The Third Skull

CHAPTER VIII. DEATH FROM DARKNESS

THE end of the gunfire had brought Channing Tobold up from behind his counter. Bobbing into view, the old pawnbroker stared at the scene before him. The Shadow and a group of mobsters had plunged down the front stairs. Guns were booming from below.

Here, too, were remnants of the fray. Sprawled forms of mobsters were testimony to The Shadow’s marksmanship. The shattered window frame showed the course that Homer Hothan had followed.

Tobold stood safe behind his battered counter.

Gems glittered in the eerie light. A breeze from the window was fanning the bare flame of the gas jet.

That tongue of fire took on fantastic, quivering shapes. At moments, the room was well illuminated; at other intervals, the light went dim.

A ghoulish scene it was: The white-faced man with the black skullcap; the sprawled bodies on the floor; quivering light that seemed inspired by the weirdness of the fray that had occurred within these walls.

Glittering jewels reposed on the counter. The baubles caught Tobold’s eye. The pawnbroker forced a happy laugh as he shoved the jewelry back into the box. He managed a joyful cackle as he again noted the combination word.

He could close this box and reopen it as he chose. He could keep it until the proper party called for it.

Weldon Wingate, probably. Old Tobold had recalled the name of Hildrew Parchell’s lawyer: Weldon Wingate. He would come here soon.

The last ring of all — the tiny silver skull with the ruby eyes, Tobold held it up into the quivering light. The features of the skull were plain as he discerned them through his thick-lensed glasses.

The gas jet flickered. The skull’s glitter lessened. Then Tobold turned, to blink wonderingly as he faced the sheathed door through which The Shadow had come.

Tap — tap — tap—

Some one was knocking steadily at that barrier. There was something evil in the summons. Old Tobold shrugged his shoulders. He edged further behind the counter.

Tap — tap—

Something about the rapping was firm and irresistible. Tobold recalled that his cloaked rescuer had bolted that very door. Sufficient reason to leave it barred. Yet there was something in the rapping that impressed the old pawnbroker.

Had some one been beating at the door in fierce demand, Tobold would not have answered it. If the knocks had been in frantic, pleading fashion, the old man would have suspected trickery. But this rhythmic tapping held compelling force. Curiosity overcame discretion.

TOBOLD, still holding the tiny ring with the skull uppermost, walked to the sheathed door and drew the bolt. There was no action from the other side. The door remained closed. Tobold opened it.

The rear of the house was dark. The flicker of the gas jet was confined to this room. Tobold, blinking, could not see who stood beyond the door. But the man there could see the pawnbroker; more than that, he had spotted the silver skull in the old man’s hand.

An arm shot forward.

With a wild cry, Tobold leaped away. He dived for the counter, expecting that the intruder would follow.

No move was made. From below came bursts of intermittent gunfire. Tobold felt helpless.

The old man spied Hothan’s gun on the counter. He dropped the skull ring and seized the weapon. That was his last chance. It was too late. Channing Tobold had been slated for doom from the moment that he had foolishly answered the tappings at the door.

A revolver spurted from the inner doorway. Tobold uttered a mad gasp. He tried to raise his own weapon; he dropped the gun as he staggered.

Circling across the flickering room; Tobold slumped against the wall beside the window. Hands pressed close to his body, he sank slowly toward the floor.

The flame in the gas jet had elongated, like a living thing, bending downward to study the wounded man’s agony. Came a puff of wind through the window; as if in payment for over-curiosity, the gas flame succumbed with Tobold. The light went out; the hiss of escaping gas replaced it.

A flashlight glimmered. A figure strode forward through the darkness from the inner door. Tobold’s killer reached the counter. He picked up the skull ring from the flashlight’s glowing circle. He dropped it into the box with the other jewelry.

The light shone on the combination. The hidden killer noted the word “THYME.” He closed the box, spun the letters of the dial and extinguished his torch. Turning in the darkness, the murderer strode out by the path that he had chosen for his entry.

DOWN by the front doorway, The Shadow had been keeping up his fire with a fresh brace of automatics. His own shots had drowned the sound of the killer’s single burst.

The Shadow had thinned the opposition. Mobsters were in retreat. To spur them to more rapid flight, new shots were coming from down the street.

Agents of The Shadow had arrived. These were two men summoned by Burbank: namely, Cliff Marsland and “Hawkeye,” capable marksmen who knew the ways of the underworld. The Shadow had beaten them in the race to the pawnshop. Since they had now arrived, the field could be left to them.

Swinging back into the open doorway, The Shadow moved swiftly up the stairs. Near the top, he realized that something was wrong. The absence of the gas light was proof of that fact. An automatic in one hand, The Shadow produced a flashlight with the other.

A circle of light showed the counter unoccupied. The metal box was gone. Then, near the window, The Shadow spied Tobold gasping on the floor. Rays of light came from the inner doorway. The Shadow saw that the barrier was unbarred.

Several minutes had been the extent of The Shadow’s absence. Tobold’s murderer could not have traveled very far. Swiftly, The Shadow cut through to the rear of the house. He knew the route to the stairway. He followed it, descending.

ON the street below, a taxicab was rolling up beside the curb. This was the thoroughfare beyond the pawnshop. Fleeing mobsters had taken an opposite direction. A shrewd-faced driver was peering from the cab window.

This man was Moe Shrevnitz. He, too, was an agent of The Shadow. Burbank had ordered him here, at The Shadow’s bidding. Time and again, Moe’s cab had proven useful in moving agents from the scene of a rapid fray.

