The Killer

CHAPTER XVIII THE CAPTURE

“HAVE a cigar,” offered Donald Gershawl.

“No, thanks,” returned Harland Mullrick, suddenly withdrawing his hand after starting to reach toward the box. “I’ve a lot of important business on my mind. I want to talk with you about it, Mr. Gershawl.”

“Business,” smiled the financier, “invariably interests me. To what form of business do you refer.”

“To Mexico,” declared Mullrick abruptly. “To the lost mines of Durango. I’m dealing straight with you, Mr. Gershawl. I hold an option that depends upon the locating of the mines. I believe that you know exactly where they lie.”

“It has been long since I was in Durango,” remarked Gershawl, in a reminiscent tone. “Not since the days of the Diaz regime. It seems odd that you should come to me for such information.”

“The mines have not been traceable,” returned Mullrick, “since followers of Pancho Villa slaughtered the guards who had remained on watch after Porfirio Diaz was ousted from the Mexican presidency.”

“Probably so,” mused Gershawl. “Nevertheless” — his voice assumed a significant tone — “I am surprised that you should come to me in preference to others who might know more regarding Mexico. Particularly if you expect to buy information cheaply. I am a man of considerable wealth, Mr. Mullrick. I have no great interest in speculative enterprises. Are there no other persons whom you might see regarding this matter?”

“There were others,” answered Mullrick solemnly, “but they are dead.”

“Dead?” echoed Gershawl

“Murdered,” said Mullrick.

“Murdered!” exclaimed Gershawl, in a tone of horror. “By whom?”

“I think,” retorted Mullrick, “that you can answer that question as readily as I. Let us forget the men who have died. My proposition is simply this: You, alone, can give me the final information that I require. You, alone, can make trouble for my plans. I want to talk terms with you.”

Gershawl shrugged his shoulders. He acted as though he could not understand what Mullrick meant. He shook his head in wondering fashion.

“I am afraid, Mr. Mullrick,” he decided, “that your ideas are very vague. Whatever I may know about Mexico — particularly the state of Durango — can be of no interest to you. Suppose we terminate this interview.”

With a wave of his hand, the financier indicated the hat and coat that were lying on the stand. Harland Mullrick glared sullenly. Finally, he turned and picked up his garments. He put on his coat; then placed his hat upon his head. As a matter of habit, he set the fedora at an angle.

MULLRICK was but a few yards from the curtain. His back was toward that spot. Joe Cardona, peering forth, studied Mullrick’s form, which was turned slightly in his direction. The detective was positive that this was the man who had been seen on the three occasions where sudden death had struck. Cardona drew his revolver and crouched forward.

Mullrick was glowering at Gershawl. Suddenly, he burst forth in a storm of bitter words.

“You know about those Durango mines!” he cried. “You are stalling me, because you want my plans to fail. You think that you can pick up where I leave off. I’ve tried to deal fairly with you before, Gershawl. I’ve come here to learn something, and I’ll find it out—”

Mullrick’s right hand was away from Gershawl’s view. It dropped to the pocket of the overcoat. With a quick movement, Mullrick started to draw a revolver from his pocket.

Cardona saw the flash of the weapon. Like a shot, the detective sprang forward. Before Mullrick could turn, Cardona had planted the muzzle of his own revolver in the middle of the man’s back.

“Drop that gun!” ordered the detective.

Mullrick’s hand came from his pocket, the revolver slipping from his fingers. Then, apparently frantic, Mullrick swung upon his adversary and boldly tried to throw Cardona to the floor.

The detective did not fire. He battled grimly as Mullrick’s hands clutched at his throat. Breaking loose with his right arm, Cardona swung a blow at the gray hat.

The stroke was a glancing one. It filled its purpose, nevertheless. Harland Mullrick staggered, sprawled flat, and rolled over on the floor. His own revolver flew from his pocket and clattered against a chair. As the man tried to rise, Cardona pounced upon him.

Two servants had arrived at Gershawl’s call. They were hurrying forward to help Cardona. The detective waved them away. Mullrick, half stunned, was no longer a menace.

Cardona rolled the fellow over on his back. He stood looking at Mullrick’s face. He reached down and picked up the fedora, which had plopped from the stunned man’s head.

“No trouble now,” remarked Cardona, as he picked up Mullrick’s revolver. “I’ll call up headquarters and get some men over here. We’ll find out what this fellow knows about murder.”

“Suppose,” suggested Gershawl, with a pleased smile, “that I call the police commissioner and tell him what has happened. That will give you an opportunity to speak with him, and gain the credit that you deserve.”

“All right,” agreed Cardona, with a broad grin. “That isn’t a bad idea at all.”

Donald Gershawl had struck a real accord with Joe Cardona. The detective liked to gain Commissioner Weston’s commendation. This telephoned communication would prove much better than an ordinary report through headquarters

GERSHAWL picked up a telephone. He called the commissioner’s number. Carefully, briefly, he explained exactly what had happened. His last remark was particularly suitable to Cardona.

