Murder Trail

CHAPTER XXI CRIX DECREES

“FOOL!” The word came from the evil lips of the man who had revealed himself as Crix. “Fool! To think that you could thwart me! You have played into my hands, Venturi — into the hands of Crix!

“When Aristide Ponjeau came to America, he never dreamed that among the men with whom he talked was one who could see opportunity. He trusted all the millionaires whom he visited. He trusted Roberts Faraday among them.

“Why should I contribute two millions to a fantastic dream such as Ponjeau’s World Court of Industry? A great man in France — a great man at Lausanne; but Ponjeau could do nothing in world-wide affairs.”

“Twenty millions! Wasted millions. Easy millions. Easy for Roberts Faraday to acquire, by using his intelligence. So Roberts Faraday became Crix. How easy it was for me to learn that you represented Aristide Ponjeau in this country. I had men watching you, Venturi. But I did not stop at that; I had planned too well.

“I went to Europe — to Lausanne — and there I watched Aristide Ponjeau. Baron Hugo von Tollsburg visited him. I spied upon them. I learned their plan. A secret room aboard the dirigible Munchen — a hiding place for a stowaway de luxe. Von Tollsburg was to occupy it by arrangement with the commander.

“I was in that stateroom, Venturi. I had secreted myself within the berth of that room long before Von Tollsburg arrived. When he discovered me, I choked him to death.

“The supplies that were there for him served me until we reached America. Then, using the parachute which I took aboard with me, I escaped from the dirigible unnoticed, with nothing to stop me in my plan.”

Crix paused to gloat. His lips writhed in an evil smile. Venturi and Angelo were helpless before him. Crix laughed with disdain.

“Winston Collister was the first,” he said. “He saw that my signature was not perfect. I killed him and took his millions. I feared a similar difficulty with Sturgis Bosworth. He was the second, and he did not question my signature. But you came there, Venturi, and I was prepared. You would never have escaped my men, but for the intervention of The Shadow.

“I have been planning since — waiting here — unsuspected. I knew that a crisis would come to-morrow night. You had disappeared — you would be here. Then came the special word that brought this previous appointment. It is you tonight, Venturi — to-morrow night, The Shadow, should he appear.

“I see your hope” — Crix laughed fiendishly as he caught a glimmer in Venturi’s dark eyes — “and I can tell you that it is vain. The Shadow, tonight? Let him come! I am ready for him. The way is blocked by a dozen men!

“You are wondering about the millions? I shall tell you where they are. Safe, Venturi, safe — in that huge vault behind me. There they will remain, Venturi, while I, posing as you, shall go with your credentials to collect from the other victims.

“I shall murder them only if I encounter trouble. Otherwise, they may live. The wealth that Ponjeau wanted will become the property of Crix. Roberts Faraday? He will merely be another of the victims.”

CRIX was speaking in a low, hissing tone, that carried only to Venturi’s ears. The supercrook had a purpose. His announcement of his own identity had been loud enough for Bart Shallock and Bumps Jaffrey to hear; these subsequent revelations were intended for Victor Venturi, alone.

“Four millions are already safe,” hissed Crix. “Safe, in my impregnable vault which no cracksman could hope to enter. I am telling you all this, Venturi, because you shall not live to tell it. Your fate is sealed, Venturi, and there is nothing you can do about it.

“I am not the one who will kill you. Murder is unwise within the home of Roberts Faraday. I sent my servants away. You and your man will be taken away — by those who will dispose of you. Victor Venturi will be no more. Crix will remain.

“I have learned how you intend to notify Aristide Ponjeau that all is well. To-morrow night will be calm. Should The Shadow come here, he will find only Roberts Faraday. He will believe that Crix has given up the game.

“But after that, Crix will send the cable. As Venturi he will make collections. No trouble — no disturbance — all will be smooth for Crix. I am Crix!”

The announcement came in a louder tone. It was a reminder to the waiting men of evil that Roberts Faraday was inviolate; that the victims of the raid should be Victor Venturi and his servant, Angelo.

In terse sentences, Crix had explained the details of his game. His words had filled Venturi with despair. The Italian saw how completely he had been tricked. Nothing could stop Crix now. Most insidious of all was the fact that Venturi’s death was essential to the scheme.

