The Romanoff Jewels

CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW ARRIVES

MICHAEL SENOV stood on the spiral staircase of the vault. His flashlight threw its parting gleams upon the table. The rays were reflected by the bare wood. Senov turned and ascended the stairs. His henchmen were awaiting him.

Three men were holding bags in their possession These were the same bags that had held the gas masks; now their contents consisted of priceless wealth. At Senov’s command, the underlings had brought the bags that he might stow the jewels for safe carriage.

All but Senov and these three trusted men had gone above. Now the triumphant procession followed.

With gas masks still covering their heads, these four made a grotesque group as they marched from the five-sided room.

No time was lost when Senov and his three followers reached the ground floor of the house. Guards were still on duty. Three men were working upon the door of the room where the Bolshevik soldiers had been trapped.

Senov paused only to remove his gas mask; the other three laid down their burdens to duplicate the action. The leader gave final instructions to the men who remained. Then, as his trio of carriers hoisted their laden bags, he pointed the way to the outer passage.

Despite the terrific furor and the fearful destructiveness of Senov’s attack, the work had been completed in an unusually short space of time. Reserves, stationed outside, had aided with capable service. They had captured and killed four soldiers who had approached the house.

That had unquestionably halted the spreading of an alarm; but Senov knew that it would not be long before all Moscow would teem with an excited hunt for Czarist agents. His faithful hordes must scurry back to the places of obscurity wherein lay their only shelter.

For Senov and a few associates, certain escape had been arranged. The automobile that had been stationed around the corner was now standing at the entrance to the alley. It was manned in front by two sturdy henchmen. The bags were placed in the back seat. Senov motioned one follower to enter. Then he spoke to the others who stood by.

Responses of acclamation followed as the leader stepped into the car. The big machine moved along the street. Senov gave a destination to the driver. He named an airport outside the limits of Moscow.

Back by the invaded house, Senov’s last order was repeated. It was carried to the men inside the building. With one accord, they hurried from the place, forgetting the trapped soldiers whom they had been so desirous to capture and slay.

SILENCE now dominated the scene. Dead bodies lay upon the floor. There was no motion of the door that led to the room where the three guards had fled. The men within suspected a trap awaiting them.

Long minutes went by. They were solemn minutes, a strange anticlimax to those exciting moments that had gone before. Then, a slight motion took place at the door of the passage. The forbidding darkness became a living shape. Into the room of destruction stepped a tall man clad in black.

The Shadow had reached Moscow! He had raced thousands of miles, by sea and by air, to find this spot before the attack of death had been launched!

He had come here to investigate; to learn the intent of those who were to work at Froman’s bidding. By a freak of fate, Michael Senov had struck just before The Shadow had reached his final destination.

Standing in the center of the room, The Shadow formed a strange, grotesque figure as he surveyed the scene. His sharp eyes were upon the floor, noting the marks of conflict, reconstructing the fierce events that had taken place.

Spying the half-opened door that led to the stairway, The Shadow strode in that direction. Boldly, he descended into the depths below. One flight down, he discovered an unused gas mask that had been carried up and dropped. Donning it, the man in black continued the descent.

In the loopholed room, he saw the opened trap, which Senov had not stopped to close. The Shadow descended the spiral staircase. A flashlight gleamed as he inspected the room where the jewels had been.

The light showed along the top of the table, as a black hand touched the surface. Then the rays were shifted to the floor.

There, the hand drew a tiny, glistening object from the crack between two floor boards.

His inspection here completed, The Shadow ascended the spiral stairs, and continued upward until he was beyond the range of the deadly gas that still pervaded the lower depths. Here, he removed his gas mask.

The brim of the slouch hat turned toward the black-clad hands. The hidden eyes studied the gem which lay in the palm of one glove.

A laugh rippled eerily through the stone-walled corridor as The Shadow waited. The shuddering sound died away. A pause; then The Shadow seemed to detect a sound from above. His hands disappeared beneath his cloak. When next they emerged, they held two automatics.

Upward went The Shadow until he reached the open door at the top of the stairs. Watching from the darkness, he saw what had caused the sound. The door at the other side of the room was open also. A man in uniform was peering cautiously forth.

Satisfied that the enemy had left, the beleaguered soldier summoned his companions. One man seized the telephone and began to shout wild words into the mouthpiece. Another went to inspect the outer passage. The third came directly toward the place where The Shadow was standing.

Revolver in hand, the soldier blundered squarely into the man in black. With upraised gun, he found himself staring at the flashing eyes beneath the brim of the slouch hat.

Before he could emit a shout, the soldier staggered. A black-clad arm swept about his neck, and twisted him violently to the floor.

“They are on the way!” This cry, in Russian, came from the soldier at the telephone. “They have already learned that there has been trouble here!”

He turned toward the inner door, thinking that his companion would hear his words. Instead of the other soldier, he saw the advancing form of The Shadow.

Leaping to his feet, the startled soldier swung his gun toward the menacing figure. The Shadow, anxious to prevent a shot of alarm, swung one automatic at the fellow’s wrist.

