The Fifth Face

"I'll be tied up here for the next couple of hours," said Melbrun.

"Suppose I see you tomorrow, commissioner. Of course, if the matter is important, I could stop by at the club this evening."

"It is not important," returned Weston. "Besides, I shall not be at the Cobalt Club tonight. I have been invited to a banquet, and will have to go there."

"Why not stop off anyway, Melbrun?" inquired The Shadow, in Cranston's fashion. "I happen to have something urgent on my mind, and you are the very man to help me with it."

"What can that be, Cranston?"

"Some French government bonds," replied The Shadow. "I intend to exchange some American securities for them. I would like the opinion of a man versed in international exchange. You are the very person, Melbrun."

Melbrun agreed to be at the club soon after eight o'clock. The visitors left, and Weston promptly inquired why Cranston happened to be buying foreign bonds. The Shadow mentioned that he was purchasing them from Count Fondelac.

"I might suggest that you slip away from the banquet shortly before eight," added The Shadow. "I would like you to be present, too, commissioner."

"Just why?"

"Because I don't trust Fondelac," was the reply. "It would also be an excellent idea to have Inspector Cardona outside, with a picked squad. But impress upon him that he is to restrain himself. Fondelac is very clever; he might have friends on hand to warn him if police were about. The fellow strikes

me as being an experienced swindler."

The thing intrigued Weston. Watching the commissioner, The Shadow noticed his flickers of expression and read them correctly. Weston did not, in any wise, class Count Fondelac with such crooks as Smarley, Flush and Barney.

Therefore, the commissioner could be depended upon to handle his part of the job in smooth style.

Weston could be smooth enough under proper circumstances; and that applied

to a chance meeting at the Cobalt Club, where the commissioner was a member and

therefore likely to drop in at any time.

Dropping off at the club, The Shadow strolled about, looking over strategic spots. He knew that tonight's task would be no set-up. It wasn't just

a case of dealing with a smart swindler, as The Shadow had led Weston to believe. Five-face would have his usual quota of reserves, headed by his three lieutenants.

The master crook was anxious to dispose of the Fondelac personality; to efface it forever, as he had three others. He wouldn't care if he identified himself with mobbies in a spectacular style. The law had not guessed that three

previous crimes had been staged by one master crook.

Fondelac, of all people, would never be linked with Smarley, Flush or Barney, no matter how he staged the coming crime.

In looking over the setting, The Shadow remembered that his agents would be present, as actual members of a crooked horde. He saw ways in which they could play a part. When he called Burbank, The Shadow included special instructions that were to go to Cliff and Hawkeye.

Others, too, were given orders. Harry Vincent, long in The Shadow's service, was an agent who could come to the Cobalt Club at Cranston's invitation. Clyde Burke, a reporter on the New York Classic, was another who could logically be in this neighborhood. As for Moe, he and his cab would certainly be on hand.

Down the street was a small apartment house where a uniformed doorman could take a post without exciting suspicion. Tenants in the building would merely think that the management had decided to make the place fashionable. So The Shadow ordered Burbank to contact Jericho, a big African, and tell him to put on a fancy uniform for this evening.

Five-face would be walking into a double mesh when he came to the Cobalt Club as Count Fondelac. The police formed one net; The Shadow's agents, the other.

DINING as Cranston, The Shadow forgot the clock. Fondelac was to arrive at

eight, the hour that The Shadow had set for Melbrun. If anything, the count would probably be late, in keeping with his rather indifferent character.

Hence it was a mild surprise, even for The Shadow, when an attendant entered the grillroom, at quarter of eight, to announce that Count Fondelac had

arrived to see Mr. Cranston.

The grillroom was the proper meeting place. Telling the waiter to clear the table, The Shadow gave word to show Count Fondelac downstairs. When Fondelac arrived, he saw Cranston rising from the table, holding a leather portfolio beneath his arm.

"Sorry to be early," purred Fondelac. "But it is on account of Albertina.

She insists that she must go to the theater this evening. So instead of coming at eight o'clock, I find that I must leave by then."

There wasn't a slip in Fondelac's manner to indicate that he had obtained any knowledge of The Shadow's preparations. It might be that his mention of Albertina was the truth, and not an alibi. In his turn, The Shadow was very careful to give no indication that he wanted to hold Fondelac past the hour stated.

Five-face produced the French bonds. They were very clever counterfeits, but they did not deceive The Shadow. He had been to his bank that afternoon and

had examined French bonds thoroughly. Glaring from Fondelac's bonds were various

errors, tiny to the ordinary eye but magnified to The Shadow's gaze.

In the detection of false securities, The Shadow had no equal. At Cranston's home in New Jersey he kept a collection of counterfeit stocks and bonds, trophies of his battles against crime. He had gone over them thoroughly,

this very morning, looking for samples of French forgeries.

There had been none in The Shadow's collection, though he had many varieties of worthless paper. At least, Five-face was using judgment in peddling a new brand of counterfeit, which had never before been foisted in America. But The Shadow's inspection of genuine French bonds enabled him to know that Five-face was going through with the swindle.

Five-face was supremely clever. Smart enough, in fact, to change his game at the last minute. The Shadow had foreseen that the crooked count might even walk in with genuine bonds, if he suspected Cranston's bait. To make this transaction complete, The Shadow had to be sure that the bonds were counterfeit, before he took them. That part of the game was certain.

