The Crime Cult

CHAPTER XVIII A FIEND’S END

IN the silent temple, far from the street, the noise of smoking revolvers was unheard. The place itself was like a tomb, as Chandra, the Burmese servant, opened the door of the mummy case — the home of Kali to reveal its black interior.

“She must enter!” declared Charn.

A chanting response came from the vague forms on the cushions about the temple. Margaret was urged forward — into the fearful chest that Charn had destined to be her tomb.

Before the silent men alongside the girl could move, a strange thing happened. The rays of the ceiling light had turned directly upon the open mummy chest, to show its interior as a mass of solid inkiness.

A sound issued from that spot — the sound of a gibing laugh. The blackness moved. Instantly, it assumed a human form.

The Shadow stepped from the home of Kali! A living avenger, he had come to save those who were doomed to die. Full in the light he stood, his face hidden by the upturned neck of his cloak and the brim of his broad slouch hat.

Each of his black-gloved hands held an automatic, and the threatening weapons turned slowly back and forth, covering every inch of that mystic room.

Not a person stirred. All were transfixed. The men beside Margaret Glendenning were helpless. The vague forms in the background dared not stir, cowed by the threat of those hidden eyes.

Chandra was trembling. The man on the throne remained as motionless as an image.

To Margaret Glendenning, amazement was profound. She knew that this man was her rescuer. Through her dazed mind came the recollection of that night when she had seen this figure in the temple, standing almost invisible against the wall.

To Harry Vincent, bound and helpless, the arrival of The Shadow was another of those marvelous episodes that he had experienced before.

“The home of Kali,” came The Shadow’s low, ominous voice. “A home prepared for death. I have made it a home of retribution. Your fate has arrived, Henri Zayata — you who call yourself Charn. This spells the end of your crime cult — and your sordid worshipers of Kali.

“Do you think that I have been idle while you planned?” The Shadow’s tones were mocking. “No! I have penetrated to the secrets of your inner shrine. I came here once — and finding the way, I came again.

“I have read your Book of Death. I have delved into your hidden tomes. You lived in India — years ago. There you learned the creed of the Thugs, from one of the few survivors of that notorious caste.

“You brought your learnings here to America. You found converts — they are with you now.

“You love murder — but only murder by the noose. Women are immune from that strangling thread. So you arranged the home of Kali for the girl who would not be your wife!

“You, Henri Zayata, a pretended invalid. A strange man, indeed — with crippled legs, but powerful arms — you, who have killed — and killed!

“You slew Robert Buchanan. Not alone because you loved to kill, but because you wished no rival with the woman you sought. You killed Don Hasbrouck — to silence him and to place the crime upon a harmless old man, Clinton Glendenning.

“There are other murders at your door — and all who have died were betrayed to you by those who pretended to be their friends.

“Larkin is one. He is not here tonight. He betrayed Buchanan. He called you so you could await Hasbrouck and strangle him.

“The police are holding Larkin, now, as a witness against Glendenning. They will keep him — as an accomplice in your murders.

“I know others who are here. Winthrop Morgan, who betrayed his friend, Glendenning” — one of the men beside Margaret quailed at the words — “and I could name the rest. But time is short.”

SILENT, The Shadow strode toward Henri Zayata, the man who sat on the throne as Charn. The Shadow did not stop there. He continued to the spot where Harry Vincent lay.

Stooping, he released Harry’s bonds — but all the while, The Shadow’s head was up, and a single, weaving automatic defied those who might attempt escape.

The Shadow stood erect, with both guns, now. Harry Vincent had risen beside him. The man in black spoke in a tone of finality.

“This is the end,” were his words. “Listen and you will hear the approach of your captors.”

A moment’s pause; then The Shadow’s prediction proved true. There was a loud knocking at the bronze door. Cardona and his men had arrived, to invade the temple of Zayata’s crime cult!

It was then that the throned man made his great attempt. Reaching to the side of the gilded chair, Zayata pressed a switch. Instantly, the lights were out.

The Shadow’s two automatics spat through the darkness. The shots were warning ones. They cowed Zayata’s henchmen.

But The Shadow was not firing uselessly. A single bullet — the first he fired — was aimed with a purpose; and it found its mark — in the body of Henri Zayata!

The lights gleamed on. The Shadow was standing by the gilded throne. Henri Zayata had fallen headforemost to the floor. With one contemptuous look at the writhing figure, The Shadow took his seat in the throne of Charn.

It was he who gave the orders now!

Cowed by his automatics, the other men obeyed his command to line against the wall. There, with arms upraised, they stood helpless, from Chandra, the Burmese, to Winthrop Morgan, the lawyer. The worshipers of Kali had found their new master.

At The Shadow’s order, Harry Vincent advanced and led Margaret Glendenning to the side of the room. The Shadow pressed another knob on the throne. The wall opened. Harry and the girl entered. The knob was pressed again. The wall closed.

Zayata’s intended victims were leaving by a secret elevator, which The Shadow had controlled from the throne. The man in black had discovered Zayata’s own exit from the place a path which led to another street, away from the alleyway patrolled by the police.

THE clanging at the metal gate was becoming tremendous. With a soft, taunting laugh, The Shadow touched the final control. The gate slid up. The lights went out as Cardona and his men surged in to make their raid.

Their flashlights revealed the worshipers of Kali lined against the wall. They also showed the prostrate form of Henri Zayata, moaning but motionless.

The lights did not disclose the man in black. The Shadow, master of darkness, had left the throne of Charn, and had disappeared!

Henri Zayata struggled to rise. Failing, he uttered a shrill, weird cry. It was his last hopeless command to his dupes — a signal that they should fight for their lives. Freed from the menace of The Shadow, the evil men flung themselves upon the police, in obedience to their master’s call.

Some drew guns; others leaped to the wall to seize improvised weapons. The temple was filled with flashes of flame as Cardona and his men resisted this massed attack. It was an amazing effort, but a futile one.

The odds were with the police, but the frenzy of the uprising gave them no alternative. They shot to kill. When the firing ended, three of Cardona’s men lay wounded. Cardona, himself, was nursing a dangling arm.

None of the police had been fatally injured, but their adversaries had fought to the finish.

Upon the floor, amidst bloodstained cushions, were the members of the crime cult. All but three were dead; and those three were dying.

Stretched before the golden throne of Charn lay Henri Zayata, a bullet through his evil heart. By his side was the dead form of Chandra, the Burmese.