The Death Triangle

CHAPTER XXIII TRUTH REVEALED

MILES VORBER, panting, stood with the broken table leg within his grasp. All fight had gone from the old servant. His eyes, however, still held a venom as they gazed toward the prone form of Paul Marchelle.

As Howard Wycliff brandished his revolver, Vorber walked toward the door. He stopped at Howard’s command. Garrett Slader had entered. He was bending over Paul Marchelle, while Howard Wycliff covered Vorber. The old lawyer raised his head.

“Marchelle is dead,” he said bitterly. “You have killed him, Howard.”

“I tried to get Vorber,” returned Howard soberly. “The twist they made was fatal. I shall give myself up to the police, Mr. Slader.”

“Not yet,” returned the old lawyer, as he arose from the floor. “Keep Vorber covered. We shall turn him over to the detectives when they arrive. I was a witness, Howard. Your shooting of Marchelle was accidental.”

Slader pointed toward the stairs. With a regretful gaze toward Paul Marchelle’s dead form, Howard Wycliff mechanically ordered Vorber to descend. A silent trio — Vorber, Howard, then Slader — they reached the hall on the ground floor.

It was here that Vorber offered his passive protest. Backed against the wall, still clutching the table leg, the servant looked toward Howard Wycliff and tried to explain his actions.

“I did it for you, sir,” he said. “Your father feared enemies. He told me to make sure that all went well after his death—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” questioned Howard. “I don’t believe you, Vorber. You knew that Marchelle was my friend.”

“He was not, sir!” blurted Vorber. “He was trying to find that deed! I knew it all along! He wanted it for himself — or for others—”

“Be quiet, Vorber!” snapped Garrett Slader. “We know your purpose. You were disgruntled because you were not remembered in Cyril Wycliff’s will. Howard has explained all that.”

“Mr. Wycliff did remember me,” said Vorber soberly. “I can prove it, sir. There are bank books in my desk. They show the deposits that I made. Ten thousand dollars, sir — Mr. Wycliff gave me the money long before he died. It was my old master’s way. He rewarded me for faithful service while he was still alive — not after he was dead!”

“This will be used against you, Vorber,” warned Slader, still unconvinced. “If you have been paid to sell this deed, your pretext that your money came from Cyril Wycliff will not save you. We shall investigate it to the core. We intend to turn you over to the police as soon as they arrive.”

“Here they are now!” cried Howard.

THE front door was opening. Miles Vorber, like the others, turned to see the men who entered. These were not detectives.

Howard Wycliff and those with him stared blankly at the faces of Ward Fetzler and Martin Hamprell. Before they could move, Hamprell had uttered a cry of recognition. He knew the trio — he remembered them from the time when he had played the part of Doctor Johan Arberg.

Hamprell’s revolver flashed into view. As Fetzler echoed his minion’s cry, other faces appeared from the darkness. Ham Cruther, the gang leader, and two gunmen, arrived with revolvers in their hands. It was Ward Fetzler who issued the command.

“Give me that deed!” he ordered.

Stupidly, Garrett Slader yielded the document. Fetzler laughed as he read its contents.

“This is what I want,” he asserted. Then, with a sharp, questioning air, he demanded: “Where is Paul Marchelle?”

“Dead,” said Howard Wycliff in a dull tone. “I killed him.”

“He tried to steal the deed!” blurted Miles Vorber, with a frenzied scowl. “I knew that he was a crook!”

“Certainly,” said Fetzler, with his evil smile. “He was my inside informant. He is dead — ah, well, poor Marchelle. He should have waited until we arrived.

“Circumstances demand a few more deaths. It is too bad that you three discovered this missing deed. It leaves us but one alternative: to kill you. Before you die, however, let me introduce myself. I am Ward Fetzler, former owner of the property mentioned in this deed — property worth millions.

“I wanted the deed back. I offered Cyril Wycliff money for it. He refused. I studied his affairs. That is how I formed contact with Paul Marchelle. He was an ambitious young lawyer; his associate, however, was old-fashioned in methods, and had few worthwhile clients. I refer to you, Garret Slader.

