The London Crimes

CHAPTER XXII. THE FINAL VERDICT

HARRY VINCENT’S brain was drumming. Grim doubt had seized him at this moment. Through his mind was passing a whirl of confusion that produced ill thoughts. No matter what the outcome, he saw trouble.

It was possible that The Shadow had met with evil; that The Harvester had donned the role of Lamont Cranston.

Yet that seemed incredible. Harry felt sure that such circumstance could not exist.

This was The Shadow, this visitor who wore the guise of Cranston. That fact, however, made the situation even more alarming to Harry. He knew The Shadow’s ways. To cope with such crooks as The Harvester, The Shadow, too, was forced to bury his identity.

To prove that he was not The Harvester would be a task. For The Shadow— as Harry well knew — had veiled his own whereabouts during the past night and day. Others had come through with alibis. The Shadow could not.

To Harry’s ears came fateful words. Justin Craybaw, looming above the desk, was pouring forth words that bespoke a righteous indignation. Past accusations forgotten, the managing director of Rudlow’s was summing a new theory that made all others fade.

“You, Cranston, are the one who entered unforeseen,” denounced Craybaw. “It was at your apartment that Captain Darryat was slain. Some tool of yours masqueraded as Sir Ernest, to add strength to your claims. But you were The Harvester!

“You disposed of Darryat, whom you no longer needed, for he had blundered and made the game unsafe. As a man who had been threatened, you took up the work yourself. You gained close contact with every one concerned.”

“Right!” exclaimed Sidney Lewsham. Then, turning about: “Remember, Delka, how Cranston went with you to visit Selbrock and the rajah?”

Delka was weak. He could not even nod. He had trusted Lamont Cranston, believing him to be identified with The Shadow.

“Last night you came here!” roared Craybaw. “You saw your way clear to deal a cunning stroke! You started back to London; but you did not go there. Instead, you called your henchmen. You waylaid me, with Cuthbert, upon the road to Hayward’s Heath!

“You, alone, knew that I was bound there. Returning, you took my place. That masklike face of yours” — Craybaw leaned forward to eye The Shadow closely — “is one well suited to disguise.

“And yet you failed.” Craybaw’s face was fixed in a grim smile. “Trapped in this terrain, you were forced to emergency measures, once you had finished your impersonation of myself. Boldly, you walked into this house, pretending that you had been on a walking trip past Tunbridge Wells.

“You are The Harvester. I defy you to deny it! You remained unseen, unheard of, from the time that you left this house. Forced to disappear that you might pass yourself as me. Tonight, bold to the finish, you have stood by in hope that others would be denounced. All have proven alibis — except yourself.”

Pausing, Craybaw wagged his finger with finality.

“There,” he asserted, firmly, “stands The Harvester!”

SCOTLAND YARD men closed in, covering The Shadow with their revolvers. Sidney Lewsham, inspired by one last possibility, turned to Harry Vincent.

“When did Cranston call you?” asked the chief constable.

“At midnight,” replied Harry, “from Charing Cross.”

“That call was from here,” accused Craybaw. He turned to Sir Ernest. “At what hour did you and the others retire?”

“At half past eleven,” replied Sir Ernest. “Am I not correct, Chief Lewsham?”

“You are.” Lewsham turned to Delka. “Inspector, this man Cranston is The Harvester. All doubt is ended.”

Delka arose. He knew that it would be his duty to remove the prisoner to Scotland Yard.

“Wait.”

The Shadow spoke quietly, despite the four gun muzzles that were jabbing his ribs, beside the knapsack which he still wore. The firmness of his tone brought a pause.

“I am not The Harvester.” The Shadow spoke directly to Lewsham. “I demand the right to furnish my proof to the contrary.”

“Later. At headquarters.”

“The proof lies here.”

Lewsham looked startled. Then, with challenge, he ordered:

“Produce it.”

The Shadow turned to Justin Craybaw.