“Your headquarters man,” concluded Gershawl, “is watching his prisoner now. The prisoner is only partly conscious; I shall let Detective Cardona speak with you.”

Holding his gun with his right hand, Cardona took the desk telephone in his left. He recognized the voice of Commissioner Ralph Weston. In return, he corroborated all that Donald Gershawl had said.

“We’ve got the murderer,” asserted Cardona. “As soon as the squad gets over from headquarters, we’ll take him down there. Say — Mr. Gershawl deserves plenty of credit. He just stood there and waited while this fellow Mullrick was trying to draw a gun on him.”

Cardona clicked the hook. While he was waiting for the connection to detective headquarters, he made a suggestion to Donald Gershawl.

“Better call the watchman,” he said. “Maybe this fellow’s pals are outside, waiting for him to show up. Slugs Raffney and that crew—”

“The watchman is all right,” returned Gershawl. “No one can get in while he is here. He will let me know when the headquarters men announce themselves.”

“O.K.,” agreed Cardona. “I’m telling the squad to surround this building and pick up anyone that looks suspicious. They’ll nab Slugs Raffney if he’s hanging around below.”

DONALD GERSHAWL’S confidence in the watchman’s security would have been less sure had the millionaire been able to see to the anteroom below. While Gershawl and Cardona were talking in the penthouse, the watchman, six hundred feet beneath, was answering a ring at the metal door.

When he opened the wicket, the watchman found himself staring into the looming muzzle of an automatic. Above the threatening gun were two burning eyes. From invisible lips came the hissed command:

“Open the door!”

Ordinarily, the watchman would have leaped back and slammed the wicket. The stern command, however, rendered him helpless. He had heard the sinister sound of The Shadow’s voice. Before the watchman could recover, he knew that he could do nothing but obey.

Backing away, with hands raised, the watchman saw the gun muzzle turn to cover him. He knew that death would be imminent should he attempt to act against the injunction. Reaching the side wall, he pulled the lever that opened the door.

The moving barrier, swinging inward, gave the watchman an opportunity. The big fellow was covered for the moment; quickly, he whipped a revolver from his pocket and leaped forward to meet the enemy. His finger was on the trigger, yet he never fired that shot.

Like a solid chunk of blackness issuing from the folds of night, The Shadow was there to met his adversary. His sweeping left arm sent the revolver flying from the watchman’s grasp. His right hand, swinging its automatic, dealt a blow which staggered the guardian of the anteroom.

As the big man sank to the floor, The Shadow pressed the lever that closed the metal door. A spectral laugh echoed through the vaulted anteroom. Its hollow, metallic reverberations persisted while The Shadow crossed and signaled for the elevator.

Air swished from the door of the shaft. The barriers slid apart. The elevator operator, armed with a revolver, was in readiness. The unexpected summons had placed him on his guard. The preparation, however, was to no avail. Appearing with sudden unexpectedness, The Shadow fell upon the operator at the door of the elevator. The man went down without a cry.

The Shadow swiftly bound the watchman, using the fellow’s belt to hold his hands and feet together in a hopeless position, from which he could not escape. The man was still groggy. He had not even seen the phantom who had overpowered him.

With the operator still lying on the floor of the elevator, The Shadow closed the door and started the mechanism. The car rose speedily to the top of the shaft.

There, with a soft laugh that sounded only within the metal walls of the elevator, The Shadow raised the inert form of the stalwart operator. Propping the man beside the lever that drove the car, The Shadow stood behind him; then pressed the switch to open the doors.

THE husky who guarded the waiting room was standing directly in front of the doors. He was holding a revolver. He, too, had suspected that something might be wrong. As the doors opened, all that this man saw was the figure of the operator. The guard lowered his gun. Instantly, the form of the operator toppled forward. From behind the man’s body leaped a mass of blackness. Spectral to behold, but solid as rock in form, The Shadow fell upon the man with the gun.

He caught the fellow off guard. Like the two before him, this man went down without realizing what had struck him.

The Shadow’s next operation was a swift one. He stepped aboard the elevator; without closing the doors, he lowered the car three feet.

Climbing out upon the floor, he picked up the-operator and thrust the man’s body atop the elevator. He performed the same action with the stunned guard. Dropping down into the car, he raised it to a level with the floor. He emerged and closed the doors with his black-gloved hands.

Trapped between the top of the elevator and the ceiling of the shaft, the two men could not possibly escape. The Shadow had lost no further time by waiting to bind them. Automatics appeared in his black fists as he opened the heavy door and strode into the penthouse.

The Shadow reached the door of Donald Gershawl’s living room. One automatic went beneath his cloak. His free hand turned the knob and softly opened the door a full inch inward. With his automatic wedged against the crevice, The Shadow studied the scene within the living room.

Swiftly, like a messenger from another world, The Shadow had conquered the guardians of Donald Gershawl’s lofty abode. A creature of the night, unseen, unheard, he was here to watch what next might happen.

As he watched, The Shadow, with his huge automatic ready, held all before him at his mercy!