The Dark Death

CHAPTER XXII. A MATTER OF IDENTITY

JOE CARDONA had returned to the fourth floor of the old house. Detective Sergeant Markham was with him. They were making a final round. Joe rapped at the door of the front apartment. Tobin opened it.

“Good night,” said Joe. “Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Tobin. If you hear anybody around here tonight, notify the officers downstairs.”

“How long will they be here?” questioned Tobin, in a nervous tone.

“Until the morning,” replied Cardona.

The detective rapped at the door of the rear apartment. Dolke answered; a weak smile appeared upon his wan face.

“Good night,” said Joe. “If there’s any trouble, report downstairs. Officers here until morning, Mr. Dolke.”

“All right,” grunted Dolke. “They would pick one of the nights when I was in town. Well, I got some excitement for a change.”

Cardona and Markham descended. On the way, Joe spoke to the detective sergeant.

“I’m going over to Brophy’s in a little while,” said the ace. “I’ve got a hunch that’s where the machine came from. Come along if you want.”

“How soon?” queried Markham. “My duty’s over.”

“In about ten minutes,” replied Joe. “As soon as the wagon comes for that death machine. We’re sending it down to the Universal Electric laboratories so they can demolish it like they did the other.”

“All right,” agreed Markham. They were at the front door when he spoke. “Say — look who’s here.”

It was Clyde Burke. The Classic reporter was hot on the trail of a story. Cardona began to furnish details while they waited for the wagon. He also invited the reporter to go along to Brophy’s.

Clyde grunted when he heard the facts concerning the Q-ray. Cardona chuckled at the reporter’s annoyance.

“You had it in the bag, Burke,” said the detective. “You wrote up that Q-ray machine. But you missed the big point of it.”

“And I thought it was gas,” admitted Clyde. “That mess up at the Club Cadiz.”

Again Cardona chuckled. Clyde repressed a smile. He had long since learned the details of the Q-ray, through orders received from Rutledge Mann. Like other agents of The Shadow, Clyde knew how to play a part.

Up on the fourth floor, Tokin had strolled in to talk with Dole. Of the two, Tokin, haggard and sickly-looking, was the more nervous. Dole managed to smile a bit. He advised Tobin to get some sleep.

The haggard man went out. Dolke closed the door. He walked across the room. He stood before a bureau and studied his features in the mirror. He smiled. The expression was curious.

In smiling, Dolke kept his lips together, and it gave his face a sour, halfhearted look. Still watching his own expression, Dolke smiled again. This time he opened his lips. Gold teeth glittered from the mirror.

The smile broadened to a vicious leer. Dolke retained it. His eyes were steady for a moment; suddenly, they began to bulge. Dolke was looking past his own reflection, toward the door that he had closed.

Quickly, the man wheeled about. He leaped for a coat that was hanging on the back of a chair. He thrust his hand into a pocket. He stopped short as the door swung wide. His gaze was fixed upon a figure that came from the gloomy hall.

The man who called himself George Dolke was face to face with The Shadow. He saw a figure cloaked in black; arms folded, yet threatening because the hands were out of sight. Burning eyes delivered a searching gaze from beneath the brim of the black hat.

DOLKE’S lips were clamped. His eyes tried to feign startlement. Then, barely opening his lips, the fourth-floor tenant issued a question.

“Who are you?”

A soft laugh was The Shadow’s answer. The black-garbed form stepped closer. A sinister voice whispered through the room.

“Who I am matters not,” delivered The Shadow in slow, emphatic tones. “What matters is who you are, Gyp Tangoli.”

Dolke closed his lips. He made no reply. Again he tried to feign bewilderment.

“You deceived others,” hissed The Shadow. “Even Cuyler Willington — up to the moment of his death. He had sought to murder you with the Q-ray, believing that your face was as dark as it appeared.

“The Q-ray would not fail. There was only one answer, Tangoli. Your skin was not tawny. It was dyed an artificial color. One that you kept constantly. Save when you came here as George Dolke.

“Why should Swami Marabout Bey have chosen this unpretentious building for his palatial parlors? Only because it was in this house that he had his secret hide-out. That fact was plain, from the start. That was why I did not prevent your get-away, Gyp Tangoli.

“I knew the truth as I watched from behind those curtains. I saw what your course would be. I knew that you could never have passed that cordon. I went through it, so that I might return — to meet you — when I had learned your true identity.”

The impeachment ended. Strange echoes seemed to follow The Shadow’s words. Gyp Tangoli stood motionless. His game was ended. It had been uncovered by the master sleuth.

Bereft of his darkened disguise, Gyp Tangoli made a pitiful figure. His mouth was still closed; that kept his lips from forming the evil leer that showed his true character. Gyp must have realized how he looked.

He began to plead.

“I was no murderer,” he quavered. “You have no quarrel with me. It was Willington you wanted. I killed him, to save myself. He was a crook. A killer.”

“Like the man,” mocked The Shadow, “who slew two policemen. The man who boasted—”

IN a flash, Gyp remembered the statement he had made for Willington’s dying ears. A confession of murder, heard by The Shadow. With that flash, Gyp swung from one extreme to the other. His lips opened in a vicious snarl. His hand swung up within the pocket of his coat.

