The Green Box

CHAPTER XX TABLES TURN

STACKS of banknotes lay upon packing cases. Piles of bonds and securities formed another pile. A heap of scattered documents were on the floor. Slade Farrow was sorting through this pile while his three threats watched.

They were in the large store room. The gathered spoils brought triumphant grins to the faces of Hawkeye, Tapper and Skeets. Yet the three crooks curbed their eagerness. All decision lay with Slade Farrow, the man whose orders they obeyed.

A bell rang above. Slade Farrow paused in his labor. His face clouded. Hawkeye reached toward his pocket. Farrow shook his head and motioned the little crook to put away his gun.

“It’s Dave and Louie,” decided Farrow. “I told them to keep watch on the main street. They’ve managed to slide away to report. Wait here. I’ll go up.”

The three crooks seated themselves among the spoils after their chief had left. Their confidence in Slade Farrow was absolute. Even Hawkeye did not appear perturbed. The little crook was interested in the stacks of money.

Then footsteps sounded. Apparently, Farrow was returning with Dave and Louie. It was not until the sounds arrived at the door that the three crooks turned in that direction. When they did, they were dumbfounded.

THEY saw the scowling face of Griff, broad-shouldered leader of the Southfield vigilantes. The husky man was armed with a revolver. Beside him were two deputies with rifles. The three crooks were covered.

“Up against the wall,” ordered Griff.

The crooks backed with raised hands. Griff and his men stepped through the door. Farrow, Dave and Louie appeared in single file. They, too, were marched to positions by the wall, controlled by the rifles of other vigilantes.

Police Chief Kerr entered with Norton Granger. The official’s eyes gleamed as they fell upon the spoils. While Griff and his men covered the crooks, Kerr motioned to Granger to aid him in inspecting the recovered pelf.

“So we got you, eh?” Griff was growling, as he covered Farrow with his revolver. “A crook all the time?”

“A crook,” admitted Farrow, “but a clever one. Perhaps you are due to find that out, Griff. My men were after more than money. You should have known that from the start. I’ve learned a lot since that night at the hotel. I may have more to say about where I found—”

“Shut up!” snarled Griff. “One word and I’ll shoot you dead. Trying to pull something, eh? I’ll—”

Chief Kerr had turned quickly. He saw a murderous look on Griff’s face. He spotted a finger on the revolver trigger. He sprang forward to stop the shot.

“Hold it!” The snarl came from Hawkeye, “I’ll plug the first guy that moves!”

The deputies had wavered in their vigilance, due to the sudden words from Police Chief Kerr. Hawkeye, quick as a snake, had whipped out his revolver. He was turning it in a wide circle, to cover all the invaders.

Men were about to drop their rifles. Griff’s hand had lowered; but as Hawkeye’s circling gun muzzle passed him, Griff barked an order that would have succeeded through force of numbers:

“Get them! Shoot them all down!”

A peal of mocking laughter burst through the room. It came like a knell of doom — a terrifying sound that chilled all who heard it. Griff stood petrified, beside the door. His henchmen wavered. Chief Kerr was transfixed; so was Norton Granger.

The prisoners — Farrow and his henchmen — still stood with upraised arms. They had been ready to grab for revolvers, to aid in the futile fight that Hawkeye was ready to begin. Now they stood as helpless as before.

Most marked was the effect upon Hawkeye himself. With the first peals of that laugh, the keen crook quavered. His eyes bulged; his lips twisted. The revolver dropped from his shaking hand. It clattered upon the floor.

Hawkeye knew the author of that laugh. Like an echo from the past, the weird tones of The Shadow’s mirth had cowered the little crook.

WHILE his hidden lips were uttering the eerie mockery, The Shadow had swept into view from the door of the inner store room. His tall black form cast an ominous splotch across the floor — a broad streak of black that covered the mass of wealth in the center of the room.

His burning eyes brought terror to those who met them. His mighty automatics, one clutched in each black-gloved fist, were weapons that none dared defy. To every observer, it seemed as though a tunneled muzzle was gaping in his direction.

Hawkeye and his quickly drawn revolver were as nothing to the menace of this mighty figure whose shuddering laughter still persisted as ghoulish, dying echoes. Like a thing from the beyond, The Shadow had awakened unforgettable terror.

Motionless, The Shadow waited, amid grim silence. The atmosphere became more tense. The laugh came again, this time as a sinister whisper. Police Chief Kerr was standing dumbfounded; all others showed drawn, worried faces, with one exception.

That one was Slade Farrow. The ex-convict who had launched crime in Southfield was calmly waiting. He, of all those in this room, might most have dreaded The Shadow’s presence. Supercrooks had quailed at sight of the master from the night.

Yet Farrow’s face betrayed no fear, even as his eyes met the blazing orbs of The Shadow. Caught with the goods, trapped by the superfighter who battled crime with unrelenting fury, Slade Farrow was displaying amazing self-reserve.

The Shadow’s eyes turned squarely toward Police Chief Kerr. The Shadow had picked this official as the one to receive his order. A stern pronouncement came in The Shadow’s whisper — a sibilant tone that hissed:

“Let Slade Farrow speak!”