The London Crimes

CHAPTER V. THE COUNTERTHRUST

AT precisely ten minutes before nine, Captain Richard Darryat strolled from the subdued glow of St. James Street and arrived at the entrance of the Moravia Apartments. The evening was mild and mellow; Darryat, fashionably attired, looked like a usual habitue of this section where exclusive clubs flourish.

Ascending the steps of the Moravia, Darryat was impressed by the fact that the place had changed but little since the days when it had housed the old Manor Club. The same exclusive atmosphere pervaded the squatty, stone-fronted structure. It was necessary to ring the bell in order to gain admittance.

A uniformed attendant answered Darryat’s ring. He asked for the visitor’s card. Darryat proffered it. The flunky bowed and conducted Darryat through a mammoth hallway, to an automatic elevator.

“Mr. Cranston awaits your arrival, sir,” stated the attendant. “His apartment is on the third floor. Its letter is D. Are you acquainted with this type of lift, sir?”

“Quite,” returned Darryat, studying the buttons of the automatic elevator. “I shall proceed to the third floor.”

Hardly had the door of the elevator closed before a man emerged from the darkness of a side room. It was Eric Delka; he had seen Darryat’s entry. Tensely, the investigator gave instructions to the flunky.

“That is the man,” whispered Delka. “Remember: From this minute on, you are to signal if any stranger seeks admittance.”

The servant bowed his understanding. He went his way along the hall, while Delka returned to the hiding-place. There he spoke to men who were stationed with him.

“Old Twambley had good eyesight,” commented Delka, in a tone of approval. “It’s lucky he saw that chap standing outside here this afternoon. He guessed correctly when he thought, it was Dabley, alias Bildon.”

“Which name is the rogue using tonight?” came the query.

“Neither,” returned Delka, studying the card. The flunky had given it to him. “He is employing a new alias. He calls himself Captain Richard Darryat. He is bound for Apartment D, on the third floor, to meet a gentleman named Cranston.”

“Shall we follow?”

“No.” Delka chuckled. “We shall remain here for a short while. Where Darryat appears, The Harvester will follow. It is best to bide our time.”

THERE was reason for Delka’s chuckle. For the first time, the investigator had learned that a man named Lamont Cranston was residing at the Moravia; that it was he upon whom Darryat was calling. Delka remembered the name of Cranston from the past. He knew that there was some connection between Cranston and The Shadow.

Not for one moment did Delka suppose that Cranston and The Shadow were one. The Shadow’s brief appearance in the role of Phineas Twambley had thrown Delka from the track.

Delka thought of Cranston as an adventurous American millionaire; one well qualified to take care of himself in emergency. He believed that The Shadow occasionally shunted desperate characters in Cranston’s direction, after due warning to the millionaire. Hence Darryat, alone, did not strike Delka as a threat.

A ring of the doorbell caused Delka to peer out into the hall. He saw the flunky admit a wan, droopy-faced man who nodded and went to the lift. The attendant returned to answer another ring at the door. This time, he admitted a stoop-shouldered man who was carrying a large cane and wearing a heavy overcoat.

Delka caught sight of a face that was conspicuous because of a brown Vandyke beard. The flunky conducted the new visitor to the lift, and pressed the button for its descent. The man with the Vandyke entered and went upward.

The attendant started back toward the door, making a motion with his hand. Delka sneaked out and intercepted him. The flunky spoke.

“Thought I’d better report, sir,” he stated, solemnly. The first gentleman to enter was Mr. Rufus Holmes, who lodges in Apartment A on the fourth floor. The second was Sir Ernest Jennup.”

“He resides here?” queried Delka.

“No, sir,” was the reply, “but he calls occasionally, upon the Honorable Raymond Fellow, whose apartment is on the second floor. I deemed that it would be quite right to admit Sir Ernest without question. The Honorable Mr. Fellow is at present in his apartment.”

“Quite all right,” agreed Delka. “Carry on.”

With that, the investigator returned to the side room while the servant took his place near the outer door.

