The Man from Scotland Yard

CHAPTER XVIII. THE FINAL WORD

“IT’S no use, Delka,” sneered Clink Huron. “Your game was up when you muffed those coded messages. Cady got a copy the answer that you started, then threw in the wastebasket. It didn’t click.”

The man called Jarvis Knight made no response. He stared steady at Clink Huron. The heavy-brewed crook delivered another laugh.

“You’re going on the spot, Delka,” he insisted. “It’s no use trying to keep up the bluff. We’re rubbing you out along with Marquette and Cardona. So you might as well talk for their benefit.”

“All right.” The Englishman finished his cigarette and tossed it on the floor. “I’ll square myself. I bluffed you chaps” — he was speaking to Marquette and Cardona — “because it looked like the best method. But I didn’t bluff you about myself. I am Eric Delka. My only false information concerned Jed Barthue.”

“You mean Barthue didn’t come to New York?” queried Marquette, forgetful of his surroundings because of his surprise.

“He came, all right” — Delka’s chuckle was a pleasant one — “and he encountered me aboard the Doranic, just before we reached the States. The scoundrel tossed me overboard, to be picked up by the Zouave.”

“You were in the fight on the boat?” asked Cardona. “Mixed up in that mutiny?”

“At first, I was,” returned Delka. “But some loyal chaps among the crew came to my rescue. They brought me ashore, somewhere in your state of New Jersey. They gave me dollar bills for some English pounds, and I bought a new suit of clothes and came to New York.”

“You got there just before I called you at the Goliath?” queried Marquette.

“Not at all,” said Delka. “I arrived much earlier. But I did not introduce myself to any one. I went to the suite that I had reserved and was lucky enough to find it unlocked, while expressmen were bringing up my luggage. I secreted myself in the inner room, to await Jed Barthue.”

“Barthue?” quizzed Marquette. “You mean he—”

It was Clink who broke into the discussion.

“Yeah,” snarled the leader of the crooks, “Barthue was coming there to pass himself as Delka, under the name of Jarvis Knight. Go on, Delka. Spill the rest of it.”

“BARTHUE did come there,” stated Delka, bringing out his cigarette case. “I watched him empty his pockets. The bounder was about to attire himself in a suit from my wardrobe. He answered your telephone call, Marquette. Very smoothly toned, he was. His gruffness must have been a pretence aboard the Doranic.”

“I thought it time to stop the beggar’s masquerade. I confronted him with a revolver. My word! Jed showed more fight than I had imagined he would. He actually wrested the weapon from me, and drove me back against the window ledge.”

“Then fortune favored me; I gained a lucky opportunity and, almost without intending it, I pitched the blighter out through the open window. So there I was in my own capacity: Eric Delka, otherwise Jarvis Knight, with Jed Barthue finished.”

“Say,” put in Cardona. “that guy who we thought committed suicide—”

“Was Jed Barthue,” inserted Delka. “I put on his wrist watch because my own was stopped when I was thrown into the water. Then, among Barthue’s effects, I found a silver rupee. I wondered about that coin—”

“Until Cady flashed this one,” snorted Clink. “I thought Cady pulled a boner. You were smart, Delka, to play ball with Cady. He thought you were Barthue, all right.”

“But I couldn’t master that confounded code,” declared Delka, with a wry grimace. “That was what stopped me. You know, Cardona” — Delka spoke soberly as he turned to his fellow prisoner — “Before we go to blighty, I owe you an apology. I intended to tell you that the supposed suicide was Jed Barthue; I wanted to tell Marquette.”

“But that bell boy, Cady, arrived most opportunely. It struck me immediately that if I tried Barthue’s tactics, I would be top dog in the jolly old game. Jed Barthue was going to pretend himself Eric Delka. Why should Eric Delka not masquerade as Jed Barthue? For the benefit of such persons as this bounder.”

Delka nudged a thumb at Clink, who growled a savage retort.

“Lay off the smart stuff, Delka,” ordered the crook. “You don’t have to tell us any more. You couldn’t tell Cardona and Marquette or maybe you’d have run into some court hearings, to settle the identity of Jed Barthue.

“You were right. You were working with them best by keeping your trap shut. But you’re no use to us now, any more than they are. With Barthue dead, there’s no reason for finding out how much you knew about him, like Rigger was supposed to do on board the Zouave.”

“Keep these mugs covered” — Clink shot the command to his henchmen — “while I work the combination on this vault. After we’ve got the swag, we’ll shove them in there and hand them the works.”

CLINK strode to the vault. He began to turn the dials. Delka and Cardona watched him silently. The Scotland Yard inspector was puffing nervously at his cigarette; the New York detective was stolid as he stared.

It was Vic Marquette who began a protest. The secret service operative was resorting to argument that he hoped would he effective.

“Murdering us won’t help Jollister,” reasoned Vic. “It’s only going to add a death penalty to any of you who get caught. Jollister included.”

Clink laughed raucously, as he finished with the combination.

“What of it?” he sneered. “Jollister’s on his way. Nobody’s ever going to hear from him again. We don’t have to bother about covering up; that passage will be found anyway.

“Listen, you saps. If these bozos of mine weren’t around, I might spill something that would knock you silly. Something none of you have figured. Something that would make you know how dumb you’ve been.

“Maybe I will let you in on it” — he paused as he swung back the huge door — “after you’re all stowed away, ready for the works. All right, fellows” — this was to the gang — “there’s the swag. Get busy.”

As crooks sprang forward, Clink turned a key in the inner grating, to open that last barrier. He stepped back beside one lone henchman who still held the prisoners covered. Clink, too, had a gun in readiness.

“When I’m ready to rub you out,” he promised, “I’ll give you something to think about. You won’t worry over it long; that won’t be any use. It’ll be the last word — the last word the three of you will ever hear.”

Clink stopped short. A sudden sound pervaded the strong room. It was a ghoulish chuckle, a hideous tone of mirth that came like a presagement of doom. With a fierce cry, Clink spun about, his henchman with him.

Staring at the door of the open passage, the two crooks saw a being in black. Clink had left two guards back in the garage. They had failed to stop this formidable foe who had arrived to follow crooks along their path to crime.

The Shadow had delivered a surprise attack. He had found the passage that led into the strong room. His fierce, outlandish mirth was rising to a shivering crescendo.

It was a challenge to men of crime. A proof that the last word did not belong with evil fiends who contemplated murder. The last word would be The Shadow’s. Automatics would voice his argument.