Spoils of the Shadow

CHAPTER XIV CROOK VERSUS SHADOW

WESTBURY GROLIER’S home on Madison Avenue suited the description that Mark Tyrell had given it. Built of white marble, it loomed like a silent mausoleum from a quiet corner. The center of the building had the appearance of a mansion; the wings were blank-walled extensions.

Passages ran by the inner side and the rear of the edifice. A low wall surrounded the entire structure. Gates at front, sides and back were barriers; but they were not formidable. All were equipped with latches on the inside; these could be handled by any one who might scale the wall.

While crooks were on their way to Grolier’s mansion, a stealthy, sneaking figure made its appearance on Madison Avenue. Foon Koo, the spider-legged Chinaman, was coming in advance of Tyrell and his comrades. The yellow-faced underling chose the alleyway behind the house. He scrambled over the wall like a jack rabbit and plumped inside the grounds.

Foon Koo slunk to the rear of the inner wing. His beady eyes studied the wall that he was to scale. Blocks of marble had been set to form an ornamental corner; every alternate block offered a slight projection. This suited Foon Koo. The Chinaman began the ascent. His limber figure reached the roof, thirty feet above.

Shortly after Foon Koo had ducked from sight beyond the parapet of the roof, two men came strolling along Madison Avenue. Their coats were open; the white fronts of dress shirts showed in the light of the street lamps. Mark Tyrell and Harry Vincent had arrived.

The strollers walked beyond Grolier’s grounds. As they returned, a touring car pulled up on the other side of the avenue and parked at a vacant space. A few minutes later, a sedan arrived; then came another car of the same description. Lights out, these vehicles looked like any of the other automobiles that were parked at intervals along this section of the thoroughfare.

A policeman, patrolling his beat, eyed the two men in evening dress as he went past. The officer observed that one — Tyrell — was lighting a cigarette. Chatting, the pair started for the corner. The bluecoat continued on his way. These men were by no means suspicious characters.

Foon Koo — the strollers — the men in the cars — these were not all who had arrived in the vicinity of Grolier’s home. Another visitor had also made his appearance; but he had come with almost invisible silence. Harry and Tyrell, as they glanced along the passage in back of the grounds, failed to see the black-garbed shape that was ascending the low wall.

THE SHADOW had received Burbank’s message. He was on the scene. He had chosen the same course as Foon Koo. When he dealt with the thrusts of mobsters, The Shadow preferred to work from the inside.

A blackened shape appeared against the white wing of Grolier’s mansion. It edged toward a gloomy section of the wall. The Shadow had decided that the corner, with its projections, was too open a spot. Like a gigantic bat, The Shadow’s cloaked form moved upward. Squidgy sounds marked his ascent.

The Shadow was utilizing rubber suction cups. His hands and feet were equipped with these devices. Direct pressure made each cup adhere to the marble wall. A twisting motion caused a prompt release. With steady progress, The Shadow moved upward toward the roof.

Though The Shadow had received no word of Foon Koo’s activity, he had recognized the natural spot that would be chosen for crime. He realized that the roof would afford the only mode of entry to the interior of this wing. He was choosing this path to arrive ahead of the waiting crooks.

In the meantime. Foon Koo had gained access. Scarcely had The Shadow disappeared beyond the parapet of the roof before a motion occurred at the rear gate. Mark Tyrell, glancing along the passage, saw the sign. He gripped Harry Vincent’s arm. The two men moved toward the gate.

Foon Koo was awaiting them. He whispered brief words to Tyrell — a statement which Harry Vincent heard only in part.

“All velly good,” informed Foon Koo. “Me open way. Me findee ladder in closet. Shutee top tightee. Puttee ladder back. Foon Koo waitee at old house.”

“All right,” whispered Tyrell. “Good work, Foon Koo.”

As the Chinaman padded along the alleyway, Tyrell urged Harry through the gate. They found an opened back door. A little entry showed another opened barrier to the left. It led into the wing, up a short flight of steps.

Tyrell’s flashlight glimmered along the floor. The wing was totally dark inside. A turn of the brief steps served to keep the flashlight guarded. The rays revealed an opened door at the side of a long passage. Tyrell and Harry entered.

Glimmering light from Tyrell’s torch showed that Foon Koo had unbarred the door of the relic room. There was another floor leading into an adjoining portion of the museum. Evidently the custom was to bar the relic room from the inside; then to pass through the other exit and lock it.

This had simplified Foon Koo’s task. Tyrell chuckled as his flashlight fell upon glass-fronted cases. Sparkling jewels glimmered in the rays. Coronets, heavy buckles, necklaces — decorations of all sorts were ready for the thieves who had entered.

Harry Vincent eased his hand into his pocket. He was ready to balk Mark Tyrell’s game. It was a whisper from the other man that made him pause. Tyrell had turned his light up toward the ceiling, nearly twenty feet above.

“Hear anything, Vincent?”

“No.”

“That skylight’s a bit off center.”

“Only a trifle.”