MEANWHILE, Captain Darryat had gained a cordial reception at Apartment D, on the third floor. His knock had gained him a prompt admittance. He had come face to face with a tall, hawk-faced occupant who was attired in dressing gown.

His host had announced himself as Lamont Cranston. Richard Darryat had accepted the invitation to lay aside his coat, hat and walking stick. He had accepted an expensive panetela which Cranston proffered him.

Both men were seated and were smoking their thin cigars. Cranston, though an American, seemed to have acquired the reserve of a Britisher, for his opening conversation was stilted and formal.

Darryat, eyeing him closely, was impressed by a keenness which persisted despite Cranston’s languor.

Somehow, Cranston reminded him of some one whom he had met before; Darryat could not recall whom. He did not grasp the truth: namely, that this personage who now passed as Cranston had been both Wadkins and Dobbingsworth. Such was the capability of The Shadow’s disguises.

“So Dobbingsworth sent you here,” remarked The Shadow, in a calm, leisurely tone that fitted the guise of Cranston. “His note indicated that you wished to speak to me regarding the Montana silver stock. Do I understand, captain, that you wish to buy some shares?”

“I would like to invest in Topoco Mines,” nodded Darryat. “From any one who has such securities.”

“Unfortunately,” declared The Shadow, “my holdings are not for sale.”

“I doubt that I would buy them if they were,” returned Darryat. “That is why I have come here, Mr. Cranston.”

The Shadow feigned a puzzled expression. Darryat shook his head dubiously and leaned forward in his chair.

“To be frank, Mr. Cranston,” he stated, “I have ventured here on a sad errand. It is my painful duty to inform you that your mining stock is spurious.”

The Shadow stared, apparently startled.

“You understand, of course,” added Darryat, “that such is my opinion. I saw the remaining shares that Wadkins had to offer. I have learned, for a fact, that Wadkins has left London.”

“His office is closed?”

“Yes. Under the pretext that his work is finished. His work, however, was illegitimate. If you would let me glance at that stock, Mr. Cranston—”

“Certainly.”

Reaching to a heavy table, The Shadow pulled open a drawer and produced the stock in question. He handed the bundle to Darryat. The pretended captain gave it close scrutiny; then shook his head.

“I doubt the stock’s authenticity,” he declared. “Quite sorry, old chap, but I am familiar with this sort of thing. However, I do not wish you to go upon my opinion alone. I hope to help you; and I took the liberty of inviting a friend here for that purpose.”

“A friend?” queried The Shadow.

“Yes,” nodded Darryat. “Sir Ernest Jennup, the well-known banker. Of course you have heard of him; he has offices on Lombard Street.”

“I have met him,” recalled The Shadow. “A stoop-shouldered man, past middle age, with a Vandyke beard and—”

“You have described him precisely.” Darryat glanced at his watch. “Since Sir Ernest should be here, shortly, I left word with the doorkeeper to invite him up here immediately upon his arrival.”

“Of course. I shall be glad to hear Sir Ernest’s opinion. A chat with him will be quite in order.”

“He will probably suggest that you place the securities in his custody, that he may have them examined by experts who are competent at detecting forgeries.”

“An excellent suggestion.”

Hardly had Darryat spoken before a rap sounded at the door. The fake captain spoke in an eager whisper.

“It is Sir Ernest!”

THE SHADOW arose leisurely and strolled toward the door to answer the knock. Before he was halfway there, the rap was repeated — this time in sharp rat-tat fashion, two strokes at a time.

As The Shadow advanced, a sudden hiss came from behind him. He turned to stare at Darryat. The crook had brought a revolver from his pocket.

Darryat was leveling the weapon with his right hand, while his left clutched the mining stock. In harsh whisper, Darryat delivered a command.

“Stop where you are!”

The Shadow paused; his hands half lifted, his face showing perplexed concern. Approaching, Darryat sneered.

“The game is up, Cranston,” he stated. “That man outside the door is not Sir Ernest Jennup. He is a gentleman whom Scotland Yard has chosen to call The Harvester. He is the chief whom I serve.”

