The Crime Crypt

CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW ACTS

THE pause that followed the shot from Croaker’s revolver was an ominous one. To mobsmen, waiting in cars in front of Brisbane Calbot’s home, the report was a familiar signal. They had heard the sound of that gun at Perry Trappe’s. They had heard it again on Long Island, when they had invaded the home of Tyler Bogart.

Bozo Griffin, assuming full command for himself despite the fact that he and Cliff Marsland were of equal ranking, emitted a growl as he heard the signal. He remembered Brodie Brodan’s admonition to allow time for the man who fired the revolver to make a getaway.

The single shot, though unexpected in this quiet neighborhood, had no aftermath until Bozo decided to give the next command. In a louder growl, Brodie Brodan’s lieutenant ordered his gorillas to start their wild raid.

“Let ‘em go!”

Mobsters piled from automobiles. Dashing across the street, they opened fire on the windows of Calbot’s home. Three men rushed up the front steps and threw open the big door. Others made for the alley, to seek the side entrance. Bozo Griffin, with Cliff Marsland beside him, was standing near the leading car across the street.

Shots from the front of the house. Then came a scream from the first mobster who had entered. The man came tumbling from the vestibule. A gorilla beside him leveled his revolver and fired. An answering boom came from within. The second mobster staggered and plunged, headlong down the steps. The third man scrambled for safety.

There were shots in the alleyway. The gangsters who had taken the cement passage were at the side door. In response to the wild barks of their revolvers came a new fusillade. Someone within the house had stopped the raiders at the front and had turned to meet those who were entering at the side!

One mobster had sprawled upon the cement. Another was staggering, crying to his pals to aid him. The rest, remembering the ambush at Bogart’s, took to flight. As they scattered for the waiting automobiles, new shots came from bullet-broken windows.

Mobsmen were starting the automobiles. Bozo Griffin had dived into the front car. Cliff Marsland was following him. With demoralized gorillas clambering aboard, the cars shot from the curb. Brodie Brodan’s mobsters had met another set-back.

CLIFF MARSLAND knew the answer. The Shadow had acted from within the beleaguered house.

Stationed there, he had met the first invaders; then had turned his fire to the second horde. Mobsters had met their just deserts.

The quick exchange of shots had roused the neighborhood. People were shouting from windows. In this quiet, unfrequented district, minutes would elapse before police responded.

Within Calbot’s now silent house, The Shadow was moving with quick precision. Almost before the echoes of his fire had died, the tall avenger in black had reached the steps to the cellar. With swift, sweeping stride, The Shadow gained the curio room.

Gloved fingers worked upon the knobs of Brisbane Calbot’s vault. The Shadow had unbarred the barrier in a few minutes on his previous attempt. This time, his task was a matter of seconds. The door of the vault swung open.

Brisbane Calbot was slumped between the two idols. The black statue and the white looked like huge slaves protecting their master. The light from the curio room shone upon Calbot’s face. With frightened gasp, the recluse looked up.

Before him stood a being clad in black. The sinister visitant seemed like a spectral figure sent to the vault which had been marked as Calbot’s tomb. Burning eyes were commanding, as a black-gloved hand stretched forth and beckoned.

Wondering, Brisbane Calbot rose. He was like a man in a trance. Strong hands caught his shoulders and swung him from the vault. The door clanged shut. The light went out. With a powerful arm swinging him forward, Brisbane Calbot found himself following the sharp glare of a narrow-beamed flashlight as it cut a swath toward the bottom of the steps that led upstairs.

The Shadow swept the recluse onward. Together, they crossed the floor above and reached the side entrance. Calbot, wondering where he was being taken, could do nothing but obey. This strange visitant had brought him from a vault of death. He felt that he had gained a needed protector.

Shouts were coming from the front street when The Shadow and his charge issued into the cement passage. Brisbane Calbot stumbled over the body of a dead gangster. The Shadow caught the recluse and helped him onward. Through the rear of the passage; down a tiny alleyway; then across a side street.