Fondelac rated the bonds at two hundred thousand dollars, a third less than their face value. They were an issue that was soon to mature, and the French government would surely meet its obligation, Fondelac insisted, despite wartime conditions. Apparently convinced that the deal was a good one, The Shadow opened his portfolio.

He spread various issues in front of Fondelac: stocks in copper mines and established oil companies; bonds guaranteed by large, thriving concerns. He even helped Fondelac pick out the ones that seemed best. Then, in Cranston's style, The Shadow remarked:

"But this is only my opinion, Count. For your benefit, I have invited a gentleman named Arnold Melbrun to join us. I think that he will render an impartial judgment."

There wasn't the slightest change on the face of Fondelac. His expression indicated that he had never heard of Melbrun. In fact, The Shadow did not expect such mention to bother Five-face. But there was another reason for Fondelac's indifference.

"I must keep my engagement," the crook insisted. "I am sorry, but I cannot

remain to meet your friend - What was his name, m'sieu'? It has slipped me."

"Arnold Melbrun," repeated The Shadow. "He should be here at any moment.

Wait, Count - here he is!"

IT wasn't Melbrun who stepped into the grillroom. The arrival was Commissioner Weston. Again, The Shadow was watching the features of Fondelac; they were not at all perturbed. In fact, Five-face simply gave a pleased nod when Cranston introduced Weston as the police commissioner.

"It is one honor, M'sieu' Commissioner," said Fondelac, with a profound bow. Then, turning to The Shadow: "I shall take these that you offer."

This time, The Shadow caught a sudden gleam from the eyes of Fondelac.

Five-face was watching Cranston put away the French bonds. On the table lay Cranston's securities, double the amount that the trade required.

To give Fondelac his choice, Cranston had brought negotiable stocks and bonds that totaled considerably more than half a million dollars!

Would Five-face walk out with only half of those, letting the transaction appear bona fide until the fraud of the French bonds was discovered?

Or would he show his hand in full, by seizing all of them and taking to headlong flight, as he had done on other occasions?

The Shadow already knew the answer. Five-face would swallow the full bait.

Nevertheless, he knew the risk and sensed that this might prove a trap. To some

degree, he had to play the role of Fondelac; even more, he wanted to know that flight would prove sure.

It was Weston who paved the way for Five-face. Turning to The Shadow, the commissioner remarked in a brisk tone:

"Inspector Cardona is coming here, Cranston. I told him that I wanted him to wait outside for Melbrun. I've been worried about Melbrun lately."

Weston meant what he said. Rather than crimp the Fondelac matter, he had actually told Cardona to look out for Melbrun. The commissioner did not realize

that such instructions could nullify the trap, so far as the law was concerned.

But Five-face recognized it.

Like a flash, the slow-moving Fondelac became a human dynamo. With a sweep

of his left hand, he scooped all of Cranston's bonds from the table and jammed them underneath his coat. Spinning toward the stairway, he whipped his right hand from his coat tail, bringing out a revolver.

There was a murderous glint in the eyes of Five-face, as the supercrook began his sensational departure. He was ready to kill if either Commissioner Weston or Lamont Cranston made a single gesture to halt him!

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BANISHED TRAIL

UNTIL that instant, Five-face could not have known that Cranston was The Shadow. If he had, he would have shown his hand before. In all his guises, Five-face had encountered stern opposition from The Shadow, and could have asked nothing better than to slay his mortal foe in combat.

Had Cranston's hand gone for a gun, Five-face would have known what it meant. His own revolver already drawn, the master crook would have been prompt with the blast. It was impossible, under present conditions, for The Shadow to stop the pretended Count Fondelac.

Such a move, however, was possible for Cranston. He showed just what could

be done, in a very surprising style.

Cranston was seated; his hands, having laid aside the portfolio, were on the table edge. They clamped, as he made an upward, forward lunge. The light table came with him, launched in a powerful fling for the darting figure of Fondelac.

Completing that upward hurl, The Shadow ended it with a dive to the floor,

tripping Weston with a side-swinging foot.

Five-face didn't see that clever finish, which might have told him that Cranston was The Shadow. Half dodging, Five-face opened fire, splintering the cloth-covered table that was flying toward him. He thought that those bullets would reach the men beyond, not knowing that they had flattened beneath the level of his fire.

The bullet-ripped table struck the crook's shoulder. It wasn't heavy enough to floor him. It was merely a portable table, of very light construction. But the tablecloth flapped forward, covering the head and shoulders of Fondelac.

It was like a living shroud that had flopped in from space, to play its part in ruining crime. As Five-face tried to snatch the cloth away, he merely wrapped it tighter. He was blundering toward the stairway, mouthing muffled yells. In a way, the thing was ludicrous.

The Shadow had counted on the table; not the cloth. His purpose had been simply to spoil an enemy's aim. Instead, he had entangled Five-face in a mesh that rendered the criminal physically helpless. In trying to reach the stairs, Five-face stumbled, and lost his gun as he struggled against the tangle.

With a shove, The Shadow thrust Commissioner Weston to his feet, sending him after the master crook, It was the simplest possible job for Weston. All that he had to do was tighten the cloth that already held Five-face half smothered.

