Treasures of Death

CHAPTER XXIV THE FINAL TRIUMPH

A SMILE showed on the bloodstained face of Lycurgus Mercher as the secretary studied the faces of those whom he had been delegated to slay. Then, with a peculiar sarcasm in his voice, the secretary spoke.

“Eli Galban has told his story!” he exclaimed. “It should have been obvious to all of you. I could have told you that some one other than Thibbel slew Compton Salwood. The knife in Compton’s body was evidence of that.

“Why should Thibbel or the mobsmen — armed with revolvers — have used a knife — why” — Mercher was staring toward Cardona — “should Salwood have been forced to leave by eleven to keep an appointment with his unknown master? Only because he was going farther than to Hargate’s. To this house, for instance, an hour from New York.”

Harry Vincent was staring hard at Mercher. The pale face of the secretary was gleaming with strange vigor. His eyes were sparkling vividly.

“There were other clews,” came Mercher’s strained tone. “Articles that were taken from Salwood’s office. Hargate’s odd behavior. Useless capsules in place of the stimulating pills that were so important to the fading life of Shattuck Barliss. Eli Galban has not told you all!”

“Come, Mercher,” ordered Galban, as the secretary paused. “You have said enough. It is time that these men should die.”

Mercher was stooped forward in cringing fashion. His hands were against the front of his coat. As he stood there, the door of the elevator clicked as Eli Galban opened it.

“Die!” shrieked Mercher’s voice. “You ask that I should kill them! Can the dead kill the living? Can Lycurgus Mercher kill — when he lies dead in the cellar of this house? No! But I can kill! I am the living who has taken the place of the dead!”

With these words, the form of Lycurgus Mercher wheeled and straightened. From beneath his coat, his hands swung forth two automatics. Eli Galban, startled, was staring into a face that was Mercher’s and yet was not!

A weird laugh broke from the lips that resembled Mercher’s. That laugh was the one that told its story. Harry Vincent realized the amazing thing that had happened. This was not Lycurgus Mercher. The being in Mercher’s guise was The Shadow!

THE automatics, coming into view with sweeping speed, were leveling toward human targets. Fawkes and Sanyata were standing with revolvers in hand. The suddenness of The Shadow’s revelation had caught them momentarily unaware. As they aimed to shoot this unexpected enemy, the automatics barked.

Sanyata fell as a bullet reached his heart. Fawkes staggered, wounded. His gun fell from his hand. Then, with a fierce snort, the huge-headed man sprang forward. The automatic in The Shadow’s left hand barked its second message. The fiendish servitor of Eli Galban sprawled upon the floor.

Only the weakness of his right arm had prevented The Shadow from dropping Fawkes with the first shot. That arm had drooped from the recoil of the automatic. The Shadow’s left arm swung upward as Eli Galban, yanking a revolver from his hip, made frantic aim to kill.

The old man’s gun roared. Its bullet sizzled past The Shadow’s shoulder and flattened against one of the metal shutters that barred a window. Before Galban could deliver a second shot, The Shadow’s automatic barked its message of doom.

Sprawling, Galban toppled from the elevator and fell writhing to the floor. A triumphant laugh burst from The Shadow’s lips. Amid the echoes of that fearful mockery, the fighter who had assumed the guise of Lycurgus Mercher sprang into the elevator and closed the door.

FOUR rescued men stood quivering. This unexpected climax had saved them from what seemed certain doom; yet it had left them shaky, staring at the bodies on the floor. Eli Galban had met the fate that he deserved, along with Sanyata and Corry Fawkes, his evil henchmen.

To Harry Vincent, the mystery was explained, at least in part. He recalled Mercher’s visit to the cellar; also Thibbel’s statement that he had defeated one of Galban’s crew. Harry realized now that The Shadow must have been below.

There, the superfighter had viewed Mercher’s body. A master of disguise, he had arrayed himself to pass as Eli Galban’s secretary. He had rejoined Galban, taking the place of Mercher, who — as The Shadow had declared — was dead in the cellar of the mansion.

Joe Cardona began to beat at the door that led to the stairs. It was locked; and there was no way to open it. The door of the elevator had automatically jammed with the descent of the car.

Deprived of his own gun, Cardona looked toward the floor and seized the huge revolver that Fawkes had wielded. Savagely, the detective hurled bullets at the lock of the door to the stairs. The attack was successful. The lock broke. Cardona opened the door.

Followed by his companions, the detective led the way below. He was heading for the second floor, to break into Eli Galban’s storeroom and regain the stolen treasures. Wendel Hargate and Terry Barliss followed eagerly. They knew that the Villon manuscript would surely be found within that room.

Harry Vincent was the last to leave. At the doorway, he paused to stare reflectively toward the bodies of three fiends who had sought to thwart The Shadow. Sanyata lay upon his face. Fawkes was on his back, his huge chin slumped almost to his waist. Eli Galban was sprawled crazily on the floor. His face, in death, had completely lost the look that it had worn in life. Galban’s features were those of an evil fiend.

On the stairway, Harry paused to breathe fresh air through the bars of an opened window. As he lingered there, amid the patter of the rain, Harry Vincent caught the vague sound of a distant burst of mockery.

RISING eerily from the night, sweeping to a weird crescendo that burst as from the tongues of an impish horde, the gibing merriment broke into shuddering echoes that mingled with the murmur of the rain.

That was the cry that denoted the victory of right. Harry Vincent stood immobile as he heard its uncanny tones fade into sibilant whispers and mingle with the night.

That was the triumph laugh of a being who had waged and won a war against a superfiend of crime. It was the laugh of The Shadow!

It was the final triumph — the victory of right! But to Harry Vincent, the laugh meant more than conquest. It was the symbol of a mighty warrior in whose service Harry had seen villains fall; a superbeing whose hand could never fail.

The Shadow never fails!