The Third Skull

CHAPTER XXI. RAIDERS RENEW

“I KILLED him.”

Weldon Wingate made the statement as he stood looking at Hothan’s body. The lawyer’s face was strained. His hands were trembling. He could scarcely hold his revolver.

“I killed him,” repeated Wingate, solemnly. “But I swear it was in self-defense. He was aiming his gun straight for me. I know” — he peered, troubled, at the others — “that you will testify in my behalf. You heard his confession; Hothan was a murderer by his own word.”

“Don’t worry. Mr. Wingate,” put in Clyde Burke. “You didn’t realize that we had him covered. Your action was justified. You will be held blameless.”

“You will be given credit,” added Selwood Royce, soberly. “You deserve it, Wingate. As you say, this man was a murderer.”

“But I can’t forget that I killed him,” protested the lawyer. “It was not my province to take over into my hands the law’s work.”

“I am not sure that you did kill him, Wingate.” The interruption came from Roger Parchell. “You crippled him; but he was still alive when I fired. Blame or credit, I am willing to share it or take it. I am glad only that this man Hothan lived long enough to confess his vile deed. He has admitted that he was my uncle’s murderer.”

Wingate looked relieved. The lawyer was nodding over Roger’s words. He seemed to be willing to let the heir share the blame. A flicker on his face showed that he might be ready to pass the buck entirely.

Wingate looked at Hothan’s body; then turned to his companions.

“Roger’s bullet killed this man,” he decided. “It is best that we should state the fact that way. Then I shall be able to speak for Roger as his attorney, when the police arrive. Our duty at present is to inform the law.”

“What about the body?” questioned Clyde.

“We must leave it here,” emphasized Wingate. “Let us go downstairs and notify Detective Cardona, by telephone.”

“This is outside of the New York city limits,” objected Royce. “It would be better to call the local authorities.”

“We can leave that to Cardona,” insisted Wingate. “This is actually his case. I shall call him personally. He must have the opportunity to view the body first.”

“But the local authorities may call us to task—”

“Not if we tell Cardona that we have not called them. It will then be his duty to notify them. Don’t you understand?” Wingate was irritable. “I am doing this on Roger’s account.”

“How so?”

“If Cardona arrives here first, he will be on hand when the local police arrive. Cardona’s testimony that he was seeking Hothan will satisfy the constabulary. But if Cardona is not here when they come, they may insist upon taking Roger to jail. They may even arrest the rest of us.”

THIS sounded sensible to Royce. He gave the order to start downstairs. Solemnly, the group started out into the main gallery. It was then that Clyde Burke brought up a subject that had been forgotten in the excitement.

“The picture,” stated Clyde, suddenly. “The skull. It may hide the treasure.”

“That’s right!” exclaimed Roger. “But if we have to inform the police about—”

“We can come up here later,” snapped Wingate. “I am an attorney. I know the law. The picture will be safe. Leave it alone until the authorities are here.”

“But will it be safe?” queried Roger. “Suppose some one else should be in here.”

“No one could be about,” returned Wingate. “Let us go downstairs.” He was in the entry as he spoke, the others following. “We can close the door at the bottom of the stairs.”

“I’m wondering,” put in Royce. “First of all, about the servants. They should have heard the shots.”

“Not from the depths of this gallery,” argued Wingate. “The shots would have been muffled.”

“But,” added Royce, “I’m also wondering—”

“About the north wing?” questioned Roger, in sudden interruption. “You mean the other extension of this gallery? With the connecting doorway?”

“Yes,” replied Royce.

“Let us inspect it, Selwood,” urged Roger. “Come. You and I can see if it is still bolted.”

As Wingate started to protest against the delay, the two young men turned to go back into the gallery, leaving Clyde and the lawyer at the turn where entry met passage.

Roger was first to reach the gallery. He made a sudden gesture and gave a quick cry. Royce dropped back instinctively. Clyde and Wingate were rooted.

Then Roger, too, came backing, his hands moving upward, his revolver dropping from his clutch. An instant later, three men pounced into view at the gallery end of the entry. Leading them was a hard-faced man whose features were a leer. His companions were hard-looking ruffians. All held leveled revolvers.

FLICK SHERRAD and his raiders had arrived. They had caught their prey unaware.

Selwood Royce let his Luger fall. Clyde and Wingate, unready, followed suit with their revolvers.

Weapons clattered as Roger and Royce backed to the outer end of the entry to join their helpless companions.

“Smart bunch, eh?” jeered Flick. “Bumped Hothan, did you? Well, that saved me the job. Keep ‘em covered, mugs” — this to the two gorillas — “while I get the rest of the outfit. Then we’ll talk turkey.”

Flick’s eyes glittered evilly as he surveyed the helpless group. An odd smirk showed on his lips as he noticed something. Flick gave a slight nod. He motioned his gorillas a few paces forward. The leader, himself, turned about to return toward the north wing and summon the reserves.

Clyde Burke, staring, saw Flick squarely in front of the Moorish painting. The mob-leader was obscuring the lower portion of the picture.

Somehow, now that he had recognized the illusion, Clyde could see that painting only as a mammoth skull. The figures in it looked more blurred than ever. “The Last Tryst” meant death. Clyde could not repress a shudder.

Then, as Flick paused, Clyde gained a sudden impression. The skull seemed to be glaring down at the mob-leader. Its grin was mocking, as though the death’s-head counted Flick, the closest, as its lawful prey. Prompt upon this startling thought. Clyde heard an unexpected sound: A sharp click from the paneled wall in which the picture rested.

Flick heard it also. The mob-leader wheeled with an oath. As he did, Clyde saw the Moorish picture slide upward into the ceiling of the gallery. Its glide was swift. Some one had pressed a hidden switch.

Blackness yawned where the picture had been.

From that cavity came a horrendous laugh — a taunt that reverberated weirdly from the hollow; a gibe that spelled a living doom. Beyond the space where the picture had been were burning eyes that bored from darkness.

Eyes that Flick Sherrad saw as he wheeled. Orbs at which the mob-leader aimed point-blank as he snarled. Flick’s mobsmen were turning also, startled by the burst of mocking laughter. Clyde and his companions were motionless, staggered by this amazing denouement.

Flick Sherrad, swinging to fire at the eyes — that was the sight that held Clyde fearful. He knew the author of the laugh, the being who peered from blackness. The Shadow! And Clyde had confidence in his chief.

Yet, in this crucial instant, Clyde trembled. Flick’s turn had been a swift one; the mob-leader’s gun had come up in a trice. Gorillas were leaping about to aid their leader. One against three, The Shadow’s cause was grim!