“Before your abduction,” he told the managing director, “we entered this study. That was prior to my departure for High Brooms, in the car with Cuthbert. Do you remember it?”

“Certainly,” acknowledged Craybaw.

Sir Ernest and Lewsham nodded their corroboration.

“While we were here alone,” affirmed The Shadow, seriously, “I gave you a sealed envelope. I asked you to keep it for me, Craybaw. You opened the safe” — The Shadow nodded toward the corner — “and placed the envelope somewhere therein.”

“This is outrageous!” ejaculated Craybaw, to Lewsham. “This rogue gave me no envelope!”

“You said something about a filing box,” recalled The Shadow. “I think that you said you would place the envelope in it. This matter is important. Surely, Craybaw, you have not forgotten the envelope?”

Craybaw spluttered. The Shadow turned to appeal to Lewsham. The chief constable, anxious to end the matter, put a demand to Craybaw.

“Have you a filing box in the safe?” he asked.

“Of course!” returned Craybaw. “Every safe of this type has filing boxes supplied with it. There are several in my safe.”

“Then one must hold the envelope,” assured The Shadow. “You locked the safe afterward, Craybaw.”

“Let us settle this,” decided Lewsham. “Open the safe, Craybaw. We shall examine the filing boxes.”

CRAYBAW arose reluctantly. He went to the corner, motioned others away and turned the combination of the safe. The steel door opened. Craybaw picked out filing boxes and handed them to Lewsham.

Standing in front of the opened safe, he awaited the return of the boxes. His lips showed assurance that none would contain the envelope.

The Shadow was watching Sidney Lewsham. He spoke when the chief constable was examining the papers in one filing box. Lewsham’s fingers were upon an envelope.

“That is the envelope,” remarked The Shadow, quietly. “Open it, Chief Lewsham. Read the message within it.”

Craybaw stepped forward indignantly. He stared at The Shadow, then eyed the envelope.

“Another hoax,” he snorted. “Do not be tricked, Chief Lewsham. This man Cranston — The Harvester — did not give me that envelope.”

The Shadow had turned his eyes toward Delka. The Scotland Yard inspector noted a singular keenness in the gaze.

“Look in the safe,” suggested The Shadow. “Examine those packages in the back corner at the bottom—”

Delka hesitated; then realizing that he was not needed to cover the prisoner, he stepped toward the safe.

Justin Craybaw had caught the words; he spun about to make a protest. Lewsham, meanwhile, had ripped open the envelope and was reading the first lines of an unfolded paper.

“Away from there, Delka—”

As Craybaw cried the words, Lewsham sprang to his feet. Paper in left hand, he whipped out a revolver with his right. He covered Craybaw point blank.

“Proceed, Delka!” snapped Lewsham. “Craybaw, stand as you are!”

Delka had gained the packages. Loose paper wrapping fell away. The investigator’s eyes were popping as crisp bank notes tumbled from their stacks.

“The money!” gasped Delka. “All of it! The Harvester’s swag! Here, in the safe—”

“Where Craybaw placed it,” added The Shadow, “while you and Sir Ernest were in the living room.”

Lewsham had barked a new command. Scotland Yard men turned their revolvers toward Craybaw. The Shadow stepped away, no longer covered. As his men closed in on Justin Craybaw, Lewsham passed the paper to Sir Ernest, who read its words aloud.

“‘Justin Craybaw is The Harvester,’” read Sir Ernest. “‘His game is to feign his own abduction. He and his chauffeur will be seized; but he will return. Tomorrow, he will leave his office, carrying funds that are in his keeping.’

“‘He will reveal himself after his return, pretending that he is an impostor. He will take to flight, carrying a bag of worthless papers. He will be found, a prisoner, to prove his innocence.’

“‘His spoils, which he will trust to himself alone, will be found within this safe. The money will prove that Justin Craybaw is The Harvester.’”

SIR ERNEST dropped the paper. He stared incredulously at The Shadow.

