The Man from Scotland Yard

CHAPTER XIX. A MASTER’S DOOM

NEVER had The Shadow chosen a more timely instant to strike against great odds. His advent here had occurred some minutes before — at the time when Eric Delka had been so boldly announcing the part that he had played.

The Shadow could have entered then; but he had chosen to wait. He had foreseen that crooks would be deliberate; Clink Huron’s decision to massacre victims in the vault had been proof of The Shadow’s wisdom in delayed action.

Until the vault was opened, The Shadow had hesitated. As henchmen had advanced at Clink’s bidding, The Shadow had seen the moment of opportunity. Two guards — Clink and another — were all who had actual control over the three doomed prisoners.

The Shadow’s laugh had been delivered for surprise as well as challenge. His purpose was to startle those two foemen; to make them swing about in his direction. His creepy intonation, ghoulish in the metal walls of the strong room, had accomplished The Shadow’s desire.

Wheeling, Clink and his pal saw The Shadow on the instant. That, too, was The Shadow’s design. He had stepped into light as he laughed. He wanted guns to aim in his direction. He was ready as the two crooks sprang to fruitless action.

As snarling rogues pressed fingers hard to triggers, The Shadow’s automatics flashed as one. The double roar was thunderous in the square-walled room. Tongues of flame were reflected in myriad flashes from shining walls.

Two bullets found their designated targets. Point-blank, The Shadow had stabbed these thrusts at the wheeling crooks. He gave no opportunity to Clink and the other thug. The Shadow’s shots were straight to the hearts of murderers.

Both rogues toppled. They sprawled like clay figures on the steel-sheathed floor. Their revolvers clashed, unfired, upon the metal. The Shadow, swinging inward, wheeled toward the opened vault. He was ready for others. As Clink and his pal rolled to the floor, three men sprang to instant action. Vic Marquette dived for Clink’s bounding gun. Eric Delka sprang forward to snatch up the other free weapon. Joe Cardona, just behind the others, made a leap for the outer door. He yanked the inner fastening and shoved the barrier outward.

His move was to bring aid from above. Unarmed, he could not aid in the fray. He knew that with the door opened, the sound of battle would be heard above.

Crooks were no less responsive than the rescued prisoners. Half in, half out of the opened vault, Clink’s underlings reacted to The Shadow’s double-barreled outburst. Like a tribe of swarming banditti, the crooks sprang from the vault.

They knew their common foe. Fierce oaths told that they had identified The Shadow. Revolver muzzles swung for common aim. Weapons spat as the cloaked warrior made a swift move for the passage that led to the garage.

Then came a sudden feint. With an unexpected twist, The Shadow whirled toward the center of the room. Some aiming killers fired wide; others, scattering, took new aim at the elusive targets. In that one instant of their indecision, The Shadow loosed new fire.

Crooks sprawled. Others dropped savagely back to the protection of the vault. Revolvers barked; despite The Shadow’s swiftness, shots were due to stop his weaving course. But before the accurate aimers could fire, two men were piling in from the flank.

Firing like madmen. Vic Marquette and Eric Delka jabbed bullets from close range. One crook sagged groaning, unable to take advantage of the aim that he had gained. Another fired, staggering. His perfect bead was spoiled. The slug that he delivered went whistling through The Shadow’s hat brim.

Two aiming crooks swung about to meet these new attackers. Vic and one rogue fired simultaneously; the crook’s shot clipped the operative’s shoulder and Vic rolled to the floor. But Vic’s bullet, too, had found a mark. His opponent sprawled writhing at the entrance of the vault.

Delka beat his foeman to the shot. But the Scotland Yard man’s aim was wide. His snarling adversary rasped a vicious oath as he aimed before Delka could deliver a second bullet. The curse died suddenly as an automatic thundered from the other end of the strong room.

Delka’s foeman jounced upward; his ugly face contorted; his revolver clattered to the floor. Then the crook followed the weapon downward. Face foremost he flattened, writhed, and lay still.

The man who had clipped Marquette was trying to recover. Half up, he aimed for The Shadow’s fleeting form. His gun barked uselessly. The Shadow, a parting laugh bursting from his lips, had swung through the opened panel to the passage.

THEN came a burst of shots from the outer door. Hamilton and the Feds had arrived. They clipped the rising crook and two others who still came up to offer fight. The Shadow had heard the clatter of newcomers. That was why he had so quickly swung from view.

Joe Cardona was with the Federal men as they took possession of the strong room. Behind them was Senator Ross Releston. The gray-haired statesman stared at the scene of carnage. He watched Hamilton and another prop up Vic Marquette.

