The Triple Trail

CHAPTER X NEW CRIME BREAKS

WHILE The Shadow had lingered in anticipation of Kelk’s advance, Tilton and Wickroft had reached their goal on the second floor. They were in a large room that reminded Wickroft of Stanton Treblaw’s study.

The walls were lined with huge box-like files — the repositories for manuscripts in Tilton’s large collection. The rest of the furniture consisted of old-fashioned chairs and tables, except for a large, ancient safe in the corner of the room.

Tilton’s gnarled fingers had turned the dial. The front of the safe was open.

Wickroft, trying to appear indifferent, was looking about. He noted a second door in this room; one that was in the rear wall. He and Tilton had come in through a side entrance from the hall.

“Here is the box,” quavered Tilton, drawing a small metal case from the safe. “I fear that it is empty.”

He shook the box as he spoke:

“Yet the envelope may still be within,” added the old man. “Perhaps Treblaw did not take it. Perchance it is wedged inside this box.”

Applying the key, Tilton unlocked the box. He placed the object on the table and raised the lid. The box was empty; only painted metal showed within. Tilton started to turn to Wickroft; then, suddenly, he gasped and pointed straight ahead.

The old man was facing the rear door of the room. That portal had opened. Framed within it was a big, rough-faced fellow whose evil visage wore a murderous expression. The man looked like a killer; in fact, he was one.

Duster had come to Silas Tilton’s. Behind him were his henchmen — Crawler and the same two gorillas who had aided in the murder of Stanton Treblaw.

“Stick ‘em up,” growled Duster.

Tilton and Wickroft obeyed. The old man backed away from the box; Wickroft, trembling, shrank toward a corner. Though he recognized who these invaders must be, he realized that he must play a part of victim, along with Tilton.

“Get the box, Crawler,” ordered Duster. “You mugs” — this to the gorillas — “move in and get busy with that safe.”

Men advanced, guns in hands, while Duster covered. Crawler, a leer on his dopey face, set one hand upon the box, then peered into the interior. Seeing it empty, he started to turn toward Duster. The swing brought his eyes in the direction of the door to the hall. Crawler stopped short; he uttered a fierce gasp:

“The Shadow!”

THE master of vengeance had arrived. Peering through the crevice of the door, The Shadow had spied the situation. He had swung the door inward without sound. He stood upon the threshold, ready with looming automatics.

“Get him!” snarled Duster.

Crawler leaped forward, aiming; gorillas spun about with ready guns. Pointing to kill, these fighters were out to get The Shadow, seeking no mercy for themselves if they failed in their maddened quest. They deserved no quarter; they received none.

Automatics blasted spurts of flame. Stabbing bullets came from The Shadow’s guns while mobster fingers still sought to tug revolver triggers.

Crawler, with a wild yelp, went leaping high into the air; then flattened face foremost to the floor.

One gorilla staggered; his revolver barked a wide shot as he fell. The other made a dive for the door where Duster stood, firing wildly as he fled. Alone of all the mob, Duster managed to dispatch shots at The Shadow.

The big leader was better as a slugger than a marksman. His revolver came down and up with each shot; always behind in its aim. For The Shadow, as he blasted bullets at men of crime, was swinging inward from the door, fading from Duster’s aim.

A bullet staggered the last gorilla. The Shadow’s left-hand gun swung straight for Duster. The automatic barked; but the bullet never reached its mark. The gorilla, coming high in agony, sprawled squarely upon Duster just as The Shadow fired. It was the underling who received The Shadow’s well-intended slug.

The gorilla sagged. Duster, wide-mouthed, stood as a dumfounded target for The Shadow’s next shot. Again, luck saved the big murderer. As a weird laugh came from The Shadow, Wickroft sprang into sudden action.

With surprising boldness, the treacherous secretary leaped straight for The Shadow. He came plunging squarely upon the black-clad fighter. His pummeling arms beat down The Shadow’s wrists.