“How did you guess this?” he queried. “Why did you not inform us of this ruse, last night?”

“It was guesswork,” replied The Shadow, “inspired by my observation of Craybaw and his anxiety to set out for Hayward’s Heath.”

“Then you were not positive?”

“Not quite. I chose to leave the envelope for future reference. I could not condemn a man until his guilt was proven.”

Justin Craybaw was glaring from the wall. He knew that The Shadow must have entered here to-day, to place the envelope in the safe. But his denial of The Shadow’s statements would have served him naught.

Instead of such procedure, Craybaw snarled his known guilt.

“Yes, I am The Harvester,” he sneered. “I disguised myself as others; so why not as myself? I let my men fake an abduction, so that Cuthbert would testify that it was genuine.

“I came back. I acted oddly for your benefit.” He glared from Sir Ernest to Sidney Lewsham. “I wanted you to believe afterward that I had been kidnapped on that trip to Hayward’s Heath. That an impostor had come here in my stead. Then this morning—”

“You made the mistake of shaving,” interposed The Shadow. “Odd that no one noticed it tonight.”

Cuthbert, in the corner, rubbed his stubbly chin and blurted a surprised cry. The others realized that they had missed a perfect clue. It was proof, in itself, of Craybaw’s ruse. His beard had not begun to grow during his supposed imprisonment.

“We know the rest,” snapped Lewsham, angered by his own slip of previous observation. “You went to your offices and behaved oddly there. You refused to sign a receipt; as you had refused to sign letters last night, when Hervey brought them to you.”

“All part of the game,” smiled The Shadow, “to build up your illusion that The Harvester must be some one other than Craybaw.”

“And you came out here with Delka and myself!” exclaimed Sir Ernest, facing Craybaw. “You had Hervey bring in the bag. In this study you transferred the money to the safe—”

“And put some form letters into the bag,” interposed The Shadow. “One bundle of them; after that, two bundles of pink blanks; then one of green, to add the final weight—”

He stopped. Craybaw was staring in astonishment. So was Sir Ernest.

“I chanced to be close by,” remarked The Shadow. “I came into the house and watched the operation from outside this door. You see, Sir Ernest, I was concerned about your money. That was why I took a walking trip to-day, so that I might make positive that Craybaw — if he gained the funds — would place the money here in the safe.”

Eric Delka, too, was staring. He realized, at last, that Lamont Cranston was the rescuer who had come out to the conservatory. He saw also that Justin Craybaw’s escape had been permitted by that rescuer.

Delka was right. Once Craybaw had deposited the money, The Shadow had preferred to let him flee.

Not only had that process exposed the full game, it had also assured Cuthbert’s safe release. For Craybaw needed the honest chauffeur as an alibi witness.

Moreover, it had given Scotland Yard a chance to deal with those ruffians who had occupied the cottage. Knowing the ways of Justin Craybaw, alias The Harvester, The Shadow had divined that he would sacrifice his last henchmen to the law.

MEN were moving from the study, at Sidney Lewsham’s order. All were to leave except those who represented the law. Delka had bundled up the money. He was coming along with Sir Ernest Jennup.

Justin Craybaw snarled a parting as he stood guarded.

“You’ll find the pigskin bag in the well behind the cottage,” he sneered. “Covered with a blanketing of stones, that we threw down after it.”

Delka grinned.

“Cheeky chap,” he remarked. “Bold to the finish.”

“Quite,” rejoined Sir Ernest.

Harry Vincent and others had followed; all were going to the living room. The Shadow did the same; but while the crowd was clustering about the money, he strolled through the doorway to the darkened conservatory.

From there, he saw the Rajah of Delapore, Lionel Selbrock and Jed Ranworthy, exchanging congratulations in the living room. Dawson Canonby was apologizing to the rajah. Thaddeus Blessingwood was helping Sir Ernest Jennup count the recovered bank notes.

