The Garaucan Swindle

CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW SPEAKS

“PROCEED,” ordered Commissioner Wainwright Barth.

“My story,” declared Marrick, in a harsh tone, “begins with the Garaucan bonds. I was swindled when I purchased them. The man who duped me was Sigby Rund.”

“We know this story, commissioner,” interposed Tobias Hildreth. “Why should we allow this criminal to beat about the bush?”

“Hear me out!” stormed Marrick.

Barth nodded as he silenced Hildreth with a wave of his hand.

“I looked for the big mind behind Rund,” proceeded Marrick. “I decided that he must be some one with a reputation. The scheme was one that required millions to begin with. No speculator could have attempted it. I went to the opposite extreme. I picked the most conservative of financiers.”

“Who was he?”

“The man who stands there beside you. Tobias Hildreth!”

“I shall not stand for this, commissioner!” exclaimed Hildreth. “You are in my home. No false accuser can blemish my name within my own walls.”

For once, Wainwright Barth showed remarkable judgment. The reply that he gave to Hildreth would have been worthy of a Solomon.

“You, yourself, have accused Dunwood Marrick,” said the commissioner, as he turned to Hildreth. “You made your accusation in this very room. You cannot deny another the privilege that you took upon yourself. Moreover” — Barth paused for emphasis — “false accusations reflect upon their makers. We shall permit Marrick to continue.”

Hildreth’s face turned purple. The portly banker glowered: first at Barth, then at Marrick. While Hildreth stood suppressing his rage, his niece Claire appeared at the door from the hall. No one noticed her arrival. Marrick had resumed.

“I paid Wally Wilking to investigate,” admitted Marrick. “He tried to worm information from Rudolph Zellwood. He tried to find out facts here.”

“What sort of facts?” quizzed Barth.

“Those pertaining to Garaucan bonds,” responded Marrick. “I believed that Hildreth — if he backed the swindle — would have stuffed his trust funds with those bonds. He had nothing to lose. He could look like a sucker with the rest of us.”

“I protest!” broke in Hildreth. “Commissioner, this man was apprehended in flight. He was carrying away securities that were listed among those stolen from my bank.”

“I bought those securities from Sigby Rund!” retaliated Marrick. “You used him to peddle good stuff along with the bad. I suspected it. That was why I had Wilking steal one of your lists. When I knew that I had bought — a few months ago — bonds that were supposed to be in the vault of your bank, I saw the truth. I knew that you had withdrawn sound securities and replaced them with the phony bonds.

“I needed proof. The bonds incriminated me, not you, Hildreth, after the robbery had been perpetrated. Yet even then I was still blind. I merely wanted to learn if you had any of the South American bonds among your own possessions, so I could challenge any accusation you might make against me.

“Cranston has given you the key, commissioner. He left you with a question unanswered. He knew that I could answer it. He proved that Zellwood could not have passed along the combination of the vault. Some one else must have seen that it reached Dobey Blitz. Who else knew that combination? One man only. That man was Tobias Hildreth, president of the Founders Trust Company!”

THE denunciation was a telling one. Commissioner Barth was sold on Cranston’s statements. This was the answer that he wanted. Quickly, Barth turned to Hildreth. He stared coldly at the portly banker.

“What have you to say?” demanded Barth.

“I never heard of Dobey Blitz,” stormed Hildreth, more purple than before. “I know nothing of him!”

“Jodelle knows him,” put in Marrick, quickly. “Jodelle is in your employ.”

“What is this?” questioned Jodelle, suddenly. “A frame-up?” He pointed to Marrick and Wilking. “We’ve got the goods on these fellows, commissioner. Wilking was the guy who made contact with Blitz. He did it for Marrick.”

“You were the contact man,” accused Marrick. “You, Jodelle, working for Hildreth.”

“Yeah?” jeered the investigator. “Well — who bumped Dobey Blitz? Who was the guy that knew the secret way up to Dobey’s place? Here he is — Wally Wilking. Cardona’s got the gun to prove it.”

“It’s a lie!” shouted Wally, suddenly. “I never knew Dobey Blitz. I never was near his place—”

Joe Cardona was stepping forward. He was ready to settle this point. In his hand he held the death gun.

