The Third Skull

CHAPTER XXII. THE BIG-SHOT

A ROAR from yawning blackness. A tongue of flame spat dagger-like toward Flick Sherrad. Finger on trigger of his glimmering revolver, the mob-leader faltered and jolted backward. The slug from a .45 had found his heart.

Flick never fired. The Shadow had beaten him to the shot. Ready with automatics from the instant that he had pressed a release within the hollow, The Shadow had won the first thrust. Gorillas were still on the wheel as Flick Sherrad failed.

Then came the combined barks of guns. A second tongue of flame jabbed from blackness as a gorilla fired. Clyde saw the flash come from the very floor of the hollow space. One mobster staggered while his companion loosed more shots.

The Shadow had tricked these ruffians. Prompt with his first shot, he had dropped. Mobsmen had seen the flash of the automatic, high in the blackened space. They had aimed for it. The Shadow, however, was below the fire. He had downed the first gorilla while the fellow’s bullet was zooming above his head.

The second thug had made the same mistake as the first. He had aimed high, with his opening shots. But as he saw the burst that dropped his fellow, he lowered his aim to a lower spot. The mobster’s action, though quick, was not in time.

Catching the split-second that he wanted, The Shadow tongued another slug with perfect aim. The second gorilla wavered. While the first thug was thudding to the floor, this new victim lost his hold upon his revolver. He, too, sprawled, helpless.

A mocking laugh was The Shadow’s knell. Out of blackness came blackness. A formidable shape swung into view as The Shadow sprang from his hiding place. There, in the exact center of the gallery, he looked like a living ghost. Half obscured by the blackness of the space that he had left, The Shadow was a vague, elusive figure.

CLYDE and his companions were rigid for the moment. Then they saw The Shadow whirl. Automatics roared a welcome to new foemen. Shots answered from the end of the gallery toward the north wing.

Flick Sherrad’s reserves had arrived. The Shadow had turned to meet them.

His shots were first. The Shadow had found living targets. But hard upon his first delivery, he whirled into the cover of the entry, so he could use the corner of the wall as a protection. Pressed close to the wall, The Shadow was using his right hand, extended, to pump lead at new raiders.

“Get your guns!” bawled Royce.

Men leaped for weapons. They grabbed each other’s by mistake. Royce found Wingate’s .32; Roger seized Royce’s Luger. Clyde and Wingate each picked up a .38. As they came up, armed, they heard gunfire cease. Raiders had retreated in face of The Shadow’s fire.

Clyde gave a cry. Something else had happened. Victor of the fray, The Shadow was slumping. His blackened form came to a huddled position just within the protection of the corner. His guns were doubled under him.

“He’s been hit!” cried Royce. “It’s up to us! Come along! After them!”

Royce grabbed Wingate, who was beside him. He half yanked the lawyer to the chase; the pair went hurdling into the gallery. Clyde darted after them, ready to aid, counting upon Roger to follow.

As he made the turn into the gallery, the thought of more important duty stirred Clyde. Sprawled thugs were at the end where the extension led to the north wing. Others were in flight. More important than the chase was aid to The Shadow.

Clyde stopped short. He whirled about to the entry. Then, from his startled lips came a cry of hopeless fury, so harrowing that Roger and Wingate stopped their dash to turn about before they had reached the end of the gallery.

Clyde was staring into the entry. His own gun was lowered; he was unable to intervene in the situation that he saw. Crumpled on the floor was The Shadow. Beyond him, by the mirrored door, was Roger Parchell. The heir had not joined in the pursuit.

A venomous curl upon his lips, Roger was aiming the Luger pistol straight for the huddled figure of The Shadow. He was out to complete the work which mobsmen had failed to accomplish. He was ready to deliver death to that cloaked fighter who had slumped helplessly after waging triumphant battle.

ROGER heard Clyde’s cry. He darted a fierce look at the reporter and saw that Clyde’s gun was down.

With the outer passage offering him protection, Roger would have time to complete the work that he had lingered to perform; then dive for shelter and take aim at Clyde.

Wildly, Clyde leaped forward, hoping to throw himself between Roger and The Shadow, to take the bullet that the heir meant for the huddled fighter. As he sprang, Clyde heard the roar of a gun. A flash of flame seared upward from the black shape on the floor, stabbing across Clyde’s very path.

Realization hit Clyde as he came to hands and knees in front of The Shadow’s form. Looking toward the mirrored door, Clyde saw Roger Parchell sinking back against the wall. The venomous face was shaded by the darkness of the outer passage; but Clyde could see its expression changing.

A sickly leer showed on distorted lips. It was reflected in the mirror as well. Two faces — Roger’s and its replica — showed that the would-be killer was out. Roger’s gun hand had slumped. He could not raise it.