Having propelled Weston in the right direction, The Shadow came full about

and drove for the kitchen door. He knew that Five-face had yelled with purpose;

that the tangled crook expected prompt aid. Such assistance could be coming only from the kitchen.

The door came flinging inward. Catching it with a side step, The Shadow slashed it shut again, ramming it against the faces of two thugs who were driving through. Then, pulling the door wide, he hurled himself upon the staggered pair, slugging them with a gun that he yanked into play.

Other invaders were in the kitchen, lunging toward The Shadow. He met them

with bullets, and new guns echoed the blasts. Cliff and Hawkeye were with the mob, nicking crooks in expert style.

The surge became a sprawl of bewildered, wounded thugs. The way trouble overtook them, they thought that The Shadow must have started it; yet they couldn't see a sign of any cloaked opponent!

Leaving the crippled crooks to Cliff and Hawkeye, The Shadow wheeled back to the grillroom, still Cranston to all who saw him. As he shoved through the door, a hurtling figure met him and began to grapple. Twisting his foe about, The Shadow met him eye to eye.

The face of Lamont Cranston was thrust squarely against the countenance of

his friend, Commissioner Weston!

They broke apart. Showing Fondelac's gun, which he had picked up from the floor, the commissioner tried to explain things.

"I thought they had trapped you, Cranston!" he panted. "I saw them yank you into the kitchen. In my excitement, I forgot Fondelac -"

THRUSTING Weston aside, The Shadow started for the stairway. Snapping from

his stupor, the Commissioner followed. The tablecloth was lying on the steps, but there was no sign of Fondelac. He had dashed up to the foyer, carrying Cranston's stocks and bonds with him.

Things hadn't happened as Five-face wanted. He had expected to be well away before the commotion started below; more than that, he had counted upon his gun, which he no longer had.

He crossed the foyer at a lope, clutching the bonds beneath his coat. As he reached the outer door, a squatty man shoved in to block him.

Inspector Cardona had heard the shooting within the Cobalt Club and was on

hand, with a squad behind him.

"Quickly, inspector!" exclaimed Five-face. "I'm Count Fondelac. The commissioner sent me up to find you. He said to rush your men downstairs and"

-

faltering, the crook gave a wince - "and to help me out of here. I'm wounded."

Cardona pointed his men through the doorway. Turning, Joe rushed Fondelac out into a waiting squad car. He knew who Fondelac was, and he didn't want the Count to die on his hands.

Joe Cardona believed that Fondelac was really wounded, because he had noticed how the man was clutching his hands tight against his side. Joe didn't guess that the count was really hanging on to a bundle of stolen securities that he had pilfered from Lamont Cranston.

Once in the car, Fondelac relaxed and sat back with a long sigh. Cardona told the driver to get them to the nearest hospital in a hurry. He didn't hear the shouts that came from back at the Cobalt Club, where the inrushing squad had met Cranston and Weston coming out.

The squad car was around the corner, halfway along the block, when Fondelac pointed to a cab parked in front of a small hotel. He gestured for Cardona to stop the squad car.

"I am better now, inspector," informed Fondelac. "I can go to my apartment

in the taxicab. The commissioner wants you to return. He said that you are to wait for M'sieu' Melbrun."

"Forget Melbrun," snapped Cardona. "You've got to get to a hospital, Count, because of that bullet."

"Bullet?" Fondelac looked puzzled; then he laughed lightly. "Non, inspector. The ruffian did not have a gun. He used his fist, this way" - he clenched his hand - "and gave me one big punch."

The car had stopped. Count Fondelac stepped to the street; Cardona saw him

wince and tighten his hands, as though the punch still hurt him. Cardona was still staring, when Fondelac entered the cab and rode away.

Joe turned to the driver of the squad car.

"A punch in the belly!" growled Cardona. "I ought to have handed that sissy another on the jaw! Say, if Fondelac didn't get hit, I wonder what all the shooting was about."

Abruptly, Cardona quit speculating about the past. He had the present to think about. More shooting was in evidence, from the direction of the Cobalt Club.

Remembering that the commissioner had ordered him to cover Melbrun's arrival, Cardona promptly forgot Fondelac, except to congratulate himself that he had sent the softy from harm's way. Joe ordered the driver to speed around the block and get back to the Cobalt Club.

THINGS were happening very rapidly outside the club. Two groups had witnessed Fondelac's departure with Cardona and had been puzzled because of it.

One group consisted of the lieutenants who served Five-face. They were afraid to take pot shots at Cardona, because of Fondelac. The fact that Five-face had not called upon them to open fire was sufficient to keep them quiet.

The other watchers were The Shadow's agents. Farther away, they supposed that Cardona had taken Fondelac into custody. Thus, everything had remained latent, until a surge of men appeared on the sidewalk. Commissioner Weston was with Cardona's squad, yelling for cars in which to begin pursuit.

Guns talked promptly from across the street. The commissioner dived for shelter and the detectives scattered. They were saved only by the intervention of a friend who had followed them from the club: Lamont Cranston.

From the doorway, which offered satisfactory cover, The Shadow picked out the source of the first wild shots and responded with a prompt fire.

