Murder Every Hour

CHAPTER XX THE FINAL EVIDENCE

CREEPING echoes clung to the book-lined walls of Caffley’s library. Final testimony of The Shadow’s taunt, those eerie reverberations died. An unreal hush lay over all. It was broken only by the faint swish that followed, as The Shadow stepped forward into the room.

Folds of the black cloak spread momentarily to reveal a dark crimson lining beneath the sable-hued surface. Step by step, his advance a steady glide, The Shadow approached the table beside Wainwright Barth.

His lips quivering in voiceless utterance, the commissioner caught his pince-nez spectacles as they were about to drop from his nose. Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, Barth wiped the lenses in mechanical fashion, not knowing what action he was performing.

Joe Cardona sat stolid. Yet the detective could feel the tension; the eager thumping of his heart was proof of his emotion. The Shadow had brought aid to Cardona in the past. Once again this master hand was present.

Not until Hiram Caffley had mentioned The Shadow had Cardona believed it possible that the supersleuth was concerned with the investigation of those murders that had occurred, one to an hour. Even then, Cardona had doubted that The Shadow was actually in the game. Joe had felt hopeless up until the very moment of The Shadow’s appearance.

Hands quivering, face leering, Hiram Caffley backed in between his fellow criminals. Garsher was trembling; mechanically, the fellow released his revolver and let it fall to the floor. Sycher heard the thump; he dropped his gun also. Murderers three were at the mercy of The Shadow.

The Shadow’s right hand moved toward his cloak. His left kept its single automatic weaving a slow back and forth course from one killer to another. Not one of the evil trio dared move. The .45 was like a living threat.

With his right hand, The Shadow left the other automatic beneath his cloak. Paper crinkled as The Shadow produced three sheets that glared their whiteness against the black of his cloak. He placed these typewritten pages upon the table beside the pen and ink.

Again The Shadow’s hand went beneath the cloak. It emerged with the second automatic. Again, both weapons covered the quivering three. The murderers stared wondering at those papers on the table.

“Murderers,” hissed The Shadow, “your crimes were suspected long since! Settlement awaited only the elimination of other possible factors. I have learned that those other possibilities were ended this very night.”

Cardona did not realize that The Shadow’s statement was partly for his benefit. The Shadow’s words completely deceived the detective. It carried his thoughts away from the possibility of considering The Shadow and Lamont Cranston as one identity.

Joe pictured the bookcase in Dreblin’s study. He fancied that The Shadow must have entered the lower door, come up and listened out of sight beyond the secret opening. The Shadow — so Cardona reasoned — must have picked up where Lamont Cranston left off.

“There was no need for haste,” resumed The Shadow in a scornful whisper. “Rogues would herd together, once their game began to fail. When I learned that Sycher had fled, I knew that he would be found here. With Garsher also.”

“That was why I delayed my visit. There were preparations to be made. These papers” — the hiss was echoed — “that you see upon this table. Brief summaries of the very confessions which have been spoken in this room.”

The sibilant tones died. Villains stared. Barth still fumbled with his handkerchief. Cardona sat dumfounded. The Shadow had analyzed the trail of crime!

LIKE Cranston, thought Cardona, The Shadow must have seen planted evidence against Powlden. He must have suspected Sycher because of the time element with the elevator. With Nethro uncovered as the man in gray, but innocent; with Dreblin eliminated in addition, The Shadow had correctly divined the whole chain of murder!

“Accomplices,” spoke The Shadow, “were possible but unnecessary, had one killer chosen to murder thrice. Yet the sequence existed; and alibis were present. Three alibis which did not coincide.

“Upon one man alone” — The Shadow glared toward Sycher — “was evidence positive of complicity or crime. Once others were eliminated” — Cardona nodded as he thought of Powlden, Nethro and Dreblin — “the league of three was obvious.

“The confessions are prepared. They correspond with the statements to which I have listened from the hiding place where I overpowered the concealed guard. Signatures alone are needed.”

The Shadow’s right hand wavered consistently from Caffley to Sycher, holding the two rogues trembling. His left steadied on Garsher; the gun muzzle seemed to beckon as The Shadow’s hand moved upward.