The Shadow’s face registered bewilderment. Hands rising further, he was backing to the wall beside the door.

“We came here to make you our dupe,” jeered Darryat. “We would easily have succeeded. However, this afternoon I chanced to spy a Scotland Yard investigator: one, Eric Delka. I informed The Harvester. He said to be ready for emergency.”

“That second rap, delivered in double, repeated fashion, is my chief’s signal. It means that Scotland Yard has meddled. We cannot risk the time that we would need to properly induce you to turn over your securities.”

Again came the repeated rap. Thrusting the mining stock into his pocket, Darryat sidled to the door; there he gripped the knob with his left hand, while he still kept The Shadow covered with his gun.

“It shall have to be crudely done,” was Darryat’s final jeer. “By seizure, not by strategy. Those Scotland Yard men may be waiting for us. So we will coax them from their nests by starting a rampage. Too bad for you, Cranston; but murder is part of our game, when necessary—”

Darryat had turned the knob and was drawing the door inward. He moved back to admit The Harvester; and in that moment of confidence, Darryat let his right hand turn slightly. In a split-second, The Shadow’s languid resignment faded. He remained Cranston in appearance, only; not in action.

THE SHADOW’S long body shot forward with arrowlike rapidity. His left hand shot for Darryat’s right wrist. His right sped to a deep, inner left pocket of his dressing gown.

Darryat tried to leap away; to aim as he did so. He was too late. A viselike fist caught the scoundrel’s wrist. Darryat was whirled about like a helpless puppet.

The crook tugged at the trigger of his gun. His hand, twisted sidewise, no longer held its aim. Spurting flames spat toward the ceiling, where useless bullets found their only target. The Shadow, swinging clear about, had gained the center of the room. Darryat, twisted double by the jujutsu hold, was in his clutch, between The Shadow and the door.

The barrier had swung wide. There, upon the threshold was the figure of a bearded man, stooped no longer. The Harvester still had the facial guise of Sir Ernest Jennup; but be had dropped the pose of the banker whom he was impersonating.

Hissed oaths were coming from the lips that wore the false Vandyke. Savagely, with glaring eyes, the master crook was aiming a revolver of his own.

The Shadow, in turn, had whipped out an automatic with his right fist, while his left hand had hurled Darryat into many gyrations. Sidestepping across the floor with Darryat in front of him, The Shadow was leveling his .45 past the fake captain’s shoulder. Darryat was screaming with helpless rage.

The game was really up. Darryat’s shots had ended it. Those barks of his revolver had been heard; for shouts were coming from a stairway, far below. Through his hopeless thrust, Darryat had precipitated an immediate duel between The Shadow and The Harvester.

Guns ripped booming shots with simultaneous fury. The Shadow was aiming at The Harvester; the supercrook was firing toward his indomitable foe. But in that battle, both had a different disadvantage.

The Shadow’s aim was injured by Darryat’s struggles. The Harvester’s openings were handicapped because The Shadow held Darryat as a shield.

The Harvester’s life seemed charmed as the master crook swung back and forth in the doorway. Each stab from The Shadow’s automatic was jinxed either by a movement of his target, or through a chance twist by Darryat. Yet The Harvester, in his haste, could not find an opening through which to jab a bullet.

Each time that the killer fired, The Shadow was making a shift.

Viciously, fiendishly, The Harvester gave up his first tactics and opened a final volley straight for the intervening figure of Darryat.

A hoarse scream came from the helpless henchman as riddling bullets found Darryat’s body. The Harvester hoped to blast the human shield from The Shadow’s grasp. He counted upon a sag of Darryat’s body to allow a better path toward the fighter in the dressing gown.

The Harvester failed. Not for an instant did The Shadow release his twisting clutch.

Shouts from atop the stairs. With a mad snarl, the false-bearded supercrook dived away from the doorway, just as The Shadow thrust his steadied gun over Darryat’s sagged shoulder. The automatic spoke; its tongued barks were too late. The Harvester had plunged from view, diving straight into the arms of Delka and two Scotland Yard men.