Though The Shadow's bullets took effect, he was unable to get the result he wanted; namely, a prompt pursuit of Five-face. Grease, Banker, and Clip were

at least giving their chief the support that he needed for a getaway.

Moreover, the lieutenants were unusually bold tonight. They and their henchmen were ready to dare the shots offered by the lone marksman in the doorway of the club.

Piling in from many angles, they made for Weston and the diving detectives. The attackers were too many, too widespread, even for The Shadow to

stop them, particularly as snipers had begun a fire toward the doorway, to hold

back the lone sharpshooter.

Perhaps The Shadow's laugh would have diverted the surge, but he preferred

to count on other assistance, while he adhered to the part of Cranston.

In came the aid The Shadow wanted, provided in prompt and efficient style.

Harry Vincent and Clyde Burke popped out from doorways and opened a flanking fire on the charging crooks. Around the corner came Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye,

finished with the thugs back in the kitchen. They added telling shots.

All the while, The Shadow was shooting from the doorway. The lighted space

in front of the Cobalt Club might well have been marked with a gigantic X, for it indicated a spot where bodies would be found if any crooks came that far.

The few who reached the fringes of the light were staggered by The Shadow's direct fire, while his agents were working the flanks.

Leaders of the scattering mob were shouting for reserves. A car came roaring up the street, but it never reached the Cobalt Club. Moe's cab whipped in from a corner and diverted the car across the street.

A batch of thugs leaped out, intent upon many things; primarily, they wanted to obliterate the cabby who had stopped their course.

That was just the time for Jericho. He was pacing in front of the apartment house, just beyond the corner. With a gleaming grin that matched the glitter of his goldbraided uniform, the giant African reached the batch of crooks and went to work with bare hands.

Jericho cracked two heads together like a pair of eggshells. He grabbed a third mobbie, used him to bludgeon a fourth. There was a fifth man among the reserves, but he didn't wait around. He scudded for an alleyway, leaving Jericho in full possession of a sedan equipped with a pair of machine guns.

Other cars were starting away. Cardona met them with the squad car, around

the next corner. Brakes shrieked as the squad car drove one automobile into a wall. The Shadow and his agents riddled another car with bullets.

But the third car managed a getaway, for the squad car offered a barrier between it and the marksmen, who now included the intrenched detectives who had

come out from the Cobalt Club.

In the fleeing car were the three lieutenants who served Five-face.

Banker

was at the wheel, Clip on the seat beside him. Grease was lucky enough to reach

the running board just as the car sped away.

RETURNING to the club, Commissioner Weston found Cranston standing idly in

the doorway. The commissioner knew that his friend had joined in the fire, but had no idea that Cranston had been the mainspring of the whole affray.

While Weston was offering congratulations for what he considered a rather trifling service, a coupe pulled up in front of the Cobalt Club.

Arnold Melbrun was in the car; he was amazed when he learned the full details of the battle. He wanted to know who had returned: Smarley, Tygert, or Barney Kelm.

When Melbrun learned that a new king of crime had taken over the scene, he

stood bewildered. Like nearly everyone else, he had heard of Count Raoul Fondelac, and the fact that such a celebrity had gone crooked merely added to Melbrun's daze.

The size of the robbery was also something to talk about. At least, Lamont

Cranston could congratulate himself upon having kept Fondelac's bonds, in place

of his own, although their value totaled less. But when Melbrun saw the French bonds, he shook his head. In his opinion, they were fraudulent.

It was curious how lightly Cranston took the news. He turned the bonds over to Weston, requesting the commissioner to look into the matter. Then, tired by the evening's excitement, Cranston decided to go home.

Riding away in his limousine. Cranston gave a regretful laugh. It wasn't the sort of laugh that one would expect from a man who had lost half a million dollars. Neither the bonds nor their cash value was the cause of Cranston's regret.

The Shadow simply regretted that he hadn't stopped Five-face before the master crook had tricked Joe Cardona and led the ace inspector to banish crime's trail.

It meant that special measures would be needed, if The Shadow hoped to meet Five-face again. This evening's events had definitely clarified certain puzzling matters.

The Shadow's laugh changed to a strange comprehending whisper, as this master of the night began to plan his coming ventures, which - he hoped -

would

lead to the final trapping of Five-face!

CHAPTER XIX

OUT OF THE PAST

ARNOLD MELBRUN was right. The French bonds were fraudulent. Count Raoul Fondelac had turned a swindle into whirlwind crime.

As a result, the newspapers estimated that Lamont Cranston had lost half a

million dollars. Coupled with thefts committed by Flush Tygert and Barney Kelm,

this latest exploit raised crime's recent total above a million dollars.

Still, the public did not connect those deeds with one man. Jake Smarley was practically forgotten; Flush and Barney almost so. All talk concerned Count

Fondelac, who had proven himself quite as slippery as his predecessors. From the

moment that he had said good-by to Inspector Cardona, Fondelac had completely disappeared.

The cabby remembered driving to Fondelac's apartment, but the count had left the cab somewhere on the way. There wasn't a scrap of evidence in the apartment itself that offered the police anything resembling a trail.