The pair was just ahead of the police who were arriving.

Calbot slumped upon the cushions of a coupe. The car shot forward as an invisible driver took the wheel.

Turning a corner, it sped into darkness. The Shadow, like those who had gone ahead, was leaving this vicinity.

The coupe stopped after a trip of one mile. Calbot, still nervous, felt himself being aided from the car. He blinked. He was on a side street, with a bright avenue ahead. He felt a strong arm aiding him through the dark; then he tumbled into the rear seat of a sumptuous limousine.

“Newark, Stanley,” came a quiet voice at Calbot’s side.

THE chauffeur started the limousine. Calbot tried to make out the form of the man beside him. He could see nothing in the black corner of the limousine. Then came the quiet voice, again bringing reassurance.

“You are fortunate, Mr. Calbot,” were the words. “The death which you expected has been stayed.”

“Thanks to you,” blurted Calbot. “I thought that I was doomed. I can never fully thank you—”

“I do not ask your thanks. I wish you to obey. Hear my orders.”

Calbot nodded in the darkness. The voice, though quiet, was commanding.

“Men of crime have sought your death.” The Shadow’s tone was ominous. “In order that they be foiled, they must believe that they succeeded. You are leaving New York.”

“Gladly,” expressed Calbot, in a relieved tone. “But — but they did more than try to murder me. They stole—”

“The golden scroll from the Kaaba. I shall speak of it later. In the meantime, remember that you must stay away and communicate with no one. You are taking a train at Newark, tonight. Travel to the destination named upon the ticket that you receive.”

Again Calbot nodded. This stranger in the dark seemed to know everything. The recluse, however, was due for a more startling surprise.

“Your golden scroll,” declared The Shadow, “was a fraudulent treasure. The theft of it relieves you of a valueless object.”

“My scroll!” Calbot’s exclamation was a sharp cry. “Fraudulent. You mean that I — that I was swindled—”

“Yes. That is why I seek the name of the man from whom you received it.”

“Cecil Armsbury,” declared Calbot, slowly. “I cannot believe that he would have played me false. His reputation is too great. Armsbury has traveled everywhere. His collection of Egyptian antiquities was purchased by the Egyptian Museum. I–I cannot believe it of Armsbury. He — he must have been duped also.”

“Cecil Armsbury.”

The name came in a whisper from The Shadow’s hidden lips. The limousine rode on, heading for the Holland Tunnel.

“A man of reputation,” added Brisbane Calbot. “A great traveler and explorer. A fine career behind him. Armsbury! I cannot believe that he is to blame.”

There was a long pause. Brisbane Calbot, staring ahead, was trying to find an answer to this new perplexity. In one short evening, he had experienced more surprises than he had previously gained during his entire lifetime.

THE limousine came to a stop. It had turned into a side street to gain a parallel avenue. Brisbane Calbot was leaning forward. Keen eyes from the dark were studying his pale profile. Something moved in the darkness at Calbot’s side. A gloved hand grasped the knob of the door. Silently, the door opened and closed. While Calbot still stared, the limousine moved on.

“Armsbury!” Calbot still repeated the name. “The golden scroll from the Kaaba — a fake! I have been defrauded. Men have sought to murder me!”

The collector mumbled incoherent words. The limousine reached the Holland Tunnel as he still was speaking. It rolled swiftly through the tube and reached the Jersey side.

Lights from the high-speed highway. Brisbane Calbot turned, with sudden realization that he could see the man beside him. To his amazement, he saw that the limousine was empty of passengers other than himself.

Calbot could offer no explanation. He could not remember a possible occasion upon which his mysterious rescuer could have left the car. He was still bewildered when the limousine pulled up at the Market Street station in Newark.