Never could one evil man have uncovered a surer way to immense wealth than had Crix. To Roberts Faraday, a man of reputed possessions, had come tremendous opportunity, which, to nine honest men, had never suggested itself. The third upon the list of contributors to a world-wide cause, Faraday, who called himself “Crix,” had plucked the ones before him, and was now planning to gather from the rest.

To Victor Venturi, there was no hope. The Italian understood the cold-blooded character of Crix. Here was a fiend who had slain others who had blocked his path. Mercy was not in Crix’s quota of emotions!

“Von Tollsburg’s papers are in my pocket,” leered Crix, in a low tone that betokened finality. “Yours will be there soon, Venturi!”

In a loud voice, Crix uttered the single word:

“Ready!”

There was a buzz in the adjoining room. The door burst open, and in came Bart Shallock and Bumps Jaffrey. Behind them were half a dozen mobsters — Cliff Marsland amid the evil-looking crew. Each of the invaders carried a revolver. When Crix motioned with a gun toward Victor Venturi, Bumps Jaffrey walked over and poked his revolver against the Italian’s ribs.

“Take the papers from him,” ordered Crix. “Pass them over to me.” Bumps Jaffrey obeyed, Crix questioning him while he acted.

“You have men blocking the hall and the side door?” quizzed the master crook.

“Four of them,” responded Bumps.

“Good,” stated Crix. “Take these two men and give them the works. Make a sure job of it.”

“Leave it to me,” laughed Bumps.

CLIFF MARSLAND faced a dilemma. Bumps Jaffrey was covering Victor Venturi and Angelo. Crix, with guns in readiness after pocketing Venturi’s documents, was also a menacing figure. The other mobsters were standing in readiness.

What should Cliff do? He could start a gun fight, in an effort to save the Italians. That was his first impulse, despite the futility of the deed.

On the other hand, he could bide his time. Perhaps there would be a chance to save them; if not, would it be preferable to let them die, so that he, Cliff Marsland, could lead The Shadow to the man who was in back of all this?

Roberts Faraday, alias Crix, was a contemptible being, who plotted newer and greater crimes. Cliff knew the menace of that gloating man behind the desk. At the same time, Cliff was loath to see Venturi and Angelo die. They had been under the protection of The Shadow. Here, Cliff represented The Shadow!

Chance brought Cliff Marsland to a prompt decision. It was Victor Venturi who forced the issue. The Italian emissary, hearing his death sentence, decided upon a bold course. With a rasping cry to Angelo in his native tongue, Venturi leaped toward Bumps Jaffrey. Angelo sprang in the same direction.

Springing backward, Bumps swung his arm upward with deliberation. His purpose was to shoot Venturi dead. Cliff, acting spontaneously, beat the gang leader to the shot. Instinctively, Cliff fired. His bullet lodged in Jaffrey’s shoulder. The gang leader dropped with a curse upon his lips.

The other mobsters leaped forward. They had taken Cliff’s shot as an error of aim, for Venturi was falling upon Bumps when Cliff fired. Again, Cliff’s weapon spoke, and the nearest of the surging gangsters fell. In the midst of this surprising attack, Cliff Marsland had an unexpected opportunity. There were two men, however, who caught his plan.

One was Bart Shallock; the other was Crix himself. As Cliff’s second shot roared, Bart raised a gun to slay The Shadow’s henchman. Crix, with quick thought, dodged away from the desk and dropped behind the end section, raising a revolver to wing Cliff in the back.

Venturi was leaping toward Bart Shallock — too late to stop the man’s aim. Angelo, seeing Crix as the chief enemy, was springing toward the desk. The mobsmen were stopped in their tracks, momentarily bewildered.

Bart Shallock’s finger rested coolly on the trigger. He was pressing before Cliff could turn to fire at him. But in the excitement, not a single pair of eyes discerned what was taking place at the wall behind the desk.

The huge door of the vault was swinging outward. Beyond its moving edge appeared the head and shoulders of a sinister being. A form in black — a slouch hat drawn down above two burning eyes — a hand that held a huge-mouthed automatic. All had appeared miraculously beside that moving door.

The automatic roared. A swift messenger of death struck Bart Shallock. The confidence man sprawled forward as he fired. The bullet from his revolver splintered through the floor.

Cliff Marsland’s life had been saved. A new warrior had entered the fray. The crew of evil men had encountered another foe — and the laugh that sounded through the room pealed forth the identity of this grim avenger.

It was the laugh of The Shadow!