He thrust it in front of Wally’s eyes.

“That’s your rod, isn’t it?” quizzed Cardona, gruffly. “That’s the .38 you used to bump Dobey Blitz. Remember” — Joe shot in his third degree tactics — “you took a man’s life with this gun, Wilking. You murdered a man in cold blood — a man who trusted you—”

“That’s not my gun!” retorted Wally, wildly. “You say that’s a .38. My gun was a .32. I had it in my pocket when I came here. I pulled it on Hildreth; but I didn’t shoot.”

“That’s the rod I yanked away from Wilking,” asserted Jodelle, pointing to the .38 that Cardona held. “I grabbed it before he had a chance to use it. Markham was here.”

Cardona’s fingers tightened on the death gun. A sudden glow came to the detective’s dark eyes. Joe looked squarely at Jodelle; then wheeled to Markham.

“Say, Markham,” said the ace. “I thought you took the gun from Wilking. You had it when I got here.”

“Jodelle gave it to me,” returned Markham. “He grabbed it away from Wilking. I left him to help Mr. Hildreth. When I came back to Jodelle, he handed me the gat.”

Whirling, Joe Cardona thrust a quick hand to Jodelle’s pocket. Before the investigator could stop him, the detective had snatched forth Jodelle’s revolver. It was a smaller weapon than the one Joe already held.

“A .32,” remarked Cardona. “So that’s what you carry, Jodelle? I thought a guy like you would pack a bigger rod. Where did you get this cap pistol?”

“That’s my gun!” put in Wally Wilking. “Look at the bottom of the handle. You’ll see my initials — W. W.”

“They’re here,” declared Cardona, turning to the police commissioner. “W. W. — like he said. This is Wilking’s gun. Take a look, commissioner.”

Holding the .32 by the barrel, Joe swung the handle toward the desk. It never reached the outstretched hand of Wainwright Barth. Gorton Jodelle shot his arm forward; with a quick grasp he snatched the revolver away from Joe Cardona.

Jodelle had grabbed the gun with his left hand. As he sprang for the door, he transferred the revolver to his right. He was not the only man on the move. Tobias Hildreth’s hand had been creeping toward his pocket. The portly millionaire leaped for the door along with the investigator.

REVOLVERS barked as the two men blazed at their central adversary— Joe Cardona. The sleuth was holding the gun that Jodelle had used to kill Dobey Blitz. Joe aimed with the weapon as he dropped for the cover of the library door. Markham, close beside him, was yanking his own gun.

Bullets whistled wildly. Commissioner Barth had dropped behind the desk. Dunwood Marrick and Wally Wilking went diving to a corner. Claire Hildreth was against the wall, just inside the room. The random shots were entirely between the fugitives and the detectives.

Hildreth reached the hall; Jodelle aimed fiercely as he loosed his fourth shot. The bullet hit an inch from Cardona’s ear. An instant later, Jodelle staggered as Cardona clipped him with a bullet. The investigator, though wounded, plunged after Hildreth.

As Cardona rose to follow in pursuit, a warning cry came from Markham. Joe wheeled along with the detective sergeant. Two men were springing in from the library: Lowdy, the butler and Kerry, the chauffeur. Both were armed with revolvers. The detectives opened fire. They grappled with these new henchmen of Tobias Hildreth.

It was Wainwright Barth who took up the pursuit alone. Dashing into the side hall, pulling a revolver as he ran, the bald-headed commissioner took up the chase. He reached the side door of the house. Hildreth and Jodelle were beyond. Barth flung himself upon the investigator.

Jodelle swung his gun. His fist, not the metal, caught Barth on the chin. The commissioner staggered, groggy. With a snarl, Jodelle aimed his gun to kill. A cry from Hildreth stopped him. The fugitive banker was at the step of a waiting car.

Jodelle wheeled. He saw Hildreth aiming for a figure on the fringe of darkness. A spectral form clad in black — a dread being of whom Jodelle had heard. Blazing eyes — looming automatics — these were the tokens of The Shadow.

Hildreth fired. His shot was wild, for his hand trembled. Snarling, Jodelle aimed with the .32. He pressed the trigger while the gun was on the move. The bullet whistled past the weaving form. Those shots ended opportunity.