Three men were distinctly interested in what had become of Fondelac. They were the lieutenants who knew him as Five-face. Grease, Banker, and Clip regarded themselves as very fortunate to have escaped unscathed and unrecognized. Still, they prided themselves on having remembered the importance

of a getaway, just as Five-face had.

It was Banker who broached the subject of the future, when the three gathered, at nightfall, in their dilapidated headquarters.

"Four faces gone," tallied Banker, counting, his fingers, "which means that Five-face has got just one left; his last one."

"Yeah," put in Grease, "and maybe he's scared to show it. Ever think of that, Banker?"

"He'll show it to us," asserted Clip. "Why shouldn't he offer to divvy, with all the dough he's grabbed?"

Banker began to stroke his chin. Meanwhile, Grease put an answer to Clip's

question.

"We've got nothing on Five-face," snarled Grease. "It may look like we have, but we haven't. What if we squeal on him, supposing he doesn't show up?

He won't care if people find out that he was four different guys. Any one of the four would be bad enough for him, if the cops put the arm on him."

"Five-face thinks in big terms," insisted Banker, slowly. "Remember, he told us there would be another job. I think there will be. He won't have to show his face."

"Why not?" demanded Grease.

"Because he'll turn the job over to us," explained Banker. "That's when we

want to be smart. Unless it's as safe for us as it is for him, we want to say nix."

The three began to discuss the new angle that Banker had suggested. They were in the middle of their parley, when a rap came at the door. All three were

congregated close, when Banker opened the door. With one accord, the trio stepped back.

On the threshold stood a man with a face so ugly that no one could have blamed him for changing it whenever occasion offered.

His forehead bulged above his eyes, which were as small as gimlet points; his nose had a sideward twist. His lips were large, but widespread; they showed

a clutter of misshapen teeth, that seemed to fill the ugly face.

The lieutenants knew that face. They had never expected to see it in life again. Banker's voice was hoarse, barely audible, as he spoke for his pals:

"Blitz Bell!"

THE ugly man stepped into the room and closed the door. His gait was crablike; one shoulder drooped, as he made his way to a chair. He didn't speak;

he simply picked up the greasy pack of cards and performed the flush trick, slicing a fifth club in among four others.

If he hadn't given that demonstration the lieutenants would never have granted that Blitz Bell could be Five-face.

"Go ahead, say it," asserted Blitz suddenly, in a raspy tone. "You thought

I was croaked, didn't you? Like everybody else, you fell for that story about the Feds getting me, a couple of years ago. Well, they got Blitz Bell - in a way."

With both hands, Blitz stroked his face; the pressure seemed to mold it into a smoother visage. Then he let the bloated features return, in rubbery fashion.

"Here's the lowdown," he rasped. "I had a face lift, see? Before the Feds caught up with me. They thought I blew myself up along with the dynamite shack,

when they surrounded me. But that was because they didn't see anyone around who

looked like Blitz Bell.

"I had a good job done on this mug of mine. Ever since then, I've been able to change it into five, including my own. Funny, ain't it, the face I've had the most trouble with is my own? Only, I like it, and I don't give a bang if nobody else does."

In his speech, Blitz Bell showed a confidence which the listeners shared.

The lieutenants had taken it for granted that Five-face would adopt an unexpected personality for the climax that he had planned. The guise of Blitz Bell fitted the bill to perfection.

Supposedly dead, Blitz was beyond the reach of the law, provided he could keep his secret. Grease, Banker, Clip were seeing a man who had stepped from the past; and even with Blitz's explanation, the thing still awed them.

They would never have dreamed that Five-face could be Blitz Bell, the notorious public enemy that the Feds had supposedly eliminated years ago!

Yet, on the table lay proof that Blitz was Five-face: those outspread playing cards with which he had demonstrated his identity. They were glad that Five-face had used his skill to prove who he was. It was a better token than any other.

To a man, the lieutenants were willing to follow Blitz wherever he suggested. They were anxious to learn what new crime he intended. Remembering Blitz by reputation, as well as sight, they knew that he would not rest on past

success. If opportunity offered - and Five-face had promised that it would -

Blitz was the man to make the most of it.

With a wide-lipped smile that exposed his fanglike teeth, Blitz Bell spread a newspaper on the table. He pointed to a picture of Count Raoul Fondelac and gave a raspy laugh. He tapped the teeth that bulged from his mouth.

"Plates," explained Blitz. "I had them made to match my own, before I got rid of the real ones. My teeth were bum, anyway. I've been four other guys lately, but I can still be myself when I want."

Blitz thumbed through the newspaper, came to the page he wanted. Then, to the listeners:

"I said we'd pull a big job for a payoff," spoke Blitz. "That's what we will do, but we'll be after more than dough. I'm going to get back at the one guy who was lucky enough to stall us off!"

Alarm showed on the faces of the lieutenants. They thought that Blitz meant The Shadow. They didn't like the idea of hurling a challenge at so formidable a foe, even with Five-face as their leader. Blitz understood.

"I don't mean The Shadow," he asserted. "I mean this guy" - he pointed to a photo in the newspaper - "Arnold Melbrun. He's the bird who outguessed me when I was Smarley, and saved a hundred grand for those friends of his.

"But we're going to get that dough, and a lot more. At the same time, we'll fix Melbrun permanent. Look at what it says here: Melbrun is leaving for South America, tonight, to put over some big business deals.