The blow struck and drove aside the covering revolver just as the soldier’s finger pressed the trigger. The shot resounded; then the gun clattered to the floor as The Shadow delivered another blow. The soldier sought to grapple with his adversary; then dropped away, cowering with upraised arms as The Shadow covered him.

The third freed soldier dashed in from the outer passage. He stopped short as he saw The Shadow. The man in black was facing the door, with one gun turned toward the cowering soldier, the other covering the passage.

The newcomer saw that his position was hopeless. He let his revolver fall from his hand, and sullenly raised both arms.

IN a low, whispered voice, The Shadow spoke. His words were in Russian. The soldier by the outer door understood. He walked stolidly toward his companion, never once taking his eyes from the man who commanded him.

The Shadow swept toward the door, and stood there momentarily, preparing for a quick departure.

It was during that short wait that he sensed another sound. With a quick motion, he side-stepped from the doorway. Hurried footsteps were beating along the outer passage.

A uniformed officer burst into the room, followed by a squad of soldiers. The leader was carrying an automatic; the other men were armed with rifles.

The Shadow was trapped!

The officer spied the men with upraised arms. He turned in the direction of their gaze. As he did so, he saw The Shadow.

The black-clad figure acted quickly. Before the rescuing squad had realized his presence, while the red-faced officer was staring in astonishment at the figure before him, The Shadow swung to the attack.

His long arms whirled swiftly as he hurled himself into the group of soldiers. Two men staggered back from stunning blows. Turning from the midst of the crowd, The Shadow fired at the officer. The bullet struck the man’s gun arm.

Swinging with the butt ends of their rifles, the soldiers sought to overcome this amazing assailant who had materialized among them. Firing, The Shadow blazed a path through the fighting men. A moment later, he was lost in the blackness of the passage.

Soldiers followed in pursuit, but The Shadow had gained the outer door before they were on their way.

Reaching the alley, The Shadow turned in the direction of the street.

Simultaneously, a terrific glare illuminated the entire area. An armored car had arrived at the entrance to the alley. Its searchlight was turned on at the very instant The Shadow sought that direction for escape!

Master of darkness that he was, The Shadow could not elude that brilliant light. His tall form was plainly revealed to the men in the armored car.

Turning, The Shadow looked in the other direction. The alley was a cul-de-sac, ending in a blank wall.

The only way of egress lay by a low window near the rear of the house across the alley.

With swift stride, the trapped superman leaped for the one spot of safety. Scarcely had he gained it when the rattle of a machine gun burst from the armored car. The hail of bullets swept the alley which The Shadow had deserted.

The machine gun stopped its fire as the pursuing soldiers rushed forth into the glare of the searchlight.

Men dashed in from the street, pointing to the direction which The Shadow had taken. Loud cries carried the alarm. Soldiers were arriving from all directions.

Troops were surrounding the building into which The Shadow had fled. It was a partly occupied apartment house, but was kept vacant, by design, upon the side which The Shadow had entered. Other soldiers were entering the house where the Czarists had made their successful attack.

A LARGE, closed automobile drew up in back of the armored car. Three plainly clad men leaped from it and hurried into the building where the Romanoff wealth had been housed. They stopped when they reached the room where the dead bodies lay. An officer, coming from the door to the stairs, approached them.

“There is gas below, Comrade Motkin,” he said.

The man whom he addressed gave an expression of relief. Motkin was evidently the leader of those present. He was a short, shrewd-faced man, and the scowl which he wore remained, despite the fact that his mind seemed eased.

“Look at these,” remarked one of Motkin’s companions, pointing to the floor.

He was indicating the gas masks. A troubled air came over Motkin. He spoke in low tones to those beside him.

“Put on the masks,” he ordered. “Go down and see if all is well. Call upon the soldiers if you have need for them. If not—”

His two associates nodded. They understood the reason for Motkin’s worry. Gas indicated that the invaders had actually reached the room that they had sought.

Motkin turned on his heel and went out to the street. The searchlight of the armored car had been turned toward the house next door, spotting the windows on the upper floors.

“Who is there?” questioned Motkin, speaking to an officer in charge.

“We have trapped one man,” was the reply. “The soldiers are all through the house. They have been shouting for light.”

“Let them have it.” Motkin’s tone was determined. “Capture that man — alive, if possible. Bring him to me do you understand?”

The officer’s reply was interrupted as a volley of shots resounded from within the house. A soldier appeared at one of the upper windows. He emerged and crawled along a projection to reach the next room.

As the soldier smashed the glass and thrust his body into the window, a flash of flame appeared. The soldier toppled backward, lost his hold, and hurtled head-first to the street. His whirling body struck ten feet from where Ivan Motkin stood.

The scowling man gave the soldier no attention. He was watching that window, signaling to other soldiers who were appearing at the windows of other rooms.

“They will capture him now,” declared the officer, in a tone of assurance.

A group of three soldiers came from the alley, two of them supporting their companion. The middle man was seriously wounded.

Behind them came an officer. He spied Motkin and approached him. The officer held up two garments: a torn black cloak and a bullet-riddled slouch hat.