In the darkness of the conservatory, The Shadow opened his knapsack. Laying it aside with the walking stick, he donned his cloak and slouch hat. Peering from darkness, he saw Sidney Lewsham and a squad of Scotland Yard men conducting Justin Craybaw out through the front hallway.

The Shadow waited; then stole softly forward, to the front door of the conservatory. From that vantage point, he heard voices about the cars out front. The Harvester was being thrust aboard an automobile.

Then came a snarl that only Justin Craybaw could have uttered. Shouts from the C.I.D. men; a high-pitched call from Craybaw as he scrambled free from captors. Before the Scotland Yard men could down him on the gravel, shots echoed from the trees past the house.

The Harvester had ordered reserves to be present here tonight. Thugs down from London, they were ready. As their guns flashed, they came charging forward. Scotland Yard men dropped to cover.

Massed foemen ripped to the attack.

The Shadow had drawn automatics. With pumping jabs, he opened a flank fire. Fierce shouts changed to wild yells as The Harvester’s crew received the fierce barrage. Figures tumbled to the turf, while others scattered.

Flashlights gleamed. Gaining their torches, ready with their guns, the C.I.D. men swooped upon the spreading crooks. Lewsham shouted orders. Two of his men — Turning and Burleigh — had grabbed Craybaw and were dragging him, writhing, into the house.

The law had gained the edge. Turning, The Shadow moved back through the conservatory. There, he heard a shout from the front hallway. Thudding sounds as overpowered men sprawled to the floor. Then, into the living room, came The Harvester.

With final frenzy, Craybaw had thrown off Burleigh, gaining the man’s gun. He had slugged Tunning.

Free, he was leaving the outside battle to his henchmen, while he dashed in, alone, upon the men in the living room.

DESPITE their number, The Harvester was not facing odds. Only one man was armed. That one was Eric Delka.

While others dropped for cover of chairs and tables, Delka whipped out his revolver. One hand against the table where the money was stacked, the Scotland Yard investigator was making a belated draw. The Harvester, gun already aiming, could have dropped him where he stood.

A laugh changed Craybaw’s aim. It came from within the door to the conservatory. Its fierce burst made The Harvester swing in that direction. Upon the threshold, Craybaw saw The Shadow. In a trice, the master crook recognized that this must be a guise of the supersleuth who had unmasked him.

The Shadow, too, was aiming. His cloaked shoulders dipped as he pressed the trigger of an automatic.

Craybaw, his hand moving, fired simultaneously. Tongues of flame stabbed across the room. A snarl came from Craybaw as his right hand drooped. A crash of glass resounded from beyond The Shadow.

The cloaked fighter had clipped The Harvester’s wrist. Craybaw’s bullet, singing past The Shadow’s shoulder, had ruined another pane of glass in the much-damaged conservatory.

Despite his wound, Craybaw rallied. Dropping back, he tried to aim again. Then, springing in his path came Eric Delka, snapping the trigger of his revolver. Flame thrusts withered the murderous Harvester, thanks to the bullets that issued with them. Delka, with other lives at stake, had taken no chances.

The Shadow, ready with new aim, could have dropped Craybaw but for Delka’s intervention. Wisely, he stayed his trigger finger when the Scotland Yard man blocked his path. From the doorway, he saw Delka stop short; then stoop above the caved body of Justin Craybaw.

The Harvester was dead.

Harry Vincent, first to stare toward the door to the conservatory, was the only one who caught a fleeting glimpse of a vanishing form in black. But others, wondering, heard the sound that followed — a strange, uncanny tone that crept in from the night.

Shots had ceased about the house — for the law had won the outside battle. The Harvester was dead; that sound, despite its taunting echoes, might have been a knell. It was a strident, eerie peal of mirth that rose to shivering crescendo, then faded as though passing into some sphere that was unearthly.

The triumph laugh of The Shadow. The mirth of the departing victor, who had dealt with his insidious foe, The Harvester. To The Shadow belonged the last laugh.