"He's chartered a special plane for the trip. Do you know what that means?

I'll tell you: dough! He's probably carrying a pile of it, because money talks in South America, like it does here. He's taking off at midnight, so we'll show

up before then."

SWEEPING the newspaper to the floor, along with the pack of cards, Blitz strode to the door. There, he turned to face his lieutenants and give a final word.

"Get all the mobbies you've got left," said Blitz. "Have them cover the airport. I'll have the take from the other jobs, all packed in a bag, when I meet you guys. We'll ride right through and take over Melbrun and his plane.

"I used to fly crates, years ago. I can handle that plane. I know a lot of

landing spots that nobody else ever heard about. We'll grab Melbrun's dough and

make our getaway, all in one whack. When we get to where we're going, we can divvy all the swag, including what we take from Melbrun."

The door closed on Blitz Bell. Three astounded men stood silent for a dozen seconds, then went mad with glee. Even Banker, usually reserved, caught the fever from Grease and Clip.

Greater than any of the previous crimes engineered by Five-face, tonight's

proposal promised success without a flaw. In this final stroke, Blitz Bell and his lieutenants would move with rapid speed.

It was crime that showed the conniving of a master brain; the sort that would render pursuit impossible, even by The Shadow!

CHAPTER XX

THE FIFTH FACE

GLISTENING under the glare of floodlights, the silvery plane was ready for

its midnight take-off. Luggage had been loaded aboard, and Arnold Melbrun was shaking hands with the business associates who had financed his trip to the Argentine.

Very soon, the plane would be carrying the importer on the first hop of this important journey. Melbrun had long looked forward to the trip, and his associates were assuring him that it would result in new and greater trade relations with South America.

There were other men whose plans did not coincide with Melbrun's. If all worked as Blitz Bell had promised, the ugly-faced big-shot and his lieutenants would make a flight in Melbrun's stead. So far, however, Blitz & Co. had not appeared.

Among the idlers on the fringes of the airport were hard-faced men who indulged in muttered comment. They were the left-overs of the various mobs supplied by Grease, Banker, and Clip. They hadn't been too eager to take on this job tonight, until they learned that it involved wide open spaces where flight would be easy.

The thugs had cars available near the airport. All that they had to do was

cover the fringes, while their leaders made the real attack. That in itself was

a novelty, so the trigger men had agreed to be on hand.

They knew nothing about the intended flight. That would appear to be something produced by necessity. Later, perhaps, the small-fry thugs would be paid off with hush money sent by the lieutenants. But even that detail might be

overlooked. Safely gone with Five-face, the lieutenants might dispense with such

payments.

Cliff and Hawkeye were with the cover-up crew. They knew that Harry and Clyde were in Moe's cab, which was parked nearby. They were quite sure, too, that Jericho was on the ground. Still, The Shadow's agents were somewhat mystified.

They had learned that strife was due at the airport and had reported the fact to The Shadow. Whether he knew more than they did was a question. Keeping close to the apartment where the lieutenants had their headquarters, neither Cliff nor Hawkeye had seen any sign of The Shadow.

Their report included details of a muffled visitor, evidently Five-face.

But they hadn't seen the face of Blitz Bell when the big-shot entered and made his departure. As a man returned from the grave, the owner of that face had been very careful to keep it obscured in public.

The agents were sure, however, that The Shadow would arrive before the zero hour of midnight. They knew, too, that police would later be on hand, for Burbank was to phone a well-timed tip-off to the law. Spectacular things were due, and for once, The Shadow's aids were impatient, wondering just what their chief intended.

The plane's big propellers were spinning. Melbrun had turned away from his

friends, to enter the ship, when a low-built sedan sped in from a roadway, swerved, and suddenly cut across the field itself.

There were four men in that car: Banker at the wheel, with Grease beside him; Clip in the rear seat, with Blitz Bell.

Crouched low, Blitz was clutching a heavy bag. It wasn't the valise that Five-face had carried from the Diamond Mart, and used later at the Hotel Clairmont. Five-face no longer regarded luck as essential. He considered his plans too complete to be spoiled by anyone, even The Shadow.

While men were dashing out to yell at the crazed car, it came to a stop not far from Melbrun's plane. Looking from the rear window, Blitz Bell gave a raspy chuckle at sight of the approaching airport guards. They looked like pygmies, they were so far away; and in number, they were very few.

"Get Melbrun!" ordered Blitz. "I'll snipe those saps from the hangar, while you're taking over the plane. Then I'll join up with you, bringing this

-"

He lifted the bag, let it sag again with a thud that made it bulge. Sight of the bag pleased Blitz's three companions. They liked the way that it was stuffed. Diamonds, cash and bonds could all be unloaded after they were divided. But the boodle from the past did not make them forget the present opportunity.

REMEMBERING that Arnold Melbrun was awaiting them as another victim, the three lieutenants leaped from their car and started toward the plane, only fifty yards away. They didn't care if the floodlights showed their faces and their guns. This attack was to be short, swift, and sure.

Melbrun's friends stood astonished, until revolvers spurted. Then, with one accord, they fled. So did the airport crew around the plane.

Only one man was caught flatfooted where he stood. That man was Arnold Melbrun. He hadn't a chance to flee, and he realized instantly that the gunners

were after him.