Shaking, Garsher came forward.

Pen was beside ink. Garsher stared at the top sheet of three. He saw there a confession that began: “I, George Garsher — “; the trembling rogue could read no further. He heard The Shadow’s hiss:

“Sign!”

Dipping the pen in ink, Garsher inscribed his name in shaky letters upon a line provided at the bottom of the page. Dropping the pen, the murderer backed hastily away. His feet stumbled against his revolver. Garsher stopped beside Caffley.

That left-hand gun had followed Garsher’s retreat. It began a weaving from Garsher to Caffley, while the right hand steadied and the muzzle gave a beckon to Sycher.

The pale-faced slayer shambled forward. With nervous hands, he pushed Garsher’s statement aside and saw one that began with his own name.

Sycher signed more steadily than had Garsher. His retreat, however, was fully as hasty. He stood facing an unmoving gun; Garsher did the same.

Caffley, staring, looked squarely into The Shadow’s burning eyes.

“Sign!” ordered The Shadow.

Caffley hesitated. His fists clenched, half raised. His lips were leering as he chewed at them. Then, steadily but mechanically, he came forward; he reached the table, pushed aside Sycher’s paper and signed the bottom one, his own.

As he dropped the pen, Caffley showed sudden fury. His hands shot forward as if to grasp the final paper and rip it, as he had done with Barth’s letter. Something made him stop; the supercrook looked up and heard The Shadow’s furious hiss.

Caffley backed and lined up between his pals in crime. Three murderers had closed their own case against themselves.

THE SHADOW delivered a taunt that was mirthless; it seemed like a grim finish to his quest.

These men of crime belonged to those whom they had sought to slay — to Commissioner Wainwright Barth and Detective Joe Cardona. Their fate had rested in the hands of evildoers; The Shadow’s justice called for complete reversal of the scene.

Barth blinked in worried fashion as he saw The Shadow glide backward from the table. The rescuer was departing by the path from which he had come. Toward that prone body of Caffley’s unconscious henchman; between the curtains which clung together like a draped shroud above the man on the floor.

Cardona, however, caught the cue. Springing to his feet, the detective produced his revolver. Caffley and his pals were still helpless before The Shadow’s receding automatics. Cardona was prepared to hold them in that same position. Clustered, they were easily covered.

Barth had come here weaponless. There were guns on the floor; but the commissioner gave them no thought. He sprang to the telephone to put in a call to the nearest police precinct. As he waited for the operator, Barth heard the final tones of The Shadow’s laugh. A parting gibe from beyond the somber curtains.

“Hello… Hello…” Barth was querulous because of a delayed response. “Operator… Hello…”

A sound from across the room. Barth swung about just in time to see Cardona wheel toward the side door that led in from the main portion of the house. The detective sprang forward aiming his gun.

The absent servants had arrived. By chance, they had come here, to spy Cardona holding their master and his companions at bay. These were no ordinary menials; they were the henchmen who had slugged Lawrence and brought him in from Barth’s car.

Both rogues were armed. As Cardona fired, they responded. Wide shots on both sides. Joe’s first bullets zipped the morocco backs from a set of books that stood in a case beside the door. A servant’s quick shots shattered panes from the glass door to the sun porch.

As Garsher and Sycher dived for their discarded revolvers, Hiram Caffley came bounding forward with a maddened roar. His thin-fingered hands were aiming for Barth’s throat.

The commissioner hurled the telephone at the master crook. The wire was short; the instrument stopped with a jerk and clattered to the floor.

A servant staggered. Cardona had bagged him with a bullet in the shoulder. As the fellow sprawled, his companion took straight aim for the detective. Cardona had no chance to meet the pointed gun; but another battler was prepared.

A roar burst from between the curtains at the rear end of the room. A flash of flame tongued for the would-be killer. A ripping bullet sent the murderous servant plunging, squirming to the floor.

Caffley had caught Barth’s throat.

The commissioner’s new pince-nez spectacles went sailing from the bridge of his nose, where Barth had just replaced them. Wildly, Barth wrestled with his foe.