The chauffeur alighted and opened the rear door. He handed an envelope to Calbot. The curio collector opened it in dumfounded surprise. He found a railway ticket, with Pullman berth to Washington.

“Your train leaves in ten minutes, sir,” the chauffeur of the limousine informed him.

The chauffeur went back to the car. The limousine rolled away while Brisbane Calbot was still examining the ticket. Slowly, the recluse entered the station and ascended the steps to the train platform. He knew that his only course was to follow his rescuer’s orders.

Calbot could still recall that weird form in black; the burning eyes of his rescuer; the quiet voice that had spoken in the limousine. As the headlight of an electric locomotive blazed down the track, Calbot realized that some strange brain had been at work in his behalf.

This ticket had been ready for him while he was still within the vault of his curio room. That meant that his rescuer had anticipated the visit of the men who had stolen the golden scroll and had placed him in the vault!

For a moment, Calbot experienced perplexing doubts. Then, as he stepped aboard the sleeper, he realized that one to whom he owed his life must certainly be working entirely in his aid. Brisbane Calbot noted a card in the envelope which contained the ticket. It bore the name of a Washington hotel. That would be Calbot’s residence until he received word to return to New York.

BACK at Calbot’s house, the side door was open. A patrolman in the passage at the side was staring toward the street. He turned as two men came from the house. One was Inspector Timothy Klein; the other Detective Joe Cardona.

“You were the first man to enter here?” Klein, the gray-haired inspector, put the question to the patrolman.

“Yes, sir,” returned the officer. “Came in through one of the busted windows at the front. Found the front door bolted; the side door was closed with a spring lock.”

“Looks like the trouble was all outside,” remarked Cardona. “That junk room hadn’t been touched, inspector.”

“It would take more than a bunch of gangsters to lift any of that stuff,” agreed the inspector. “That note we found in the reading room settles it anyway.”

“Yeah. This fellow Calbot who owns the house left the note for his servant, Hildebrand. I called up the sanitarium where the servant is staying. They told me he’s due back in a week — and that he has keys to this place.”

Klein nodded. He had read the note mentioned by Cardona. It announced to Hildebrand that Calbot was going away for a trip. It instructed the servant to put the place in order and to remain until his master returned. No mention had been given of Calbot’s destination.

“Just a gang fight,” decided Cardona, “but they picked a funny place to stage it. I figured for a while that they must have been trying to bust in here. Maybe they were at that; but they didn’t make it. Anyway, there’s one guy that’s out of it.”

“Who?”

“Brodie Brodan. I thought that guy was mixed up in the murder of Trappe — and Bogart. But I had my eye on him tonight. I was watching him down at the Club Madrid when I got the call to come up here.”

The two men strolled along the alley. The patrolman closed the side door to Calbot’s home. The automatic latch sprang shut. The policeman followed the inspector and the detective.

Something clicked in the darkness. The side door opened. A swish sounded as a moving form made its way through the dark house to Calbot’s reading room. A tiny flashlight glimmered on the table. It revealed the note which Cardona had read and replaced.

The Shadow had returned to make sure that his plans had succeeded. He had left that note; he plucked it from the table, now that its purpose had been served.

The Shadow had played a triple game tonight.

He had saved Brisbane Calbot from death in the vault and had sent the collector out of town where he was to remain. He had tricked the police into thinking that nothing had occurred within this house. Most important, however, The Shadow had duped the enemy.

So far as Duke Larrin and his minions were concerned, Brisbane Calbot had perished. They would believe that the curio collector’s body was still in the vault. Yet Brisbane Calbot still lived; and tonight, The Shadow had gained knowledge of the game which the crooks were playing.

The spurious scroll from the Kaaba. Its former owner a man named Cecil Armsbury! These were facts which The Shadow had learned. Through them, he would trace crime to its source!

The whispered laugh of The Shadow echoed through the hollow stillness of Brisbane Calbot’s reading room. The tiny light vanished. The Shadow had departed.