Automatics flared as Hildreth tried to press his trigger. Jodelle’s hand also faltered. Tobias Hildreth, archfiend of crime, went tumbling to the cobbles. Gorton Jodelle, his chief lieutenant, toppled, rolled over and lay still.

Commissioner Barth had slumped to the ground. The shots had seemed distant to his dulled ears. When he came to his senses, Barth found Detective Joe Cardona standing over him.

“Good work, commissioner,” the detective was saying. “They’re both dead.”

He stooped to pick up Barth’s gun. Impelled by momentary curiosity, Joe cracked the weapon open. He stared as he saw its complete quota of unshot bullets. Barth, on his feet, was staring at the bodies. He was still half-dazed; he did not understand Cardona’s congratulation.

“You — you killed them!” stammered Barth. “Very commendable, Cardona! Commendable!”

Joe stared into the dark. He knew the truth. The Shadow. Joe had felt sure that the master fighter had been lurking near. Joe knew what The Shadow would want him to say.

“Had to drop them, commissioner,” remarked the detective. “They would have gotten away. But credit goes to you. If they hadn’t stopped to battle with you, I couldn’t have caught up. Come inside, commissioner. Markham and I knocked out those two servants of Hildreth’s. I’m itching to take the bracelets off Marrick and Wilking.”

LESS than an hour afterward, Commissioner Wainwright Barth arrived at the Cobalt Club to find Lamont Cranston. The commissioner was enthusiastic. He clapped the millionaire on the back.

“Do you know, Cranston,” said the commissioner, “you started something by those chance remarks of yours. Too bad you didn’t stay. Dunwood Marrick talked. He accused Tobias Hildreth. It was in the balance, don’t you know, when Gorton Jodelle brought up the murder of Dobey Blitz.

“Cardona was Johnny-on-the-spot. He turned the tables. Made Jodelle the murderer — not Wilking. Then Hildreth and Jodelle tried to run for it. I delayed them. Cardona shot them.”

A smile showed on Lamont Cranston’s lips.

“What about the Garaucan bonds?” he questioned. “Did you find any in Hildreth’s safe?”

“I’ll say we did,” returned Barth. “Plenty of them. Good securities, also — ones on Hildreth’s lists. Stuff he had rifled from the trust funds and was holding. Imagine it, Cranston. The man wasn’t content with the millions that he had grasped. He had to stage that fake robbery to do the insurance company as well.

“But he had taken out all the bonds himself. Good as well as bad. He wouldn’t trust any of them to Dobey Blitz. He must have paid that fellow— through Jodelle — to steal a lot of trash. He and Jodelle must have been worried for fear Cardona would make Dobey talk. That’s why Jodelle paid a friendly visit to Blitz and killed him.”

“Thought I would wait until you came here,” remarked Cranston, as an aftermath to Barth’s statement. “I just learned good news. It will be in the newspapers to-morrow. A friend of mine, a reporter, called me up about it.”

“Something new on Hildreth?” questioned Barth, with a surprised look.

“Indirectly,” responded Cranston. “A cable from Garauca. Our friend, Weston, has arrested all the crooks left over from the Birafel regime. One of them was the representative who came here to New York: Marinez Corlaza.”

“My word! Do you think Weston’s life is safe?”

“Yes. A military junta has been formed under Colonel Daranga. He controls the army; Weston the National Police. Between them, they have quieted all factions.”

With a good-night to the commissioner, Lamont Cranston strolled from the Cobalt Club. The doorman bowed. A limousine drew up. Cranston stepped into his car.

“New Jersey, Stanley,” he said through the speaking tube.

The car rolled southward. The tiny glow of a cigarette in the back seat was indication that the lone passenger was deep in meditation. All was silent, until the soft tones of a whispered laugh crept through the confines of the luxurious limousine.

That laugh was an echo; yet it bore a strange note, heard only by the personage who uttered it. The tones of mirth had a peculiar mocking sound: one that seemed to speak of the past, more than of the future.

Sinister, chilling and subdued in its tone of victory, the laugh faded into nothingness. It carried the satisfaction that its author reserved for nights such as to-night — when the end of a trail had spelled doom to men of crime; when justice had been brought to those who deserved such due.

It was the triumph laugh of The Shadow.