DELKA and his companions were aiming, as they shouted a command to halt. The Harvester crossed their expectations. Swinging his gun hand like a bludgeon, he struck down the closest man and hurled the fellow’s body at the others. As Delka and his remaining aid swung to take new aim, the fleeing crook leaped down the stairway, four steps at a time.

The Scotland Yard men launched wild shots; then took up the pursuit.

The Shadow, springing from his own apartment, made for the front of the hallway. Reaching the door of an unoccupied apartment, he jabbed a master key into the lock. A few twists opened the door. Dashing to a front window, The Shadow opened it and sprang out upon a balcony.

The Harvester had already reached the street. The Shadow caught a glimpse of the Vandyked face as the crook sprang aboard a moving car. Trees intervened as The Shadow aimed. The Harvester had made a get-away.

Still, there was work for The Shadow to perform. Delka and the man beside him had reached the outer steps. At Delka’s call, other Scotland Yard men were rising from secluded spots across the way. Guns began to boom from another passing car. The Shadow caught the glimmer of a machine gun muzzle. So did Delka; and he cried a warning.

Trapped men of the law were diving for hasty cover; they would have been too late but for The Shadow.

Gripping a fresh automatic, he opened a swift downward volley, straight for the portion of the car where he knew the machine gunners must be.

Cries came from within the automobile. The turning muzzle stopped. While revolvers spurted wildly, the driver, stampeded, stepped on the accelerator. The car sped rapidly away.

Pocketing his automatic, The Shadow strode rapidly back to his own apartment. On the way, he saw the slugged Scotland Yard man rising dizzily from the floor. That chap was recovering. The Shadow’s present business was with Darryat. Reaching his apartment, he found the bullet-riddled crook gasping, upon the floor.

Glassy eyes looked up from Darryat’s tanned face as The Shadow stooped above the victim whom The Harvester had sacrificed. Though dying, Darryat could see the glimmer in The Shadow’s gaze. He recognized the countenance of Lamont Cranston; but his ears caught the tone of a strange, awesome voice.

“Speak!” It was a command, delivered in a sinister whisper. “State the identity of your chief. Your life meant nothing to his purpose.”

Darryat managed a nod.

“The Harvester,” he panted. “The — The Harvester. I–I can name him. He— he pretends to be many — but he is only — only one. I know— I know which one he is. His name — his name—”

DARRYAT’S eyes had focused toward the door. There, his blurred stare saw a moving figure, coming closer. It was the Scotland Yard man, groggily entering the doorway to the apartment; but to Darryat’s disjointed brain, that shape meant only the person whom he had previously seen at that spot — The Harvester.

A choking gasp from Darryat’s lips. Still fearful of his murderous chief, the dying lieutenant stayed his utterance. His lips trembled, closing on the name that they were about to utter. Then they unclamped with a final, spasmodic cough.

Darryat’s body slumped. That cough had been his last. Dead weight pressed The Shadow’s supporting arm. Darryat was dead. Chance had worked against The Shadow. Though victorious, he had not gained the one word that he wanted. The identity of The Harvester remained unknown.

Somewhere in London, a supercrook was still at large, prepared to resume a career of baffling crime.

The Shadow, to frustrate The Harvester, must still continue with a blind battle. One more difficult than the first; for tonight, The Shadow had drawn The Harvester through Darryat. Under present circumstances, Darryat was no more.

Yet the whispered echo of repressed mirth that came from The Shadow’s lips was one that foreboded ill for The Harvester. Unheard by the entering Scotland Yard man, The Shadow had delivered a secret challenge; one which would not end until The Harvester had met with deserved doom.

Boldness was The Harvester’s forte. Balked, the crook would stage a comeback, on the rebound.

Though The Shadow had not identified The Harvester, he knew the rogue’s ilk. He had dealt with others of that sort before.

The Shadow was confident that soon the superfoe would strike again. The Shadow would be prepared for that coming thrust by the master of crime.