The Crime Crypt

CHAPTER XXIV. FROM THE CRYPT

DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA stared about him. He was in possession of the crime crypt. He realized for the first time that The Shadow had departed; then he discovered that the prisoner who had aided him was also gone.

Cardona had not recognized Cliff Marsland in the dim light of the crypt. He suspected that his fellow prisoner had been a former member of the crooked gang. That was all.

Cecil Armsbury, alone of all the crooks, still lived. The old man, sprawled helplessly against the wall, was weaponless. He was clutching his wounded shoulder, whimpering as though in pain.

Gasps for aid attracted Cardona’s attention. The detective was forced to smile as he noted Handley Matson. The museum curator was weakly endeavoring to release himself from the bonds which held him.

Cardona approached and aided. Handley Matson, freed, staggered to his feet. He was unsteady; his cadaverous face showed pallor. Cardona thrust a gun into his hand.

“Look after Armsbury,” ordered the detective. “Keep him covered. I’m going to see what’s in here.”

Cardona motioned toward the door beyond the mummy case of Senwosri. Picking up loose revolvers from the floor, the detective approached and hacked at the lock of Armsbury’s treasure room. He finally used a revolver to blast away the lock.

The sight of glittering objects opened Cardona’s eyes. Here was pelf of tremendous value — stolen wealth which Armsbury had stored away during his long career. It captured the detective’s entire attention until a sharp cry made Cardona turn back to the crypt.

Cecil Armsbury had risen weakly to his feet. Handley Matson, nervous, had made no attempt to stop him. Now, with a renewal of his old vigor, Armsbury had leaped upon the curator!

Cardona saw Matson go down. His revolver clattered on the floor. Armsbury scooped it up with his left hand and sprang to the side of the crypt as Joe Cardona blazed a revolver shot.

The bullet missed its mark. Armsbury, with fiendish strength, yanked open the side door. Cardona, firing, sprang forward. Armsbury seemed to possess a charm against the detective’s bullets. Cardona saw him disappear beyond the door.

“Come on!” Cardona thrust a new gun into Matson’s hand as the curator rose from the floor.

THEN, with prompt pursuit, the detective yanked open the door and revealed the long passage which Armsbury had taken. The old crook was fleeing toward a spot of safety which Cardona had not known was in existence.

Joe fired down the passage. His bullets ricocheted from the walls, too late to stop Armsbury’s flight. The old man had gained the other end. He was going through the panel. Cardona dashed after him and reached the barrier. He yanked it open.

“Hurry! Hurry!” he heard Armsbury calling. “We must get away or all is lost!”

Scuffling feet sounded on stairs. Armsbury had called to Sinker Hargun’s henchmen. These gangsters had not heard the firing in which their leader had been slain. The buried crypt was sound-proof.

Cardona delivered wild shots as he dashed through the storeroom, with Matson at his heels. His flashlight showed the stairs that led above. He blazed in that direction. Return shots resounded. Then a door slammed shut. Cardona clambered up the steps and tried to crash the barrier. It resisted.

Cecil Armsbury was explaining matters to a group of excited gunmen. He was urging them to flight; and he pointed out the way. Across the basement was an elevator shaft. An open car stood there. The operator and the janitor were staring at the sound of shots which they had heard.

A revolver barked from a mobster’s hand. The elevator man and the janitor fled for cover, leaving the car deserted. Armsbury waved his good arm and the mobsters followed him into the lift. The door clanged.

They rose upward to the lobby floor.

The door was flung open. The operator of a second elevator looked out as he saw a gun-wielding gangster spring from the car that had come from the cellar. He made a leap to stop the armed invader.

The gangster, with others at his heels, flung the elevator man aside and paused to aim at him. Then came a sharp cry from a second mobster. The aiming man looked up. Straight ahead, framed in the outer doorway of the lobby, was a looming form in black!

The Shadow!

A FIST-CLENCHED automatic barked. The murderous gangster dropped. Others raised their guns and started fire. Automatics thundered in quick return. The Shadow’s shots, aimed at the startled group, found quick effect. Mobsters sprawled, their hasty shots traveling wide.

