The Crime Master

CHAPTER XXI BLACK STANDS ALONE

A WEIRD laugh crept through the paneled room. Dagron and Henley, staring; Cliff and Weston, motionless in their chairs — the four formed a strange tableau before The Shadow’s burning gaze.

As the black-garbed arrival moved forward, leaving the door ajar behind him, his keen eyes centered upon the table where The Crime Master’s men formed their colorful array.

The hand with the automatic made a wide sweep. Its swing cleared the board. The pieces in The Crime Master’s game went scattering across the dark-hued rug. Swinging, The Shadow came to a stand at the side of the room. From this point, he controlled both Dagron and Henley with the aim of his single gun.

“Your game is ended.” The Shadow’s sinister whisper was addressed to Ganford Dagron. “Your minions have met with final defeat tonight.”

The old man snarled. Again, The Shadow laughed. He recognized the burden of The Crime Master’s thoughts.

“Your trap” — The Shadow’s voice was a sardonic sneer — “failed in its purpose. I lacked the strength to break it; but I found another method. Your one mistake was the light switch in the cellar.”

The Shadow’s tones were bitter gibes that brought a fiendish scowl to Dagron’s face. The old man’s claws were clutching furiously.

“Through that switch,” jeered The Shadow, “I operated the lights upstairs. My agent, stationed across the street, caught my coded signals. He waited — at my order — until your men had come and gone.

“Then he arrived. He waited long — until I had revived from weariness. Then, by taps, he signaled. He broke into the walled-up fireplace. I had gained entry to the ash pit beneath. He lowered tools and explosives that I needed. The rest was a matter of time alone.

“I have been free since noon. I divined the crime you scheduled for tonight. I took measures to prevent it. The police moved under my direction. I was at the heart of crime — this time encased by rings of steel that withstood the bullets of your minions.”

The Shadow’s words ended with a startling hiss. A shuddering laugh; Dagron, like Henley, quailed. The Crime Master, seated by his cleared board, realized his total helplessness.

“The police are coming here.” The Shadow’s words were mocking. “They will rescue their captured chief, as I shall first aid my captured agent. Your game will be exposed when they have reached this lair.”

The Shadow paused. The echoes of his words lingered in Dagron’s ears. There was a sinister note of doom in all that the avenger had said. Yet Ganford Dagron, fiend to the end, managed to regain his evil snarl.

HALF rising, the old man spat venomous words. It was a futile act; yet the fierceness of the challenge came as a warning to The Shadow. Realizing that Dagron might have some purpose in his action, The Shadow wheeled suddenly from the old man’s gaze.

The door was swinging open. Woodling, returning with reports of failure, had heard the tones of The Shadow’s voice. Hoping to deliver a surprise attack, he was entering by stealth. Ganford Dagron had spied the movement of the door; he was seeking to hold The Shadow’s attention.

The instant that The Shadow wheeled, Woodling, peering from the side of the door, came upward with a gun. His hurried finger pressed the trigger of the revolver just as The Shadow fired with the automatic.

Woodling’s bullet whistled past The Shadow’s shoulder. The shot from the automatic, however, was loosed with sure delivery. It found its mark in Woodling’s body. With a frenzied scream, the servant sprawled forward and rolled writhing on the floor.

Ganford Dagron shrilled an order. Henley, bounding forward, yanked a gun to cover The Shadow. Before the secretary could loose his shot, The Shadow’s turning automatic barked its interruption.

Henley staggered. He dropped his revolver. He gasped as he clutched his chest. Then, like Woodling, Henley rolled upon the floor. The second of The Crime Master’s aids had felt The Shadow’s wrath.

Had Ganford Dagron joined in the fire, he might have gained belated triumph. Though prompt, The Shadow’s shots had required an interval for action. The Crime Master was drawing a revolver at the moment of The Shadow’s second shot; but he was inspired by a double purpose.

Dagron was springing backward. He timed the raising of his right hand — with its weapon — to a clawing motion with his left, as the latter clicked an ornament upon the wall.

A panel shot upward behind Dagron’s retreating form; with the way to escape opened, the fiend pressed finger to the trigger of his revolver. The Shadow was already turning. As Dagron fired, the cloaked form slumped suddenly to the floor.

The action was timed to Dagron’s shot. The old man’s bullet grazed The Shadow’s shifting shoulder. It did not stop the completion of The Shadow’s aim. The automatic spoke before The Crime Master could fire again.

THE SHADOW’S form rose slowly upward. In the same tempo, Dagron’s body slumped. The revolver rattled from the old man’s hand. Clutching claws failed to break the fall. They only turned the drooping body so it rolled face upward.

Cliff Marsland was trying to gain his feet. The shots had aroused him from his lethargy. He saw The Shadow standing by the checkered table. He saw a gloved hand dip into a box. He heard The Shadow’s laugh as something clicked upon the square-marked glass.

The Shadow turned. He viewed Commissioner Weston, still groggy. He saw Cliff’s feeble efforts to leave his chair. With a sweep of his arm, The Shadow raised his weakened agent. As Cliff stumbled forward, The Shadow led him through the opening that Ganford Dagron had gained in the wall.

A throbbing, outlandish laugh broke through The Crime Master’s lair. It rose to a pitch of strident mockery. Sardonic echoes answered. The Shadow’s triumph! Weston, aroused by that ghoulish cry, came to his startled senses.

The panel closed with a click. Weston stared as he heard the sound. Then came muffled shouts — the tramp of feet — Inspector Klein, at the head of four detectives, came bursting into the room through the outer door.

The commissioner was raised to his feet. Bewildered, he shook his head as Klein made inquiry. Ralph Weston could not recollect what had happened. He could only point to the floor — to the body of Ganford Dagron.

“The Crime Master?” exclaimed Klein.

Weston nodded. His eyes turned toward the board. They remained there, transfixed by the object that they saw. Upon the board rested a single piece — one that had replaced all others — a man of jet black color.

Dazedly, Weston saw the symbolism of that single block of wood. Out of the chaos in his mind, he realized who had gained the final triumph that had spelled The Crime Master’s doom.

The Shadow was the victor. Master of vengeance had conquered Master of Crime.