“Marchelle yielded to my offer of money. I gave him cash, and promised him more if he would work with me. Cyril Wycliff’s death was necessary. I hired a man to murder him. It was necessary, also, for my killer to slay Doctor Johan Arberg, in order that he might impersonate the old specialist. He came here, disguised as Doctor Arberg, to give Cyril Wycliff an injection of a death solution.”

Gasps of horror came from Howard Wycliff and Garrett Slader. Vorber’s face showed insane rage. This calm mention of his master’s murder roused the old servant to a fever pitch.

“Marchelle did good service,” continued Fetzler, in a reflective tone. “He kept me well informed of matters here. Only the other night, he telephoned me, while waiting at a theater lobby for Howard Wycliff. He told me how affairs were going.

“Tonight, he telephoned me from the drug store near this house. He informed me then that Vorber had located the missing deed. He said that he was coming back to watch Vorber. I hurried here on that account. Unfortunately, I arrived too late to save Marchelle.”

Fetzler’s face became fierce. More than mere desire to eliminate these men was inspiring him now. He wanted vengeance for the death of his minion!

“Here is the murderer,” sneered Fetzler. “Martin Hamprell is his name. You will never hear it again; for he will kill you now, and thus complete the run of death.”

As Fetzler turned to give a command to Hamprell, Miles Vorber acted. Shouting his rage, the servant leaped forward and swung the table leg like a huge club. Martin Hamprell turned to shoot Vorber.

AS the murderer sought to press the trigger of his revolver, a terrific report resounded from the stairway.

Martin Hamprell crumpled to the floor. Ward Fetzler, staring upward, saw The Shadow. So did the others at the door, when they heard Fetzler’s cry.

The sight of that black-garbed form — the tall being who held a smoking automatic in his gloved hand — was one that chilled the evil hearts of the supporting gangsters.

A weird laugh came from the stairway. As its hollow mirth burst fiercely through the old house, The Shadow raised a second gun. Shots broke from his automatics. Answering bursts of flame came from the doorway.

Instinctively, Howard Wycliff and Garrett Slader dropped to the floor. Whizzing bullets sped above their heads. The hasty gangster shots were wild. Ham Cruther and his startled men were no match for The Shadow’s skill. Cruther fell. One of his henchmen dropped. Others, by the door, dashed out into the night.

Ward Fetzler had drawn a revolver. He was taking aim. The Shadow ignored him — for The Shadow saw what Fetzler did not notice: Miles Vorber’s body backed against the wall.

The servant saw the gangsters flee. With a furious snarl, he swung the table leg. It crashed upon Ward Fetzler’s skull. The master of the game toppled head forward, staggered, and sprawled upon the steps. Vorber did not stop. He swung the table leg again, and shattered it to fragments on Fetzler’s head.

The Shadow had left that action to Miles Vorber. It was the servant’s chance to prove his faithfulness to Howard Wycliff. Vorber had slain the evil fiend who had brought death to his old master, Cyril Wycliff.

Garrett Slader and Howard Wycliff turned toward the stairs to observe the amazing rescuer who had saved their lives. All that they saw was a ghostly shape — a shroud of blackness that disappeared into the darkness of the upper hall.

Shot were heard outside. The rescued men turned, expecting a new danger. In came Doctor Barton Keyes; with him, a stocky, swarthy man, Detective Joe Cardona. A squad of detectives followed. They had arrived in time to meet the fleeing gangsters, and down them in a brief revolver fray.

GARRETT SLADER picked up the recovered deed and handed it to Howard Wycliff. The young man turned and extended his hand to Miles Vorber. The servant’s thin lips smiled as his hand received his master’s clasp of thanks.

The reign of crime was ended. Through Miles Vorber, The Shadow had solved the triangle. The evil three — Ward Fetzler, the plotter; Martin Hamprell, the murderer; Paul Marchelle, the traitor — all were dead.

The master who had accomplished the great result was gone. In the confusion that reigned below, The Shadow had departed from the upstairs window. From the night he had come; into the night he had returned.

The heavy wind was wailing about the old walls of the mansion. From the blackness of the night, it picked up an eerie, ghostly laugh that burst into a chilling cry of sinister mirth. The echoes ended. The knell that marked the deaths of the evil plotters faded into nothingness.

Like the laugh, The Shadow was gone. His triumphant mirth was fitting token of his strange, invincible might. A being of darkness, The Shadow had merged with night!