The Shadow was moving at the same instant. His long arms swept forward, weaponless. One hand caught Gyp’s wrist as the crook fired from the pocket of his coat. The bullet searing through the cloth, sped beneath The Shadow’s left arm, scorching the folds of the black cloak.

Gyp shot his free hand for The Shadow’s throat. With a twist, the crook wrenched the chair between himself and the avenger.

Dropping one knee to the seat of the chair, The Shadow caught his foeman in a powerful grip. Gyp’s tall form went sweeping upward, a helpless burden poised upon The Shadow’s back.

One snap of the arms beneath the black cloak would have sent Gyp flying through the air, as those same arms had done with the Hindu, Mahmud. But this time, The Shadow’s support was not the floor. He had been forced to depend upon the rickety chair.

As The Shadow gave pressure, the chair buckled. Gyp skidded sidewise as The Shadow crashed to the floor.

Rolling toward the wall, the crook came to his knees, still holding his newly loaded gun. Grabbing for the wall, Gyp caught the side of the doorway. He fired a quick shot toward the blackness on the floor, backing for the hallway with the same motion.

The bullet was wide by inches. At the same instant, a gloved hand rose from the floor. The Shadow’s automatic spoke. Like Gyp, The Shadow missed his mark. From an almost impossible position, he had fired a random shot to break his foeman’s nerve.

The ruse worked. Gyp, had he paused, would have had a chance to beat The Shadow to the next shot.

For The Shadow was rolling for another aim while Gyp was already on his feet. But Gyp did not hesitate.

He leaped for the stairway, seeking the nearest avenue of escape.

Coming to his feet, The Shadow followed. Swiftly, he headed for those same stairs. He knew where this flight would end: where he wanted it to finish — in that front apartment on the second floor; the place where Gyp had chosen to play the part of Swami Marabout Bey.

JOE CARDONA had heard the shots. He was dashing upward. The detective reached the second floor just as Gyp arrived there.

The entrance to the anteroom was open. It was at the front, where the stairs led to the third floor. Gyp Tangoli cut through.

Cardona sprang for the back hall. He knew that the rear outlet from the seance room would be Gyp’s chance for escape. Joe came dashing through the little room at the back. He reached the door where The Shadow had worked the bolt. The door shot inward.

Cardona, crashing shoulder-first, went sprawling across the floor. Gyp had yanked the door to speed his way. Joe rolled to the spot where the elephant table had stood. His revolver sailed on toward the anteroom. Half dazed, Cardona looked up, expecting death.

Gyp Tangoli was standing with leveled gun. But the weapon was not pointed for Cardona. It was aimed straight to the anteroom. Cardona could come later. Gyp had another with whom he wished to deal: The Shadow.

Blackness came sweeping inward. Gloating, Gyp Tangoli pressed finger to trigger. A swift action; but one that could not match the split-second speed of The Shadow. With the surge of the black-cloaked form came a burst of flame.

Joe Cardona saw the stooped figure of George Dolke as it went into a crazy sway. He saw a finger strive and falter. He watched the pasty face above. He saw a hideous expression that revealed the glint of gold teeth.

Gyp Tangoli! Cardona realized it as the tall man sagged toward the floor. The revolver dropped from listless fingers. The body rolled sidewise. The ugly face retained its evil leer.

A figure had swept into the room, unseen by Joe Cardona, who was rising to stare at Gyp’s sprawled form. The Shadow swung by the detective and swished through the curtains at the rear.

The big chair had been pushed aside. Cardona, looking up, saw blackness merge between the draperies.

Then the curtains were swaying slowly, in token of The Shadow’s final departure.

Markham and Clyde Burke arrived as Cardona was picking up his gun. They stared at the form of Gyp Tangoli. Like Joe, they recognized the face. Removable stain, washed off in that upstairs apartment, which Gyp had reached by the fire tower. Such had been the crook’s method of escape.

He had deceived all but The Shadow. That one foeman had divined Gyp’s scheme even before the crook had put it into action. And now, in testimony of The Shadow’s craft, came the knell that sounded triumph.

A WEIRD laugh, its rising tones muffled by the waving curtains. That token came to the ears of those who stood above the dead body of Gyp Tangoli.

The mirth died with an eerie shudder. Silence alone remained.

Departing by the unguarded fire escape, The Shadow had sent back this mocking cry. Credit for the death of Gyp Tangoli would go to Joe Cardona. Such was The Shadow’s wish.

But Joe Cardona, again victorious through The Shadow’s vigilance, would not forget the master hand that had led the law to triumph. Once more, The Shadow had swung the scales of justice.

Dark death had met its conqueror. The schemes of master crooks had failed. Cuyler Willington, the plotter; Gyp Tangoli, the opportunist, had met in a struggle to the finish.

And The Shadow, ever vigilant, had been present to wrest the spoils from the victor. Swaying draperies, stilled with the fading laugh, were the final curtain to the drama of thwarted crime.