Other shots were sounding from the car, where Blitz had remained. They stopped suddenly, as the bigshot heard the approach of distant sirens.

Immediately, shooting began along the fringes of the airport. Covering thugs had heard the sirens, too, and were starting to make trouble.

Of the three lieutenants only Banker sensed what had happened. Letting Grease and Clip dash ahead of him in their quest for Melbrun, Baker looked across his shoulder. He saw wavering figures in the distance, men sprawling, guns in their hands, though the police had not yet arrived!

Instantly, Banker understood. The Shadow must have planted members with the mob! For the first time, Banker realized why other attacks had faltered, particularly that last one, at the Cobalt Club. With a snarl, Banker dashed after Grease and Clip. This job would have to be even speedier than Blitz Bell had ordered.

Arnold Melbrun had taken the only route to temporary shelter. Dodging the aiming guns of Grease and Clip, the importer sprang into the plane. He tried to

get its sliding door shut, but by that time the attackers were too close.

Melbrun took the only course that offered.

With his luggage was a large wardrobe trunk, which stood on end, just within the plane's door. Ducking beyond the trunk, Melbrun hurled his full weight upon it, shoving it toward the door, as a blockade. Bound on a trip which offered hazards, such as a forced landing in the Amazon Country, Melbrun was equipped with a revolver. He yanked the weapon and began to fire from behind his improvised barricade.

By then, airport attendants, some with guns, had reached the car where Blitz Bell had stayed. The fight on the fringes of the airport had broken all apart. Wild mobsters were in flight, pursued by The Shadow's agents. Police cars were roaring in through the gates; people were guiding them toward Melbrun's beleaguered plane.

There, Melbrun had gained a moment of success. From behind the big trunk, he had nipped both Clip and Banker with quick shots, but the hits were superficial. Grease had escaped bullets by lurching forward, so that he was under the very shelter of the trunk itself. Seeing Grease's move, Banker and Clip copied it.

Viciously, the three grabbed at the trunk and the sides of the doorway, hoping to pull the barrier away and get at Melbrun. The importer was fighting hard to hold out until rescue came. But the trunk was slipping. Melbrun needed quicker aid than the arriving police could provide.

Then, at this most vital moment, came a challenge that made all others puny. Melbrun heard it, a titanic laugh that brought snarls from the three crooks beyond the trunk. Seemingly from nowhere, a black-cloaked figure was sweeping into the floodlights, bearing down upon the three attackers who held Melbrun trapped.

There was no mistaking that mighty fighter, whose big fists wielded huge automatics. He was The Shadow, master of the night, from which he had appeared as suddenly as though projected from an outer space!

FOR an instant, the three thugs outside the plane turned, as though willing to combat this mighty foe. Then, seeing the big guns aim, realizing that they were open targets, they grabbed at the trunk again, madly trying to wrest it free so that they could reach the shelter inside the plane.

Melbrun let them have the trunk, with a shove that pitched it full upon them. The three crooks went sprawling as the bulky object struck them, spinning

sideward as it came.

Half lurched from the doorway, Melbrun caught himself. He was an open target, but he didn't care. The Shadow had stopped short, his guns trained on the three sprawled mobsters.

They were the sort, those killers, who could expect no mercy from The Shadow. Melbrun wasn't the only man who foresaw their instant death. Joe Cardona, approaching in a speeding police car, would have sworn that sure death

was due.

Then a strange thing happened. The Shadow faltered, seemed to sidestep, as

though seeking shelter. Perhaps he had sensed guns trained from a distance; weapons that no one else guessed about. Such was Cardona's opinion, at the moment; and The Shadow's odd shift startled Melbrun, too.

At the very moment of rescue, Melbrun was abandoned. It didn't seem to matter, considering that he had bowled over his attackers; but there was one point that Melbrun missed.

The Shadow's sudden change of course gave a respite to the three crooks on

the ground. Melbrun's own course, his only sensible one, was to dive back into the plane, seeking shelter beyond other luggage, until the police could take over where The Shadow had left off.

Melbrun hesitated only half a second. It was too long. From the ground, half-rising crooks delivered a volley at the plane's doorway. Banker was sagging badly; Clip was wabbly; even Grease had a jerky aim. But the range was too short to matter.

Taking bullets in the chest, Melbrun pitched forward when further shots flayed him. His body tumbled headlong upon the big trunk that lay, half broken,

on the ground.

Cardona and others were blasting away. Their shots riddled the three killers, but came too late to save Melbrun. Then, surveying the dying figures on the ground, Cardona left the crooks and their victim to his squad. He hurried over to the sedan from which crooks had attacked.

Puzzled men were staring into the car. It had no occupant; merely an opened bag stuffed with paper, but with a space near the top. With a slow nod, Cardona went over to the plane, to view the result of the battle there.

Melbrun was dead. Of the three who had slain him, all were dying, and only

one could talk: Grease Rickel. He was the sort who would believe that he had been double-crossed, if properly questioned; particularly since Banker Dreeb and Clip Zelber could no longer advise him to shut up.

Cardona began his persuasive effort, and Grease responded. He was muttering names of Smarley, Flush Tygert, Barney Kelm, even Fondelac. In between, he kept repeating the name: "Five-face."