“Back! Back!” Cecil Armsbury was screaming. “Up to the roof!”

Three gangsters were all who could obey. Diving into the elevator, they clanged the door. The lift started up. Armsbury uttered a cry of satisfaction. Then came a growl from a mobster, peering through the slatted side of the elevator.

“He’s after us!” was the man’s statement. “In the other elevator!”

Armsbury peered through the slats. His lips writhed as he realized the truth. The Shadow had seized the second elevator and was in pursuit.

The shaft was designed for three elevators. The central one was not in use. Hence there was a space between the two — the one which contained Armsbury and his gangsters and the other in which The Shadow was following.

“Out with the light,” ordered Armsbury.

A mobster clicked the switch. The elevator was passing the seventh floor. Armsbury knew that the old hotel had twelve stories.

“Slow it!” he ordered in an undertone. “We can’t get out before he reaches us—”

The command was obeyed. Gangster guns were through the slats, ready to blaze The Shadow’s elevator when it came alongside. In the vague gloom of the shaft, the other car was gaining upward impetus. Its solid top was a guard against bullets; but its slatted sides were vulnerable, beginning three feet above the floor.

Gangster guns blazed. The faster moving elevator was the target. To return the fire, The Shadow would have to be at the slats. Bullets flattened against The Shadow’s lift. Others whistled between the bars.

Growling gangsters stayed their fire as the other elevator shot by. There had been no reply. They thought that they had clipped The Shadow!

“Down!” gasped Armsbury. “Down! Don’t take chances—”

A mobster fumbled in the darkness. He stopped the car and started its course downward. This time they could fight their way through the lobby. Sure of safety, the mobsters were grouped against the open-slatted side.

Then came thunderous roars. From the height above, the second elevator came dropping, with all control released. The Shadow had loosed it from the topmost floor. With terrific speed, he had taken the downward pursuit!

Freed from the control of the elevator, he was at the slatted sides, pouring the lead of his loaded automatics into the car which held Armsbury and the frightened mobsters.

NOT one had suspected The Shadow’s ruse. They had thought — as Armsbury had suggested — that The Shadow might have crouched to cover to avoid their shots. But to drop — as if from nowhere, on a twelve-story plunge! This was the stroke that caught them unaware.

Cecil Armsbury crouched to the floor as cursing mobsters dropped about him. Of a dozen shots delivered by The Shadow, seven had passed between the slats. They had crippled the trio of mobsters in the car with Armsbury.

Alone capable of action, the old crook yanked the control as The Shadow’s car whizzed past.

Armsbury’s elevator jammed to a stop between the fifth floor and the fourth. It started upward at the old man’s action on the control.

A whistling sound wailed through the shaft. The Shadow’s lift had struck the air-cushion in its confined shaft below the fourth floor. Rebounding as though shot upward by a spring, it was in new pursuit. The Shadow had regained the control!

Armsbury’s car clicked to a stop at the twelfth floor. The old man clawed open the door. He dashed along a short passage, up steps, and pulled open a barrier. He hurried out to the roof of Ridgelow Court.

He was ahead of The Shadow. Let the dying gangsters remain in their useless elevator!

Reaching a corner post at the rear of the roof, Cecil Armsbury clung there in the darkness. He was obscured from the glare of the city’s sky. He steadied his right wrist upon the cornice. Gloating; he pointed revolver at the door through which he had come. He waited.

Though capture might prove inevitable, Cecil Armsbury was determined to commit one final deed of crime. He had reached this spot in time to await The Shadow. The moment that the blackclad avenger might appear, Armsbury’s hand would press the trigger.

Sure death — with this steady aim. Armsbury’s eyes were keen as they watched the whitened surface of the door. Not even The Shadow could come there undiscovered. Armsbury’s only qualm was the possibility that The Shadow might avoid this trap. Yet the old fiend, chuckling, counted on The Shadow’s daring.

