The Black Falcon

CHAPTER XXII THE REVELATION

ROWLAND RANSDALE was standing by his desk. Smoking his inevitable pipe, the fleeing crook was rapidly opening drawers and removing documents along with bundles of cash. Stationery that bore The Black Falcon’s letterhead; special sheets of paper, a little box of blackened feathers — these were items what he was taking as mementos of his reign of crime.

On the desk beside him lay the black mask that he had drawn from his pocket. Ransdale’s revolver was there also. The evil villain’s eyes were gleaming; a fierce smile flickered on his lips. The Black Falcon, frustrated, had lost the patience that had characterized his criminal activities.

Thoughts of death were burning through Ransdale’s thwarted brain. The fiend was contemplating what he considered now to be a pleasant prospect; the slaughter of those victims whom, until now, he had held for ransom.

As Ransdale paused in his activity, a curious stare came into the man’s glaring eyes. Ransdale seemed to sense a presence in this room. He placed his right hand on the desk close beside his revolver, then turned to gaze behind him at the half-opened French doors.

The instant that Ransdale turned, those doors shot wide apart. The crook’s hand was frozen. The sight that greeted his astonished gaze was one that petrified him. Standing in the opening was the same figure that had appeared at Weston’s.

The Shadow!

A looming automatic was directed squarely between Rowland Ransdale’s eyes. The crook’s trembling fingers dared not approach the revolver that lay so close to them. A gesture of The Shadow’s weapon was sufficient. Ransdale slowly raised his hands and stared fiercely at the weird intruder who had so silently entered.

It was then that Ransdale heard The Shadow’s laugh. A sardonic taunt, it did not rise above a whisper; but its weird tones carried a note that chilled the evil man who caught its sound. The Black Falcon, at the end of his career of daring, had learned how fear felt!

THE SHADOW’S turn had come. Coldly, his whispered voice began to speak. The Shadow was using The Black Falcon’s own tactics. Time and again, The Black Falcon had scoffed at his prospective victims. The Shadow’s sneer was a just one.

“Rowland Ransdale!” The Shadow hissed the second name. “Your career of crime has ended. You are to pay the penalty for the murders that you have committed. Flight will not be yours.

“Your schemes were well planned, hut they did not deceive me. From the outset, I knew that some such brain as yours was in back of this insidious game.”

Ransdale, though trembling, was defiant. His evil face indicated that he doubted The Shadow’s words. A laugh came from the lips that were hidden by the upturned collar of The Shadow’s cloak.

“Finger prints at Apprison’s,” sneered The Shadow. “Weston suspected them as fakes. It was the doorknob that convinced him. But to me, that knob was spurious. Its newness; its lacquer that kept the impressions safe — those were proof to me that you, The Black Falcon, had substituted it for the one that belonged there.”

The Shadow approached the man before him. Ransdale quaked as he tried to pierce the blackness that hid the master avenger’s countenance. Sparkling eyes were all that he could see.

“I searched for Velvet Laffrey in the underworld,” asserted The Shadow. “I searched for others also, and I found them. Terry Rukes — your henchman — slain at your own apartment. Others thought that The Black Falcon had failed. I suspected the truth!

“It was as Lamont Cranston that I visited the home of Elias Carthers. It was as Cranston that I visited you. At that time, I suspected evil strategy; your manner and your talk convinced me that you might be the criminal I sought. So I subtly offered facts that would make you know who I was — that I was The Shadow.”

Again the sneering laugh. Ransdale’s face was blank. The wretch was pitiful as he cowered and quailed before The Shadow.

“I talked to you as if I were Lamont Cranston. I paved the way for you to plan an abduction. I am not Lamont Cranston; but his features are ones that I have often adopted. The real Cranston had returned to his home; summoned by supposed business telegrams that I arranged. For when I play his part, even his friends and servants are deceived!

“Cranston is still your prisoner, in the cell below. So is my agent, Harry Vincent. I, however, received his report. The final notes, up to the time of his capture, came by wireless. That report brought me here” — The Shadow’s whispered tones became slow and emphatic — “on the very night when you made your final plans.

“Through these opened windows I watched you. While you were gone, I entered and read your duplicate letter. I trailed Hazzlett in New York. I kept watch on Pinkey Sardon and his minions.

“That is how I reached Commissioner Weston’s at the time you did. I had divined your purpose by that time. I entered ahead of you and was stationed in readiness. Had you sought to kill Kempton, Weston’s servant, I would have slain you then. But you let him live — to be killed at a later time — which never came!”

With his left hand, The Shadow pointed to a telephone which lay on Ransdale’s desk. As though in answer to a spoken command, Ransdale reached for the instrument. He lifted the receiver mechanically to his ear, awaiting The Shadow’s orders.

“Call New York!” The Shadow’s command was powerful. “Get Commissioner Weston on the wire. He is to receive another message from The Black Falcon!”

Rowland Ransdale, trembling, obeyed. Minutes ticked by. The connection was completed.

“Speak!” ordained The Shadow. “Tell him where you are. Challenge him to come here and find you!”

“This is The Black Falcon,” declared Ransdale, in a voice which seemed controlled by The Shadow’s bidding. “I am at my stronghold. Fifteen miles from Cuthbury. In the Catskills. Come and capture me—”

“If you can!” prompted The Shadow in a sinister whisper.

“If you can!” gasped Ransdale into the telephone.

The receiver clicked on the hook. Rowland Ransdale faced The Shadow. For a moment, The Black Falcon’s role had returned. Although at bay, Ransdale snarled a question.

“If you are not Cranston,” he demanded. “Who are you?”

“You shall learn!” The Shadow’s tone was ominous. “You, Rowland Ransdale, shall see the face of The Shadow. It will be your deserved warning — you who call yourself The Black Falcon. For those who have seen the true face of The Shadow have never lived to recite their discovery!”

THE collar of the black cloak wavered as The Shadow’s gloved left hand unfolded it. A frightened gasp came hollow from Rowland Ransdale’s lips. The crook slumped as his bulging eyes viewed the countenance beneath the brim of the black slouch hat. As The Shadow’s hand refastened the collar of the cloak, Rowland Ransdale slumped pitifully to the floor.

The man’s face was ashen. A whispered laugh came from The Shadow’s lips. Only The Shadow knew why the sight of his dread face had brought terror to this evil fiend who never before tonight had known fear.

The face of The Shadow! The face that was never seen except when disguised to represent some other countenance. Roland Ransdale had met The Shadow face to face. The Black Falcon, he who had terrorized the law, had lost all nerve when he had viewed the true visage of The Shadow!

Only brilliant eyes remained in view. They were burning eyes that surveyed the gasping shape of a man who had once thought himself invincible. Then, with sudden keenness, The Shadow’s eyes were raised. Staring toward the door, they saw the barrier move.

The Shadow’s automatic rose to aim as Hazzlett, a revolver in hand, appeared upon the threshold. The henchman, wondering what had kept his chief had come to investigate. Instead of Rowland Ransdale, Hazzlett had found The Shadow!