“I’m all right,” growled Vic. “Just a nip — that was all, boys. Good work, Delka — and you, Cardona. We plastered them, didn’t we?”

“We did our part,” began Delka. “But—”

He stopped as he caught a nudge from Cardona. A glance at the detective, then at Marquette, told Delka that neither wanted mention of their rescuer. For a moment Delka was perplexed; then the truth dawned on him. He had seen The Shadow aboard the Zouave. He realized that both Marquette and Cardona must have also seen the cloaked avenger in the past. Like Marquette and Cardona, Delka was one of those who owed their lives to the protection of this mighty friend.

Shrouding blackness was The Shadow’s habitat. The mystery that surrounded him was part of the strength that he possessed. It was up to those who understood to play the game as The Shadow wanted it. His ways must remain unknown.

Nodding, Delka strolled away to speak with the other two Federal men. Joe Cardona followed him. The detective was pocketing his revolver. The Scotland Yard man did the same. A group of four, they approached Senator Releston.

Then another entered. Caleb Wesdren had arrived from above. Releston turned to speak to him; to tell of what had happened. Wesdren looked about; he saw Clink Huron’s body. Deliberately, he strode to the entrance of the vault.

The others watched him stare at the untouched coffers. They wondered at the strangeness of his actions.

They saw Wesdren stoop to look past the opened grating; then gasps came from all as the black-haired man whirled suddenly about.

In his fist, Wesdren held a revolver. Insanely he brandished the weapon as a warning. He spat a vicious challenge as he swung it from man to man, catching all off guard.

“Fools!” shouted Wesdren. “My secrecy has failed! But not my game! Look behind you! See what awaits you!”

“Get him!” cried Marquette, from the floor.

DELKA and Cardona made a dive together. Wesdren fired; his bullet singed Delka’s hip. Then the two were upon the owner of the vault room, fighting to get Wesdren’s gun, battling a would-be murderer who fought with fury.

The others swung about. Two Feds brought out their guns as they pushed Senator Releston behind them; the pair by Vic Marquette came to their feet. Clatter from the stairway told that they were too late.

Wesdren’s cry had been a signal for a trio on the stairs. New crooks bounded into view with leveled guns, ready to beat all comers to the opening shots. The cause looked hopeless for the men of the law.

Then flame burst from the darkened passage that had played so great a part in tonight’s attack. Roaring shots were thunderous from that low-ceilinged path of darkness. The foremost entrants toppled.

The third man aimed above his falling fellows. He fired at a form that he saw coming; a black-cloaked figure that swept out to the fringe of light. An automatic flashed a split-second after the crook’s wild shot.

The last minion dived to the floor, but the shout that resounded was not from his lips.

This cry, amid gun echoes, came from Caleb Wesdren. Powerful in his frenzy, Wesdren had downed Cardona with a savage stroke from his revolver. With a furious twist, he had broken loose from Delka.

Clear away from the vault, he was aiming point-blank for that figure at the passage entrance.

The Shadow wheeled. Even as he swung, he fired. Wesdren had gained a perfect aim; but he had not calculated on The Shadow’s swiftness. That shot from motion stopped the square-jawed man.

Revealed as the master crook, Wesdren had met The Shadow. Like other masters of crime, he had lost through that encounter. As Delka covered Wesdren’s rigid form; as secret service men swung about to do the same, the square-jawed plotter sagged. Gun hand lowered. Wesdren sighed as he twisted to the floor.

A solemn laugh came startling from the stillness. Its tones resounded, rising; then broke into sardonic mirth. It was mockery of the efforts made by men of crime — The Shadow’s final verdict of the doom that he had proclaimed.

Men turned about to stare in bewilderment. Delivered from doom, they looked for that rescuer who had lingered to meet the aftermath of first invasion. But The Shadow was gone — out through the passage by which he had arrived.

Dying echoes faded as a token of The Shadow’s departure. But the weird notes of that laughter still rang in the ears of those who had been saved from death. Weird, outlandish in its tone of victory, that mirth could not he forgotten. Listeners had heard the triumphant laugh of The Shadow.

It meant deliverance to all but one. That lone hearer was Caleb Wesdren, coughing out his last breath on the burnished floor. A venomous gasp hissed from Wesdren’s lips: then the super-plotter breathed no longer.

An author of murder, a master of deep-plotted crime, Caleb Wesdren had gone to a deserved end, doomed by The Shadow’s might.