The being who had come to the crime crypt in the mummy case of Senwosri, there to eliminate a band of fierce ruffians, would certainly not avoid this challenge. In the crypt, Armsbury had chosen flight. That course was ended. The Shadow would learn the perfection of Cecil Armsbury’s calculating aim!

ON the twelfth floor of Ridgelow Court, The Shadow was standing by the very exit which Armsbury had taken. Behind him were the open doors of two elevators: the one containing the bullet-scarred gangsters whom Armsbury had abandoned; the other, the car in which The Shadow had arrived.

There was one path which Armsbury must have taken. The Shadow knew it: through that door to the roof. The Shadow’s gloved hand was upon the door. Then came a solemn, whispered laugh from lips that were hidden by the upturned collar of the black cloak.

The Shadow saw the trap. He knew the odds which Armsbury was playing. His keen eyes spied a window at the bottom of the steps. The Shadow took it as his objective.

Gloved hands raised the sash. The Shadow’s tall form passed through the opened window. Strong fingers gripped an ornamental stone above the window. A long arm was thrust higher; it clutched the base of the cornice.

Clinging with one sure hand, The Shadow swung over space. His free hand joined the gripping one. Both held the base of the cornice. The Shadow’s body moved upward. A rising hand pressed powerful fingers against the top of the cornice.

Both hands gained this objective. The Shadow’s body reached the base. It rested firmly there; a freed hand reached beneath the black, enshrouding cloak.

That hand produced an automatic. Gripping the weapon of vengeance, The Shadow raised hand and head above the walled cornice. Clinging to his precarious perch, he turned his keen eyes in searching gaze across the roof.

The Shadow was more than a dozen feet from the door which Cecil Armsbury was watching. The old man was hidden in the darkness of the opposite corner; but the whispered laugh which was almost inaudible told The Shadow’s divination.

The one spot which the villainous sponsor of the crime crypt could have chosen was that opposite corner. There, The Shadow knew, the fiend was waiting with his gun trained on the whitened door from the twelfth floor!

The Shadow raised head and shoulders. His automatic leveled. Here, at the front of the roof, the glow was behind him. His slouch hat and the upper portion of his cloak formed a spectral silhouette against the glowing sky.

A cry came from across the roof. Cecil Armsbury had spied The Shadow. Clinging to his vantage post, Armsbury shifted aim as he realized that the door could no longer be his target. With his cry, Armsbury fired.

THE blaze of the revolver showed the old man’s exact location. The bullet, though aimed in haste, was close. It clipped the brim of The Shadow’s tilted hat as it whistled past to space. Armsbury’s frantic finger was pressing for a second shot when The Shadow’s answer came.

The automatic barked. The Shadow’s aim was perfect. The flash of the crook’s revolver was all that he had needed. The leaden messenger found its target.

A second cry came from Cecil Armsbury. The old man’s clinging arm lost its hold. His revolver dangled, hanging from his trigger finger. It clattered to the roof. A wail came from Armsbury’s lips as the master of the crime crypt toppled backward.

Headlong over the cornice — thus did Cecil Armsbury plunge. Twelve stories downward to the courtyard behind the old hotel; Armsbury’s helpless body formed a circling, puppet figure as it dropped though darkness. It crashed upon the paving.

The Shadow crossed the roof. Peering from the rear cornice, his keen eyes distinguished the contorted form of the villain who had perished. Cecil Armsbury was dead; his motionless corpse was lying on the cement that covered the passage between Ridgelow Court and the crime crypt!

Crime from the crypt was ended. From the crypt had Cecil Armsbury fled. The Shadow, from the crypt, had blocked the monster’s path of flight.

Minions of crime had perished. Duke Larrin’s band of murderers and raiders were no more. Last to die had been the master schemer of the lot: Cecil Armsbury.

Weird laughter sounded its triumph from atop the old hotel. Its tones reached the roof of the old mansion where Cecil Armsbury had lived.

Chilling, penetrating mockery! Its echoes faded with eerie irony, as though creeping through the old secluded mansion that they might reach the crime crypt as a token of The Shadow’s victory!