A man stepped forward from beside the building. Moe could hear him panting from a run. The cab driver wondered what the fellow was doing here. There was a simple way to find out.

“Taxi?” questioned Moe.

The suggestion had worked before. Moe had previously picked out men of crime to offer them what seemed to be aid in time of need. This man stepped forward. Moe leaned out to open the cab door.

Like a shot, the fellow leaped forward and grabbed Moe by the neck. With one swift yank, he pulled the taxi driver headlong. Moe sprawled upon the sidewalk. His assailant yanked open the door of the cab and sprang to the wheel. Moe had left the motor running. The cab shot away.

Tobold’s killer was bound on a swift escape. Moe Shrevnitz, coming dazedly to an upright position, was unable to start in pursuit. He heard footsteps pounding on the sidewalk. Cliff Marsland came dashing up — also too late to prevent the killer’s flight.

A few moments later, The Shadow arrived from the rear door of the pawn shop. The taxi had rounded the next corner; but the sight of Cliff lifting Moe to his feet told The Shadow what had happened.

Halting in the blackness of the doorway, The Shadow heard wailing sirens. Then came the clatter of nightsticks on distant pavement.

Scurrying mobsters had fled. Patrolmen were coming toward this vicinity. Patrol cars had heard the firing.

Soon the police would be on the job. A quick-moving, hunch-shouldered man was coming up from the corner. It was Hawkeye, looking for Cliff.

Moe had been detailed to pick up Cliff and Hawkeye. His cab gone, Moe was unable to perform this duty. It was up to the other agents to take him along with them. Mobsters defeated, there was no cause to linger.

Moe was on his feet, steady enough to travel. Cliff pointed across the street. Hawkeye nodded, agreeing that that was the proper direction to take.

A hiss from the doorway. The Shadow’s agents turned. They heard a commanding whisper, brief instructions from their darkness-shrouded chief.

Acting in response, they changed direction. The trio headed into a little passageway behind the pawnshop. The Shadow had pointed them to the course that Homer Hothan had taken, through to the courtyard by the shed.

For The Shadow knew that Hothan must have found an open path. The same way would give his agents opportunity to depart before the police arrived. As the three men ducked through the passage to the courtyard, The Shadow wheeled and returned into the pawnshop.

He reached the upstairs room. His flashlight glimmered upon old Tobold’s prostrate form. The pawnbroker was almost gone. His breathing was forced and wheezy. Glassy-eyed, he blinked into The Shadow’s light.

“The — the skull,” gasped Tobold. “They — they took the jewels — with the skull. They wanted — the silver skull. I–I don’t know why. The silver — the silver skull—”

Wearily, the old man closed his eyelids. His voice ended with a sigh. Muscles relaxed; the withered form rolled upon the floor. Channing Tobold was dead, murdered like Hildrew Parchell.

BUT the aged pawnbroker was no victim of Homer Hothan. The sallow-faced killer had failed tonight.

His wild flight had been genuine. The Shadow knew that Hothan would have lacked the nerve required to return.

Channing Tobold had been slain by a more potent murderer. A new killer had entered the picture. The big-shot who was after wealth had taken a hand in the game. The evil worker had backed Hothan with a squad of mobsters, in case a raid should prove necessary at Tobold’s.

Hothan had fled. The Shadow had dispelled the mobster crew. The fight had been carried to the front of the old building. All the while, the big crook of the lot had been in readiness. He had lurked somewhere in reserve; then had stepped in to act when others had failed.

That this unknown killer had nerve was an apparent fact. Gunfire must have told him that his plans had gone awry; nevertheless, he had moved straight into the danger zone. In some fashion, he had persuaded Channing Tobold to unbolt the door. This was added proof of the killer’s cold-blooded ability.

As The Shadow had divined, Homer Hothan was no more than a tool. The one-time secretary was a weakling, inspired to action by a chief who dominated him. The elimination of Hothan, should The Shadow find new opportunity for it, would still leave the big-shot at large.

Whistles sounded outside of the building. Pounding footsteps echoed on both stairways of the pawnshop.

The police were here, closing in on this room where death had struck.

The Shadow’s flashlight clicked out. A swish sounded by the window.

The Shadow had chosen Hothan’s route: Through the window, to the shed below. Reaching the courtyard, he had time to pick his way through darkened spaces toward a street a block away.

FLASHLIGHTS came on in the room where Tobold’s body lay. A patrolman noted the gas jet; he heard its hiss. Striking a match, the uniformed man lighted the gas.

The flickering flame showed four bluecoats. Two had entered from one doorway; two from the other.

These were the vanguard of the law.

Among the sprawled mobsters, only one showed any signs of life. Dying, this gorilla opened his eyes and stared at the police. He snarled at sight of the harness bulls; then coughed his last.

Patrol cars were coming up a block away. Hastening to the scene of strife, the occupants failed to see the blackened figure that was gliding across a deserted street. Others, foes and friends, had left before The Shadow.

He, too, was departing from the area where crime had struck.

A whispered laugh echoed in darkness. The Shadow’s mirth could well have been interpreted as a grim warning to the enemies of crime who had escaped him. Theft and murder had been accomplished tonight, despite The Shadow. A trail had been broken.

But, to The Shadow, this was just a new beginning. He had gained steps along the needed track. This master of vengeance was determined to trace men of evil to their lairs.