Grappling with his cloaked foe, Wickroft fought like a fiend. He and The Shadow locked in a sudden struggle. Duster, at the door, emitted a loud triumphant snarl as he aimed for The Shadow’s blackened shape.

Here was his chance to kill, with steady aim. Duster leveled his gun; but he fired an instant too late. The Shadow, knowing the menace, had whirled struggling with Wickroft. The traitor’s body came as a shield between The Shadow and Duster.

Bullets found Wickroft’s body. Sagging, Wickroft would have fallen to the floor but for the grip that The Shadow still retained. An automatic muzzle shoved up beneath Wickroft’s limp arm. Flame tongued toward Duster; a bullet sizzled past the big crook’s head.

Wildly, Duster dived for the doorway. Again The Shadow fired; his second bullet skimmed Duster’s shoulder. The big man fled headlong. Dropping Wickroft’s body, The Shadow sprang forward in pursuit.

A shot came from the hallway door. The Shadow wheeled as the bullet whined close by his ear. Tully Kelk had entered. He had fired at The Shadow, alone save for Tilton, who was cowering by Wickroft’s body.

The Shadow aimed with swiftness and precision. But his automatic was slow in its reply. Kelk had counted upon one shot alone; he was diving for cover the moment after he had delivered it. The Shadow’s bullet zipped inches wide as Kelk’s long figure sprang beyond the door to the hall.

SHOTS from the rear of the house; The Shadow paused in his pursuit of Duster; he headed out along the path that Kelk had taken. He saw the front door closing. He continued down the stairs.

Kelk was gone when The Shadow reached the street. A passage between two houses across the way was the path that he had chosen. The Shadow did not pursue.

Instead, he stood in darkness. He heard new shots in back of the house. A pause; then figures came scudding through. The Shadow hissed a sharp command. Two men stopped beside him. Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye — agents whom The Shadow had summoned.

“Report,” whispered The Shadow from darkness.

“It was Duster Shomak,” returned Cliff, half out of breath. “Hawkeye recognized him. We opened fire; but he managed a get-away. A patrol car’s coming.”

“Go with Shrevnitz,” hissed The Shadow.

Cliff and Hawkeye hurried to the taxi. The cab pulled away. While he watched it, The Shadow heard sirens from the rear street; then shrill whistles. The police were on the job.

Swiftly, The Shadow crossed the street and merged with the blackness of the opposite passage.

Two minutes later, a patrol car rolled up to the front of Tilton’s house. No signs of trouble there. Two policemen leaped out; one spied the open front door of the house. The two entered.

Shouts from the back. Other officers were coming in from the rear. They joined their comrades; the group headed upstairs as they heard a quavering call. They arrived in Tilton’s study. Perkins had joined his master. The servant had been on the third floor; he had come down after the gunfire. The two were supporting the dying form of Wickroft. Crawler and two gorillas had died in the fray; but Wickroft, though mortally wounded, was still alive.

“The chief!” gasped Wickroft. “He — he double-crossed me. I–I was here — here — for a blind but he — he didn’t tell me.”

“Who’s the chief?” demanded a policeman.

“I–I don’t know,” returned Wickroft. “Tall — tall, with a mustache. Dark face. Smooth — smooth when he talks. He wanted — the manuscript. The Cellini—”

The gasp was final. Wickroft’s body slumped. The traitor rolled dead as Perkins loosed his hold upon the sinking shoulders.

New crime had struck tonight. Men of murder had come here to kill and rob. The Shadow had met them; beating down odds, he had prevented their work of evil.

Wickroft had died with Crawler and two gorillas. Yet The Shadow had disposed of tools alone; he had not managed to stop Duster Shomak, the murderous mob leader who had headed the violent raid.

Nor had he disposed of Tully Kelk. The mustached man had made a rapid flight. By swiftness, Kelk had evaded the law; the only clue to his identity lay in the dying words from Wickroft’s lips!