The Luger was dangling at his finger tips.

Others beside Clyde had been there for the finish. Royce and Wingate, reaching the entry just as Clyde leaped, had seen the cause of the reporter’s cry.

They had caught Roger aiming for The Shadow. They had seen the flash of an automatic, upward from one of The Shadow’s hidden hands.

Bounding to the middle of the entry, they watched Roger sag. The Luger clattered. Then came a solemn laugh.

Turning about, three men saw The Shadow rising. The master fighter was uninjured. His fall had been a feint.

The Shadow had seen the last of the mobsters dive for the north wing. Suspending fire, he had made a bluff of being wounded, knowing that loyal men would follow. Thus, The Shadow knew, the supercrook would have opportunity to remain behind.

ROGER PARCHELL was the big-shot behind crime. Only The Shadow had divined that fact. He had given the supercrook a chance to show his hand. Roger had taken the logical option. His minions scattering, it was his last chance to turn the game to his own advantage.

By dealing with The Shadow, out of sight of the others. Roger would have had clear sweep. He could then have surprised his companions from the rear, downing them from ambush at the corner where entry met gallery, catching them coming back, as The Shadow had dealt with Flick Sherrad’s reserves.

Then the supercrook would have been master. He could have recalled his henchmen who had fled into the north wing. All this had been Roger Parchell’s aim. The Shadow had trapped him in the first step of his endeavor.

Holding his final shot until the last moment, The Shadow had allowed three men to see the outcome of Roger Parchell’s treachery.

The Shadow knew the heir for a murderer. It was Roger who must have killed Channing Tobold. It was Roger, again, who had battled with The Shadow from the darkness of Professor Morth’s third-story stairway.

Roger Parchell had planned work on that night when Harry Vincent had trailed him to a movie theater.

Wise enough to know that some one might be following him, he had started out in an innocent fashion; but had taken a side exit to leave the theater. He had craftily come back to the Hotel Metrolite at just the right time, to make it look as though he had stayed at the theater.

Roger had no real alibi for that night. No more than Wingate, who had left his apartment in a taxi. No more than Royce, who had forgotten his appointment with Clyde Burke. No more than Doctor Deseurre, who had left a banquet to answer a patient’s call.

All suspects at large, The Shadow had reasoned out which must be the villain. He had picked Roger Parchell. But he had given the heir leeway — in order that crime could be stopped in its consummation; that the world would know the man responsible.

The Shadow had spotted the skull picture in Royce’s gallery. That was why he had changed from Cranston to The Shadow. He had come back here to find the secret of the space behind the Moorish painting. He had located the hidden chamber and had taken it as a hiding place when Hothan entered.

Then The Shadow had waited to trap rogues. He knew that crooks would be searching; that their thorough job might ultimately end here. He had heard Hothan come hurrying along the passage. He had realized from the man’s excited gasps that Hothan had recognized the illusion of the skull.

Talbot’s chance hearing of Hothan’s footfalls had produced a contretemps. It had brought Selwood Royce and his guests to the art gallery. The incidents which followed had produced rapid changes in The Shadow’s plans; but all the while he had held the key position.

ROGER PARCHELL was gasping his last. The Shadow had had no alternative in dealing with this murderer. Roger had tried to kill The Shadow in cold blood; in return, he had received a bullet that he deserved.

Solemn, whispered tones came from The Shadow’s lips. There was no mirth in that laugh. It sounded as a final note of doom. Harrowing, chilling, it made men shudder. All save Roger Parchell. From the dying heir, The Shadow’s token brought a final snarl.

“I dodged you that night I killed Tobold,” gasped Roger. “I–I got away from you at Morth’s! I wanted to kill you” — he coughed, as his fingers crept toward the Luger beside him — “to kill you here — tonight — and I will—”

The gasping snarl broke. The creeping hand had reached the pistol. Fingers clutched; then failed.

Watching men saw Roger Parchell slump completely, his dead face pressed against the silvered mirror.

A swish. The witnesses turned to see The Shadow wheeling toward the gallery. His cloaked form swung past the corner of the entry. The Shadow was heading toward the north wing.

A strange laugh came in parting. Rising to a weird crescendo, it quivered, then burst into shuddering reverberations. Echoes answered from the length of the gallery.

Eerie, ghoulish tongues had responded to The Shadow’s mockery. Walls seemed loath to lose that shivering strain. Long-lingering, the echoes finally died; only the muffled sound of rainfall disturbed the heavy hush that followed.

Yet standing men, delivered men, were motionless. They could fancy that they still heard ghostly laughter from afar. The memory of those parting echoes was difficult to lose.

They had heard the triumph laugh of The Shadow!