“Yes. I guess Foon Koo barred it hurriedly.”

“Perhaps he damaged the fastenings, Tyrell.”

“That’s possible.”

Tyrell lowered his light. Harry began to draw his gun. Then came another interruption. Other flashlights appeared suddenly from the hall. Harry swung; Tyrell stopped him.

In that instant, Harry realized that his chance was gone. He had thought that this was to be a two man job. Instead, others had arrived. Tyrell was whispering to the arrivals. Harry recognized names: Slug Bracken — Pug Halfin — Chopper Hoban — Muff Motter.

Cliff Marsland was absent. Evidently he had been left with guards outside. Harry’s dwindling hopes were ended. His only course was to play along with crime. Along with the other raiders, he helped at the glass cases. Bags had appeared in the glimmering field of the flashlights. Men were loading them with jeweled relics.

THE job was a brief one, thanks to Tyrell. The chief crook had already picked the particular cases which contained items of real value. He seemed remarkably familiar with the objects that he wanted.

“All right,” came Tyrell’s order. “Hold those lights at the door. I’ll take one more look; then we’ll be on our way.”

Of the five men aiding Tyrell, three — including Harry Vincent — were standing with loaded bags. Harry was actually within the room. He was beside the opened door. The others were in the outer hall. Beside them were the two who held the brilliant flashlights. Mark Tyrell was also part way in the room. The steadied torches were gleaming from either side of him. The angles of their focused light joined at the center of the roost and showed the rifled cases at the opposite wall.

As Tyrell paused to look about, he heard a scraping sound from the ceiling. He looked upward. His right hand tightened on a revolver that he was holding pointed to the floor.

“What’s that?” he questioned, hoarsely. “Turn a light up, Pug—”

Before Pug could respond, something swished from above. A shape of blackness dropped squarely to the center of the room, directly in the range of the flashlights. Long, spreading arms stretched outward upon the floor, to break the fall. A head swung upward from a pair of cloaked shoulders. Burning eyes reflected the glare of flashlights.

Like a creature from the night, The Shadow had plunged through the skylight. Delayed by the fastenings that Foon Koo had replaced, the master of vengeance had arrived just in time to check the escape of the robbers.

A snarl came from Slug Bracken, who was holding one flashlight. Pug Halfin — he held the other glimmer — emitted a frenzied grunt. The men with the bags paused dumbfounded, all except Harry Vincent. He was ready to drop his bag and spring to The Shadow’s aid.

Before Harry could act, a startling climax capped the unexpected arrival of The Shadow. Mark Tyrell was the man responsible. He had seen his archenemy drop out of space. He saw The Shadow, instantly recovered from his plunge, rising upward with a pair of automatics swinging in his black-gloved fists. Quick as a flash, Tyrell swung his revolver upward and pressed the trigger.

THE SHADOW had risen with a swinging twist. It was the uncanny shift he made while aiming, to trick opponents into missing their mark. At the same time, his automatics were on their way to cover Tyrell. The Shadow, marksman extraordinary, was an adept at beating enemies to the shot.

Tyrell, however, gained the advantage. His revolver barked as The Shadow’s automatics pointed. More than that, Tyrell showed surprising skill. As The Shadow shifted, Tyrell followed with his aiming gun. The bullet from his .38 found its mark in The Shadow’s left shoulder.

Harry Vincent saw The Shadow’s feinting twist end in a sprawling fall. An automatic blazed a spilt second too late. The bullet whistled over Tyrell’s head as the crook fired a second shot. This blast from Tyrell’s gun was high. The crook dropped his aim, as The Shadow, crumpled on the floor, loosed another shot that went wide because of his weakened aim.

Before Mark Tyrell could fire a third time, Harry Vincent acted. Instinctively, he chose the most effective plan. Instead of dropping the bag, he clutched it tightly. Driving madly toward the door, he jostled Tyrell squarely and sent the chief crook staggering backward to the hall.

“The Shadow!” cried Harry, hoarsely. “The Shadow! Get going! It’s The Shadow!”

Harry had blocked Tyrell perfectly.

His thrust had sent the suave crook completely from the room. The other bag carriers leaped for safety as they heard Harry’s shout. Pug Halfin sprang along with them. Slug Bracken, yanking out a gun, remained to aim. He, unlike Pug, had been holding his flashlight in his left hand.

Flat from the floor, The Shadow fired his right hand automatic. His target was the flashlight. His cramped position spoiled his usually perfect aim. The bullet whistled half an inch from Slug’s wrist. Instinctively, the gangleader sprang back as he returned the shot. Through his sudden haste, Slug missed his mark.

Tyrell, alone, was springing back toward the relic room. Slug, past the corner of the door, saw him in the light of Pug’s flashlight and grabbed him wildly.

“Stay back!” he shouted. “Stay back! He’s got the doorway covered!”

As Tyrell tried savagely to break away, the boom of the automatic sounded. A bullet zimmed through the open door and flattened against the wall of the hallway. A second shot followed. The Shadow, still on the floor, was loosing an intermittent barrage.

