The Black Falcon

CHAPTER XXIII THE HOODED FALCON

HAZZLETT had arrived expecting trouble. He had been awaiting Ransdale’s call to bring the men upstairs. Hence, when he had flung the door open, Hazzlett was ready armed; behind him, on the stairs, were the others.

Keyed to excitement, Hazzlett acted on the instant. With a snarl as vicious as any that The Black Falcon had ever uttered, Ransdale’s minion pressed finger to trigger of his upswinging gun.

As Hazzlett performed this deed, The Shadow made a double action. With a quick shift to the left, The Shadow executed the fade-away maneuver which had made him an impossible target for hosts of gunmen. At the same instant, he pressed the trigger of his automatic.

The huge .45 declared itself with a terrific roar. The Shadow, in his shift, had not lost his aim. The speaking muzzle of the automatic was still on its desired objective — Hazzlett.

Directly following the spurt of flame from The Shadow’s gun, Hazzlett pitched forward into Ransdale’s room. The minion’s arms sprawled crazily. With a convulsive effort, Hazzlett managed to gain his knees. He snapped the trigger of his revolver. The shot, unaimed, was futile. The effort was Hazzlett’s last. Coughing blood, the evil servant of a vicious master, rolled dead upon the floor.

The men behind had glimpsed The Shadow. Like fiends, they sprang in through the wide doorway, to battle with this marksman who had edged away from view. Ransdale’s henchmen had not yet learned their master’s perfidy. They were out to slay the enemy who had dropped Hazzlett.

Revolvers spurted as wild shots echoed through the room. All were fired toward the spot where The Shadow had last been. Not one found its mark, for The Shadow, reaching the end wall of the room, had crouched in waiting. A second automatic had joined the first; now, as one of the four henchmen shouted his discovery of the foe, both hands performed their deadly work.

Thundering automatics belched hot lead into the ranks of the would-be rescuers. While return shots spattered wildly, The Shadow’s guns completed their work. Rowland Ransdale’s henchmen collapsed in pairs. They had come to slay The Shadow; they, in turn, had met their fate.

THE SHADOW’S tall form rose beside the wall. A weird laugh echoed from sinister lips. It was not a tone of mockery; rather was it a knell for these foolhardy minions who had served an evil and unrewarding master.

The Shadow’s gaze turned toward the desk. Rowland Ransdale, aroused from his terror by the sound of gunfire, had regained his feet. With a wild gleam in his eyes, the supercrook pounced upon his revolver and aimed the weapon toward The Shadow.

The vicious leer of The Black Falcon was upon Ransdale’s lips. Snarling, the criminal had gained the aim. His steadying hand was ready; but before his finger could press the trigger, the glint of The Shadow’s eyes was full upon him.

Ransdale quavered. The venom of The Black Falcon remained traced upon his features, but his countenance was ashen. His hand began to shake as it pointed the revolver which it held. The steady grip that had enabled Ransdale to slay Terry Rukes as well as helpless victims, was failing in this dire emergency.

Rowland Ransdale had seen the face of The Shadow! That sight, he knew, had been his sentence of doom! The words of The Shadow, the power of the master fighter — all these came surging through Ransdale’s brain as the fierce crook caught the burn of The Shadow’s eyes.

Ransdale fired. The echo from his revolver seemed deafening in his ears. Then, from across the room, came a strident burst of mockery. Ransdale caught himself as he was sinking to the desk.

The face of The Shadow! Rowland Ransdale had seen it. His nerve had passed with that revelation. He, The Black Falcon, marksman extraordinary, had beaten The Shadow to a shot — and had missed.

With a wild cry, Ransdale aimed again. The fury of The Black Falcon was upon him. Hate blazed in his own eyes; hate that matched the mastery of The Shadow’s gaze. This time Ransdale knew that he would not miss in his aim!

This shot would kill The Shadow — so Ransdale thought; and such might have been the outcome, had Ransdale fired. But The Shadow had allowed one lone opportunity. Ransdale’s first shot was to be the last. The burst of flame that came from a trigger-pressed gun was a flash from The Shadow’s left-hand automatic.

The Black Falcon had had his turn. This was The Shadow’s. The gloved hand did not fail. Rowland Ransdale, the snarl still issuing from his lips, collapsed upon the desk. The revolver dropped from his nerveless fingers and clattered on the woodwork. It slid off and fell upon the floor. Rowland Ransdale followed a few seconds later. His clutching hands had weakened. His body sagged. It sprawled face-first upon the useless gun; then, with a last writhe, turned back upward on the floor.