"I get it, Grease." Cardona was playing a hunch. "All of them were Five-face. He's the guy who double-crossed you."

"Yeah." Grease's tone was a gaspy sigh. "Blitz Bell... back in the car...

with all the swag -"

That was all, but the name of Blitz Bell did not score with Joe Cardona.

He couldn't believe that Blitz had come back to life, nor that the fellow could

have vanished in mysterious style. Besides, Cardona had seen the present contents of Blitz's bag.

A name sprang to Cardona's mind. He actually voiced it:

"The Shadow!"

That explained it! The Shadow had visited these crime lieutenants as Blitz

Bell. He had made the crooks believe that he was Five-face. Cardona didn't know

about the gambling stunt that Five-face used to identify himself; if he had, it

would have strengthened his opinion. The Shadow was clever enough to duplicate any such trick.

Cardona was thinking of something else. If Blitz was not Five-face, who was? Staring groundward, Cardona saw the answer. It came with a flash, as he remembered the Shadow's strange act when the cloaked fighter had suddenly abandoned the rescue of Arnold Melbrun.

HEFTING the importer's body to one side, Cardona yanked open the broken trunk. He tugged at locked compartments and smashed them.

From one came a flood of diamonds: Breddle's. Another disgorged the cash that the financiers had yielded. Cranston's bonds slid in big batches from the third.

As he gathered up those trophies of supercrime, Cardona stared at the dead

criminal. Tense in death, the features of Arnold Melbrun were no longer wholly his own.

His face looked long, gaunt, like Smarley's; wise, like the countenance of

Flush. Its grimacing lips belonged to Barney; yet Cardona saw a smoothness, too,

that reminded him of Fondelac.

To Cardona, The Shadow's triumph had been a stroke of proper justice, wherein the master fighter had let Five-face find his death at the hands of the

very men whom the criminal overlord had sought to double-cross!

Belated on the scene came Commissioner Weston, who had been returning from

a late trip out of town. With him was Lamont Cranston, who had met the commissioner at the Cobalt Club. They heard the facts that Cardona had pieced together. It was amazing how smartly Five-face had played his game.

Smarley's crime had failed, so planned by Melbrun to cover up his real identity. He had succeeded as Flush Tygert, then as Barney Kelm, but in the latter case he had been most clever.

Melbrun hadn't called his office from his home. He had made that call from

a pay booth in the Hotel Clairmont, where he was in the guise of Barney!

As Fondelac, Five-face had been in a dilemma. Cranston had insisted that Melbrun come to the Cobalt Club. But Fondelac could not have met Melbrun, any more than Barney could have.

"You didn't realize what a jam you put him in, Mr. Cranston," said Cardona, turning to the commissioner's friend. "But The Shadow must have checked on it, and guessed the answer. What's more, The Shadow figured that Five-face planned a double cross."

"Quite obvious," observed Cranston, coolly, "considering that The Shadow had identified Melbrun as Five-face. Melbrun had already arranged to leave for South America. The stage was set for him to walk out on his accomplices."

"So The Shadow took over," nodded Cardona. "That business of coming in as Blitz Bell was perfect. What a surprise he rigged on Melbrun! Even then, Melbrun didn't guess it. He thought that his bunch were coming on their own.

When he saw The Shadow, Five-face actually counted on a rescue!"

Cardona was opening a bundle as he spoke. From it, he took a big batch of sorted securities, that bore figures up in the thousands. They added up to more

than half a million dollars, those stocks and bonds that Cardona handed over, with the comment:

"These are yours, Mr. Cranston."

"Thanks, inspector," returned The Shadow, calmly. "I'll put them back in my collection."

"Your collection?" queried Weston. "What collection, Cranston?"

The Shadow's lips showed a Cranston smile.

"My collection of counterfeits," he explained. "Worthless stocks and bonds, from many sources. I was doubtful about Fondelac, commissioner. I thought it best to let him have these, until I found out if his French bonds were genuine."

"Remarkable!" exclaimed Weston. "Remarkable foresight, Cranston!"

REMARKABLE foresight. Cardona agreed with the opinion, as he watched the commissioner and his friend stroll to the official car, with Cranston carelessly carrying the worthless bonds that had been reclaimed from Five-face.

Cardona was wondering if The Shadow had mysteriously warned Cranston to beware of Fondelac. If so, The Shadow must have known much about Five-face, even before he had identified the master crook as Arnold Melbrun.

As Cardona pondered, he heard a parting tone that seemed to quiver in from

outer darkness, beyond the floodlights of the airport. Cardona stared.

He didn't realize that the whispery laugh was from the direction of the commissioner's car, where Cranston had gone on alone, while Weston stopped to talk to the airport authorities.

Cardona recognized it only as the laugh of The Shadow - a singular, mirthless note of triumph from the lips of the master fighter who had turned Five-face over to the double-crossed lieutenants, as their victim, instead of their leader.

Five faces. Four had belonged to Arnold Melbrun; but the fifth - that of Blitz Bell - had been The Shadow's. As the false Fifth Face, The Shadow had actually revealed the true one!

A knell, that mirthless laugh, for Arnold Melbrun and three others who had

been finally trapped together by the design of The Shadow!

THE END