The Road Of Crime

CHAPTER VI THE BIG SHOT SPEAKS

KING FURZMAN, as he faced The Shadow, was a man who betrayed consternation. The big shot was a man who constantly wore an expression of cold brutality — a mask which ever hid the emotions which he felt. The mask had lifted now. Stark fear had replaced King Furzman’s habitual glower.

The big shot was knowing the fear that had gripped other crime wreakers when they had encountered The Shadow. Furzman’s forehead glistened with perspiration; his hands were limp; his body trembled. Through his mind was passing all that he had heard concerning the vengeance which The Shadow had delivered to those who sought to thwart his purposes and his ends.

Before the first shock of fear had passed, King Furzman gained new knowledge of The Shadow’s terrifying presence. The token that came was an audible one — a whispered laugh that shuddered as it came from unseen lips. Quavering reverberations, silent shocks of impending doom, beat weirdly against Furzman’s eardrums.

Then came the voice of The Shadow. It followed the persisting echoes; it carried an eerie note that resembled a sneer, yet which held a strain of bitter mockery. Each whispered word was delivered in an uncanny tone that changed King Furzman’s trembling into a state of tense fixation.

“King Furzman” — The Shadow’s statement sounded as a knell — “you have plotted crime. That is why you have met The Shadow. You can hope for no deliverance while I am here. You will tell me what I wish to know.”

Unconsciously, the big shot found himself nodding in reply to The Shadow’s words.

“You have heard from your henchman,” resumed The Shadow. “Graham Wellerton has told you where he has gone. Give me that information.”

Tensely, Furzman tried to resist the threat. The eyes of The Shadow glinted. The muzzle of the automatic moved forward with a subtle thrust. Furzman replied mechanically, hoping only to avoid the menace of The Shadow.

“Wellerton has gone” — the big shot’s voice was no more than a gulping gasp — “to — to Grand Rapids — gone with his mob—”

“His purpose,” came The Shadow’s cold demand.

“Bank holdup,” gasped Furzman. “The — the” — the pause was hopeless — “the Riverview Trust will be his first job.”

“The time,” quizzed The Shadow.

“Two nights from now,” gulped Furzman. “Two nights from now — before nine o’clock—”

THE SHADOW’S laugh was one of whispered scorn. The tone provoked new terror in King Furzman’s evil brain. Despite the fact that he had told the truth, the big shot knew that The Shadow was not yet through with him.

“You have money here” — The Shadow’s words broke in a hideous, sneering chuckle — “money which does not belong to you. Tell me where you have hidden it.”

“In the wall of this room,” panted the big shot. “Behind the third panel from the door — in a safe—”

“The combination,” prompted The Shadow, with his terrifying aftermath of whispered mirth.

“Three — four — one — eight — ” Furzman spoke in monotonous fashion, is though his lips worked of their own accord.

“Your crime is proven,” came The Shadow’s sinister judgment. “You have profited by the work of others. You shall suffer of your own accord. That telephone” — the blazing orbs stared beyond the big shot — “will be the instrument that will deliver you to the law. Pick it up.”

The big shot obeyed.

“Call detective headquarters,” ordered The Shadow. “Ask for Detective Joe Cardona. Tell him who you are. Tell him you are waiting for him. That is all. Remember” — the tone was ominous — “one word concerning my presence here will seal your lips with the cold rigidity of permanent doom—”

Pangs of terror brought convulsive shudders to King Furzman’s stout frame. The big shot’s knees were quaking, his hands could scarcely lift the telephone. In a quavering voice, the man called as directed.

He could hear The Shadow’s whisper coming closer; staring, he saw the black cloak swish and show its crimson lining as The Shadow moved to a point no more than a yard away.

“Your man Gouger,” warned The Shadow, “has completed his search for me. He is in the other room. He does not know that I am here. He — like yourself — belongs to the police—”

A voice was clicking over the wire. The Shadow’s sinister tones ended. King Furzman, fighting for his life, asked weakly for Joe Cardona. He heard the reply that Cardona himself was on the wire.

“This is King Furzman,” said the big shot, pathetically. “I’m in my own apartment, Cardona. I–I want to talk to you here” — Furzman’s voice broke as his eyes stared toward the glowing orbs that were The Shadow’s eyes — “I–I was in on those bank robberies yesterday. The dough is here — in the wall of this room—”

Furzman’s lips were twitching, his eyes were moving furtively, trying to escape the terrible gaze of The Shadow. Suddenly, they became transfixed with a gleam of wild hope as they saw beyond the shoulders of the black-clad master. With a short gasp, Furzman stepped back a little. The telephone dropped from his hands.