Slowly, The Shadow advanced. His automatics went beneath his cloak. From beneath that garment he drew a cloth of black. As he held it in his right hand, he reached forward with his left and drew an object from the desk.

Stooping above the body of The Black Falcon, The Shadow hovered like a monster of the night. When he arose, the black cloak swished as The Shadow turned and swept across this room of carnage.

Past the body of Hazzlett just within the door; down the stairs and through the archway to the cellar. Such was The Shadow’s course. The black-clad avenger reached the cellroom.

There, like a mammoth specter, his shadowed outline silhouetted on the floor, The Shadow unbarred the doors of the cells. His keen eyes, peering through an opening, spied Harry Vincent. In whispered tone, The Shadow hissed a summons to his agent.

HARRY leaped to his feet. Pounding to the cellroom, he saw The Shadow on the stairs. His chief was beckoning. Harry followed. Out into the night, Harry followed the course that was marked by The Shadow’s hissing summons. Around the house, there Harry stopped short as he saw, with astounded eyes, the hulking, fan-topped shape of The Shadow’s autogyro!

In response to an order from the ship, Harry clambered aboard and entered the rear seat. The blades above began their revolution. The rhythm of the motor increased. The autogyro started forward.

To Harry it seemed that the impetus would carry them into the wall of Ransdale’s house. The gyro, however, performed a sudden revolution as The Shadow maneuvered it with remarkable skill. With gaining speed, the craft headed for the trees at the rear of the clearing. It took off with a perfect upward lift.

Climbing almost vertically, taking a spiral course as The Shadow, master pilot, handled the controls, the autogyro rose from among the trees. Harry, staring from the side, saw the gray walls and light-colored roof of the house as the building dropped away beneath.

Higher, with motor throbbing for the climb, the autogyro ascended into the night. This ship had dropped like a phantom craft from the sky when danger had beckoned. Now that The Shadow had accomplished his appointed mission, the roar of the motor needed no further muffling.

RANSDALE’S house was far below. Within the walls of The Black Falcon’s lair, three men were making a startling discovery. Hubert Apprison, Elias Carthers, and Lamont Cranston formed a bewildered trio of freed investigators.

The prisoners had come forth to the cell room. Finding the way clear, they had ascended to the ground floor and had taken the stairs to the second story. There, in the room where The Shadow had met The Black Falcon and his minions, they viewed the bodies that were lying on the floor.

“Look there!”

The others followed Hubert Apprison’s pointing finger. By the desk lay the figure of a man. At a distance, the dead form appeared headless. As the three released prisoners approached, they saw that a black bag had been placed upon the head of the reclining corpse.

“The hood!” exclaimed Elias Carthers, with sudden understanding. “The hood! It means — The Black Falcon!”

“The hood?” questioned Hubert Apprison.

“Yes,” explained Carthers. “The falcon, when captured, is kept hooded. Some one — to whom we owe our safety — has trapped The Black Falcon and has left this as his token!”

Stooping, Carthers seized the hood and drew it from the victim’s head. The trio stared at the evil face that showed uncovered. Contorted lips formed a vicious leer, even in death. Above that lay the final evidence of The Black Falcon’s identity. Covering the eyes was the black mask that had been upon the desk. The Shadow had placed it upon The Black Falcon’s visage.

Lamont Cranston pulled away the mask. He named the man whose face he saw beneath. The rescued men remained staring at the death-stilled features of their abductor.

THOUSANDS of feet above, the autogyro poised as it turned to take a direct course. Harry Vincent, still staring downward, saw Rowland Ransdale’s stone house as a toy-like structure in a tiny patch among the trees.

As the thrumming of the motor paused, a weird sound came to Harry’s ears. A chilling taunt of mocking triumph rose to an eerie pitch, then ended as the motor roared and the autogyro sped forward on its course.

The laugh of The Shadow! Victorious, it had pealed forth amid the heights from which The Black Falcon had so often swooped; through which the criminal of the skies had carried home his prey.

The echoes of that laugh persisted in Harry’s ears, amid the thrumming of the motor. The laugh of The Shadow lingered as a parting jest from the master who had ended a fiend’s career.

The Black Falcon’s reign of crime was ended, doomed through The Shadow’s might!