should be in order. Silence told The Shadow that something was wrong.

Listening by the partly opened door, The Shadow caught the sound of a faint moan. Slowly, he edged through the doorway. His form emerged into the lighted living room. Automatic in hand, The Shadow stood motionless as he eyed the dying form of Roke Rowden.

The Shadow had come here tonight to play a hidden role. Such crooks as Rowden belonged to the police. The Shadow had arranged for the law to capture Rowden and his unknown pal. The Shadow had arrived only to cover the exit which he knew the crooks would take.

But instead of two living men, he found one man, dying. A single glance at Rowden’s sweat-stained face was proof that the man’s life was almost gone.

The Shadow’s hand disappeared beneath his cloak. It left the automatic there. In its place, it brought out a phial that contained a purplish liquid. Stooping, The Shadow applied the elixir to Roke Rowden’s lips.

Moaning ceased. A tremor shook the huddled frame. Roke’s eyes opened. They met The Shadow’s burning optics; those burning eyes that gleamed from beneath the brim of a broad slouch hat. Roke uttered a hoarse gasp. Lence’s gun dropped from Roke’s fingers, as the dying man brought both hands to his face to shut off sight of that blazing gaze.

With maddened effort, Roke struggled to his elbow. He wanted to regain his feet. The elixir had given him vigor; sight of The Shadow had added terror. Struggling upward, Roke caught the edge of the table and drew himself to his feet. He swayed crazily. The Shadow’s strong arm caught him.

With the stare of a hashish fiend, Roke gazed toward the blankness of the desk. He was focussing his eyes there, to avoid another view of the grim figure in blackness. To his dying stare, The Shadow had symbolized death.

But Roke could not escape the sinister whisper that sounded in his ear. There was fierce command in the sibilance of the single word that The Shadow uttered:

“Speak.”

ROKE gasped incoherently. He could not frame the words he sought to speak. His left hand clutched the edge of the desk. His sagging form leaned heavily against The Shadow’s shoulder. Then Roke’s right hand crawled, spiderlike, until it clutched the pen that Tracy Lence had left upon the desk.

A loose sheet of paper lay close beside the pen. Breathing wheezy sighs, Roke scrawled a name in childish letters that ran ragged across the paper. Four letters only in that name; yet it took the full width of the sheet as it spelled the word that gasping lips had failed to utter:

“Cyro,” hissed The Shadow. His tone indicated that he, like Roke, had heard the name before. “Tell me” — it was a command, not a question — “Cyro was here?”

Roke’s head shook weakly as the dying man delivered a negative response. Instantly, The Shadow took up the lead.

“The man who was here,” he hissed, “was an associate of Cyro?”

Roke managed to nod.

“That man shot you—”

Again the nod.

“Although he was in your game.”

A third nod. More feeble than the others.

“His name,” came The Shadow’s order.

Roke’s lips trembled. They failed, as before. His hand fumbled for the pen and gained it. Roke began to write; His fingers made hopeless scratches with the pen. The Shadow stretched a gloved hand forward. While he supported the sagging form, he steadied Roke’s wrist.

A knock at the door. Roke’s hand stopped. His head tilted crazily as his eyes looked in the direction of the sound. Again the knock. Then a voice:

“Hello, Rowden.” A pause. “This is Lucaster. Are you there, Rowden?”

Roke tried to speak. His body slumped toward the desk. Steadying the man’s shoulders, gripping Roke’s right wrist, The Shadow ordered:

“Write!”

Roke sought to obey. His hand made scratches with the pen. Lines up and down; then the ink stopped. The pen was dry.

Watching, The Shadow tried to trace some form of lettering. But such effort was beyond Roke Rowden. Scratches, up and down, as illegible as his words were incoherent.

“Rowden! This is Lucaster!”

Painfully, Roke turned his head toward the door. Then a deep sigh puffed from his lips. The pen dropped straight downward and stuck upright, quivering in the bare floor. Roke’s body collapsed like a dummy figure.

Holding the limp form upright, The Shadow knew that the swindler was dead.

“OPEN the door!” The voice beyond was gruff. “Open! In the name of the law!”

Motionless, The Shadow was staring toward the door while he held the scarecrow form of Roke Rowden. A soft laugh quivered from his unseen lips. He had expected this change of tune from the other side of the door.

Crash! The door quivered as a heavy form hurtled against it.

The Shadow drew his hands from Rowden’s body. Roke’s dead form went sprawling to the floor and rolled sidewise upon one arm.

Another jolt at the barrier. One hinge broke as the door sprang inward. Shouts for another try. A momentary lull.

The Shadow wheeled. Swiftly, he swept toward the door to the inner room. Weirdly, he merged with the darkness beyond.

Then came a final crash against the outer door. The barrier ripped from its hinges. A broad-shouldered policeman came plunging through and sprawled head foremost on the floor. Close at his heels sprang a stocky, swarthy-faced man brandishing a revolver.

It was Joe Cardona, acting inspector, ace sleuth of the New York police force. Cover-up man for the cop who had crashed the door, Joe was ready with his gun, anxious to bead any crook who might use the officer for a target. As he concluded a wide sweep with his gun arm, Joe Cardona came to a sudden stop.

While a policeman and a detective sergeant crowded in behind him, Joe stared at the prone form of Roke Rowden. The others copied his example. The big cop who had smashed the door picked himself up and joined in the gaze. Joe looked toward the door of the inner room.

Advancing with leveled gun, the ace reached the inner door. He pulled a flashlight and clicked it as he entered. His sweeping glare showed that the room was empty. Joe moved to the window. He raised the sash and spread the glimmer through the lower courtyard. Turning back, Joe clicked out his light and faced the detective sergeant who had followed him.

“If anyone went that way, Markham,” said Cardona, “he’s made his getaway. There’s nobody at the bottom of that fire escape. Come on back. Let’s take a look at the dead guy in the other room.”