There was a swish as The Shadow whirled. Furzman’s sudden gaze, his defensive action — both were indicative, but The Shadow’s keen intuition was already working when the signal came.

Before the telephone had clattered to the floor, The Shadow was facing the draped archway where the figure of a man was looming in the darkness of the room beyond.

Gouger was there. Purely by chance, the bodyguard had come back over the trail which he had taken through the anteroom. Arriving in the darkened space between anteroom and reception room, he had heard the sound of King Furzman’s voice.

THE instant that he had observed the blotting form of The Shadow, Gouger had drawn his revolver to point it toward the menacing figure in black. Swift in action, steady in aim, Gouger had acted with prompt precision; but as his finger touched the trigger, The Shadow, miraculously alert, had swung.

A mere turn would not have sufficed. The Shadow’s whirl, however, was a sweeping move. As his tall form swung, it whisked to the right, just as Gouger’s revolver blazed from the darkened room.

A bullet singed the left shoulder of the long black cloak. The Shadow’s lips responded with a mocking cry of laughter — a weird peal that was no longer hushed.

While taunting mirth rang through the room, Gouger swung his revolver toward the enemy in black. His finger, still upon the trigger, was about to loose a second bullet when a terrific roar came from The Shadow’s automatic.

The shot was perfect. Beyond the archway, Gouger tottered. The bodyguard’s revolver fell from the useless hand which held it. Gouger collapsed upon the floor.

If Gouger was prompt in action, so was King Furzman. The revolver shot from the other room dispelled the power of The Shadow, so far as the big shot was concerned.

With the first spurt of flame, King Furzman’s nerve came back to him. His hand sped to his pocket. His fingers yanked forth the revolver that was there. On the upswing, the big shot drew his weapon just as The Shadow’s shot felled Gouger.

With that shot, The Shadow turned. Furzman’s upward-moving revolver was racing with the automatic that came in a wide sweep as The Shadow whirled back to meet his first enemy. Both guns reached their aiming points at the same instant. Two reports sounded as one.

But another phenomenon occurred. The form of The Shadow seemed to collapse a split second before his finger pressed the trigger. King Furzman remained bolt upright.

When the guns boomed, both figures were momentarily motionless; then, as The Shadow’s form became erect, King Furzman’s body swayed and crumpled. His revolver slipped to the floor beside him.

The Shadow’s wits had prevailed. Simultaneous shots, each delivered with quick accuracy, had gone forth from rival guns. But The Shadow had dropped away from Furzman’s aim.

The big shot’s bullet, aimed for The Shadow’s heart, had done no more than clip the upper edge of the black slouch hat. The Shadow’s bullet, with Furzman’s body as its target, had found its appointed mark.

A SARDONIC laugh came from The Shadow’s lips. The tone seemed to carry a note of tragedy. Once again, The Shadow had performed swift deeds that were essential to his ceaseless war against men of crime. The fallen telephone, connected directly with detective headquarters, had recorded the shots of the unexpected fray.

Forces of the law would be on their way, to find that grim justice had been delivered; yet the part which The Shadow had played would never be known. Such was The Shadow’s method.

He had offered King Furzman a chance to live; the big shot had sought to kill him in return. King Furzman, therefore, had received the reward which he deserved.

Swiftly, The Shadow went to the wall and opened the panel of which Furzman had spoken. He turned the combination of the safe and loosed its metal door. He then closed the panel so the opening would have to be discovered by the searching detectives. King Furzman had admitted to Cardona that the stolen bank funds were in the wall of this room.

The black cloak swished. Swiftly, The Shadow glided away. He passed through the anteroom and left the outer door unlocked. His tall form disappeared down a stairway at the end of the corridor.

The Shadow had gained the information that he sought. Graham Wellerton, speeding westward with his mob, would be due for a surprise. King Furzman, the big shot, had spoken. He had given out the facts which he had heard from his lieutenant.

King Furzman, alone, had known his lieutenant’s plans. Now The Shadow knew them also. Knowing where crime was due to fall, The Shadow would be there to strike!