Tyrell stopped short. Shots in the dark were not to his liking. He had crippled The Shadow; but the wounded fighter was still dangerous.

“I clipped him!” he snarled as Harry Vincent used one arm to aid Slug Bracken drag Tyrell down the hallway. “I clipped him! Next time I’ll get him!”

A shout came from below. Pug Halfin answered it. He had reached the head of the stairs. Then came the sound of revolver shots. Tyrell, fuming, ordered the retreat. His command was none too soon.

Two servants armed with rifles had appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Gangsters from outside had felled them with revolvers. One man lay wounded; the other was dead when Tyrell and his band arrived.

Then came shots from the street. Harry Vincent was side by side with the others who held the bags. Slug Bracken was herding them forward. A touring car was waiting in the street. Hurriedly, Harry ran with the two men beside them. All three threw their bags into the touring car. The driver leaped to the street as Slug Bracken arrived and jumped for the wheel. Pug Halfin sprang aboard. The touring car shot forward.

Two policemen were firing from the corner. Scattered mobsters were answering from moving sedans. Beckoning hands waved Harry and his companions aboard one car. Mark Tyrell gained the second sedan.

Barking revolvers dropped one bluecoat as the first sedan whizzed by. The other officer dropped for shelter behind a large hydrant. He fired futile shots at the tires of the cars. Sirens were whining. A patrol car was coming down the avenue. Another was heading along the side street. Its searchlights showed the sedans as they sped by the crossing.

Ugly-faced drivers were determined to make a getaway. It was apparent that they would do so. They had sufficient start. Cliff Marsland was not in Harry’s car; hence Harry assumed that the other agent of The Shadow was in the sedan with Tyrell. There was no other course than to stick with the mob and keep mum.

POLICE were arriving at Westbury Grolier’s mansion. They had found one wounded officer, a crippled servant and a dead one. They were entering the wing where the fight had taken place.

The door to the relic room was closed and barred. There was good reason. Within that rifled room. The Shadow was standing, with his flashlight sweeping to every corner. He had barred the door as soon as he had gained his feet.

The door of a closet was ajar. Unsteadily, The Shadow reached it. A faint laugh came from his lips as he spied a long ladder. With his right arm, The Shadow brought out the ladder and managed to raise it to the skylight. He paused, as though to steady himself.

He ascended the ladder and reached the skylight. He clung there as he kicked the ladder to the carpeted floor. On the roof, he shifted the barred trap over the opening; then made for the parapet.

A policeman had passed by the bottom of the wall. With an effort, The Shadow produced his suction cups. He began a perilous descent. At intervals, he nearly slipped, for one arm hung useless. Yet he managed to gain the ground.

Pausing by the wall, The Shadow could hear voices of police at the door. He caught the words. Apparently, the crooks had all escaped. Most of the arriving police had taken up the futile chase. Westbury Grolier was being summoned from his bedroom in the far wing of the house. He, alone, had the key that would unlock the master door to the chain of rooms in which he kept his collection of rarities.

As the policemen moved away, The Shadow stumbled toward the gate. He was lucky as he gained the passage at the rear of the outside wall. Faltering, he found an opening between two houses. Shifting from view just as a policeman appeared from the avenue, The Shadow merged with darkness and moved along to the next street.

Here, his course became an unsteady one. There were intervals of blackness between the splotches of light that came from street lamps. The Shadow chose the darkened sectors when he was forced to pause. He neared the avenue and clutched at the door knob of a parked limousine.

The door yielded. The Shadow sank into the cushions. With an effort, he managed to drag his cloak from his shoulders. It fell to the floor, with gloves and hat. His right hand found the speaking tube. His voice, steadying, sounded in the ear of the dozing chauffeur.

“Hurry, Stanley.” The Shadow spoke in the voice of Lamont Cranston. “Take me to Doctor Rupert Sayre’s. I have an important appointment with him.”

The limousine pulled from the curb as The Shadow sank exhausted. He was on his way to safety. His wound would gain prompt attention. The Shadow had escaped from other dilemmas as serious as this one.

But usually, in spite of wounds, The Shadow had managed to frustrate crime. To-night, he had been balked. Mark Tyrell, launched upon a new career of evil, had returned hot lead for the mockery which he had accepted on two previous meetings.

A million-dollar robbery had been accomplished. Mark Tyrell had recouped his losses in one stroke. Yet a faint laugh sounded from the interior of the rolling limousine.

The grim game was not yet ended. Recovered from his wound, The Shadow would be ready to force another encounter. A new task lay before him; already, The Shadow was planning a way by which he could reclaim the wealth that had been so recently purloined from the museum of Westbury Grolier!

Soft echoes wavered. The limousine was pulling up in front of the apartment office occupied by Doctor Rupert Sayre. A light showed in the windows. The physician was in his office.

One minute later, Lamont Cranston, pale-faced, but steady, stepped from his car to keep his supposed appointment with Doctor Rupert Sayre.