Sycher and Garsher had seen the shot from the curtains. Their guns were coming up; with one accord, they blazed straight bullets toward the spot from which the flash had appeared. A laugh sounded from behind the draperies.

From where the murderers stood, just clear of the table, the way was open between them and the spot where The Shadow had remained. Against an ordinary foe, their prompt shots would have taken devastating effect. The Shadow, though, had tricked them.

An automatic roared in response to the revolver shots. It did not come from high up, as with the shot that The Shadow had aimed toward Caffley’s servant. The flash was from a spot just above the floor. The Shadow had dropped flat to deal with these new adversaries.

George Garsher slumped. Groaning, the murderer rolled upon the floor. Al Sycher aimed low and emptied his revolver with venomous fury. In with his quick shots came another burst of flame from the very spot toward which the murderer had aimed.

Sycher sagged, his face lined with pain. His bulging eyes stared unbelieving toward those curtains. The drapes parted; the dying murderer saw the finger of The Shadow; below the vengeful shape the body of Caffley’s third servant.

The unconscious menial had become a corpse, thanks to Sycher’s bullets. The Shadow had not dropped to an unprotected floor. That prone form of the servant, which Sycher had forgotten, had been The Shadow’s bulwark.

CARDONA had heard a gargling cry from Barth. The detective swung about as he saw Sycher follow Garsher to the floor. Joe leaped in to deal with Caffley.

The master crook dropped Barth and seized Cardona’s wrist. With the fury of a demon, he wrested away the detective’s gun; as Joe fought back, Caffley spun him toward the end of the room and shoved the revolver muzzle past the detective’s shoulder.

Caffley wanted vengeance on The Shadow. He might have gained it but for his over-vehemence. Gifted with the power of a fiend, the gray-haired man bore down on Joe Cardona while he pressed the trigger of the detective’s revolver.

One shot whistled past The Shadow’s hat brim, just as the black-garbed fighter performed a sidewise twist. Caffley swung to quicker aim, lunging as he did so. In his powerful effort, he came high and wide of Cardona, whom he was using as a shield.

The Shadow had already aimed. He had delayed fire only. Like a boxer jabbing past a lowered guard, The Shadow inserted a timely shot. The roar of the big automatic spelled the doom of a supercrook.

Caffley’s right wrist wavered. He managed to press the trigger, a fraction of a second too late. His aim was slipping as he fired; again Caffley was wide.

Fuming fruitless oaths, the last of the murderers slipped toward the floor; Cardona, hardly realizing that The Shadow had clipped the villain, was prompt with a punch that sent the sagging Caffley rolling beneath the table that Barth had managed to clutch.

Lawrence, consciousness regained, was sitting up on the divan, startled by the gunfire. He saw Barth and Cardona side by side; at their feet the sprawled form of Hiram Caffley.

The other two murderers were twisted objects on the floor. The servants who had started the melee were groaning, wounded, their guns gone from their useless hands.

Solemnly, Wainwright Barth stooped to the floor to regain his new pince-nez. The spectacles had bounded upon the thick, tufted rug. The acting commissioner found them unbroken and calmly adjusted them upon his eagle-like nose.

Then, while Cardona stared in admiration at Barth’s methodical manner, the commissioner surveyed the bodies on the floor. That done, Barth turned to the table and picked up the signed confessions.

To Cardona, it was a display of sangfroid on the part of the commissioner. Joe did not realize that Barth was half dazed, resorting to method purely through mechanical response. It was a sound — not the scene — that jolted Wainwright Barth from his deliberate activity.

FROM beyond swishing curtains came a departing laugh. A sudden, rising taunt that reached a startling crescendo. A cry of triumph that was shuddering as it broke into a host of quivering echoes.

Confessions gripped in his left hand, Barth clutched Cardona’s arm with a right that trembled. Blinking as he stared through his spectacles, the commissioner looked to the detective for the explanation of that uncanny peal that Barth could not fully understand.

It was Joe Cardona, this time, who showed steadiness. The detective had heard that mighty laugh before; it came to him with flooding memories of the past.

It marked the end of crime. It told that justice had been done; that murderers three, treacherous to the last, had found the doom that they had given to others.

The triumph laugh of The Shadow!