“The man is a demon!” he exclaimed. “We had him — four of us. He was wearing these. He broke away from us!”

“He is trapped now,” said Motkin, pointing to the upper window.

The head and shoulders of an officer appeared at the very spot indicated by Motkin. The man made a sweeping gesture, to indicate that the trap had closed, but the man was gone.

Curses came from Motkin’s lips. He took the cloak and hat, and gave them to a man seated at the wheel of his automobile.

“Keep these, Gregori,” he said. “Put them in back.”

The chauffeur obeyed.

MOTKIN paced up and down the street, worried and impatient. He turned suddenly as he was approached by one of the two men whom he had sent to make an inspection of the vault.

“All has been taken,” said the man, in a low voice.

A snarl came from Motkin. He clenched his fists ferociously. He drew his informant aside. He listened impatiently while the man gave him the details of what had been discovered.

“The officer in charge was gassed behind a loophole,” said Motkin’s subordinate. “I have closed the door in the floor. Soldiers are bringing out the bodies.”

“Say nothing,” growled Motkin. “Place trusted officers in charge. All the thieves have escaped but one. I have ordered that he be captured, alive, if possible. He must be brought to me.”

“You know the orders,” responded the other man, in a doubtful voice. “He must go to prison first, if he is taken. After that—”

Motkin turned pale as he saw his subordinate shrug his shoulders. Important though he was, Motkin was forced to conform to regulations.

Motkin was in a dilemma. One man was at large; if captured, he might give valuable information when quizzed by Motkin alone; but should he speak to others, his words might prove damaging.

The protection of the rifled stronghold had been Motkin’s duty. Well did the Bolshevist official know the punishment that was meted out to those who failed in their appointments.

“Remain here,” said Motkin. “Do all you can. I must go back. If the man is captured, let me know at once. If he is killed” — the speaker paused thoughtfully — “let me know that, also!”

At that moment, cries came from men standing by the armored car. Soldiers came running up with rifles to aim at a lower window where an officer was pointing. A tall, huddled figure had appeared in plain view!

Before the scurrying soldiers could aim at the unexpected target, a hand stretched from the window. The automatic was pointed directly at the searchlight.

The gun spoke. The light went out. Chaos reigned amid the darkness that was broken only by dim, flickering street lamps.

Officers were shouting out commands. Shots were being fired. Motkin scurried to the safety of the alley.

Wild minutes passed; then flashlights appeared, and suddenly a new but smaller glare lit up the house from which The Shadow had fired the unexpected shot. Several military automobiles had arrived upon the scene; and one of them had turned its searchlight on the building.

Fuming, Motkin strode to his car. He was followed by his underling. The man nodded as Motkin delivered final instructions. Then Motkin clambered into the front seat beside Gregori, and the car pulled away.

MOTKIN was grimly silent as the big automobile rolled through the streets of Moscow. The car reached a broad prospekt, turned into a narrow street, and shot into the courtyard of a pretentious residence. It stopped before a side door, the entrance to Motkin’s apartments.

The scowling official stepped from the car and started toward the steps. Then, as an afterthought, he returned and spoke to Gregori.

“The cloak and the hat,” he said. “Where did you put them?”

“In the back seat, as you told me.”

“Get them.”

Gregori opened the door. He leaned into the car, and stepped back suddenly with a startled cry.

“Look!” he exclaimed. “Look!”

He produced a flashlight and turned it into the interior. There, half on the floor, half on the seat, lay a tall sprawled figure, whose face was turned toward the far side of the car.

“It is the one they were seeking!”

Gregori’s exclamation ended abruptly as a warning hiss came from Motkin.

“Say nothing!” ordered the official, in a low growl. “Stay here. I shall send Prensky to help you bring him into the house.

“He is still alive” — Motkin was bending over the still form — “and I may have need of him. Bring the hat and the cloak also. Above all, say nothing. Do you understand?”

Gregori nodded in obedience.

Motkin strode up the steps of the house and entered. He encountered his aid, Prensky, just within the door. He spoke short, terse words of explanation. Prensky understood and went to join Gregori.

Motkin reached an upstairs room, and slumped into an easy-chair. His face was an enigma. It showed traces of both worry and satisfaction.

Despite his vigilance, Ivan Motkin had failed in his protection of the secret vault. The strong-room had been rifled. That might mean death for Ivan Motkin. But death might also be withheld until he had been given a chance to redeem himself.

Motkin’s position was unique. He was one of very few who knew what had happened tonight. Working for the recovery of the stolen Bolshevist possessions, he would be more useful alive than he would be dead.

That, Motkin felt sure, would be the task assigned to him, especially as there would be no proof of negligence on his part. The one danger lay in other persons learning facts concerning the pillage of the vault. If Motkin, alone, could gain such information, he might find safety and success.

Squads of soldiers were still scouring the house where one had escaped. They would search until dawn — they might search longer. All efforts would be futile.

For Motkin, himself, held that very one. He, alone, could learn what might be known. The life of The Shadow had become very precious to Ivan Motkin!