Lucien Partridge was dumfounded. He stood amid his men, wondering what orders to give them. In the midst of his dilemma, he chanced to spy Vic Marquette. The secret-service man was endeavoring to be inconspicuous.
Vignetti saw Partridge glance in the direction of the secret-service man. The Corsican's hand stole within his jacket. As Vignetti drew the gleaming blade of his knife into view, Partridge saw the action and uttered approving words in Italian.
Vic Marquette must die; and in the midst of this incredible situation, Lucien Partridge thought no more of artistry in dealing death. The old man had betrayed the location of his treasure vault. Marquette had heard his cry that had ended with the words: "The gold!" Now, the secret-service man had learned too much.
The thought was flashing through Partridge's mind that some one must have entered the grounds unseen when Marquette had been admitted. The secret-service man must surely have subordinates!
Now was no time for diplomacy. Marquette must die swiftly, by the knife. Such was Partridge's decision, and it conformed with Vignetti's intent. Kill the leader first. Then find the others and slay them!
VIGNETTI, crafty in his manner, turned his body so that the knife was hidden from Marquette. He sidled toward the secret-service man.
Marquette observed the action, and began to move away. This was exasperating to Lucien Partridge.
With a cry of rage, the old man waved his arm toward Marquette, and shouted orders to his armed men.
"Get him! Kill -"
The command ended abruptly. Partridge stood like a statue. The other men, startled, gazed in surprise.
Even Vignetti paused, while Vic Marquette, his hand drawing an automatic from his pocket, budged no farther.
From across the river had come the deep boom of a muffled cannon shot. The echoes of its dull blast seemed to reverberate through the air, commanding instant silence. Like the first shot in the beginning of a mighty bombardment, that report inspired awe among the men who heard it.
Something whistled in the air overhead as a huge projectile completed its tall arc above the listening men.
Eyes looked aloft and instinctively turned toward the mansion, a hundred yards away. Time slowed to split-seconds as the missile completed its course toward destruction.
Then came the climax. With a crash, a huge bomb dropped from the night and landed squarely upon the doomed mansion.
A terrific explosion rocked the walls of the old frame structure. The entire roof of the doomed building was hurled high into the air. The walls spread outward, and seemed to scatter as though impelled by the mighty burst of flame that accompanied them.
Men staggered as the reverberation shook the ground. They fell helplessly. Chunks of hurtling debris were cast almost to the spot where these men had fallen.
Partridge—Vignetti—Marquette—all had lost thought of human enmity in this tremendous moment of amazement.
They and the others about them clutched the ground as though fearing it would cave in beneath them.
Like a thunderbolt from the blue, the arrival of the bomb had stunned the entire group. All eyes were focused only on the wreckage of the mansion.
Alfredo Morales had planned well. His calculations had been correct. The bomb had struck the big house perfectly. Its effect had been instantaneous. No person within that building could possibly have survived.
The wreckage was a holocaust. Fire had broken out immediately. Long tongues of flame threw a gruesome light across the lawn, and showed the pallid faces of the men who still lay helpless.
Alfredo Morales had planned to deal destruction and death. That bomb, discharged from the mortar by Manuel, had done its work. But it had accomplished only one half of its purpose.
Destruction was complete; but death had not followed. Those whom Morales had doomed were not entrapped as he had designed. All those within the mansion had been drawn from the danger spot by the intervention of The Shadow.
He had used the alarm to bring them forth five minutes before the bomb had been sent on its way.
Morales and his men were coming. Partridge and his men were here.
A loud, mocking laugh came from the door of the workhouse where the gold was kept. It was a laugh of triumph, yet its sinister tones were forbidding.
That laugh was more terrible than the crash of the devastating bomb. It inspired more awe than did the sight of the flaming mansion.
It was the laugh of The Shadow.
CHAPTER XX. ENEMIES BATTLE
LUCIEN PARTRIDGE was the first to stare in the direction of the workhouse. His action was copied by the others. Even Vignetti forgot his urge to slay Vic Marquette in his desire to see the source of that taunting laugh.
The door of the workhouse was open. Framed within it stood The Shadow. His tall, cloak-clad form was clearly revealed by the brightness from the burning mansion. To the startled eyes that saw him, The Shadow was a superbeing whose workmanship had brought these strange events to the domain of Lucien Partridge.
Silence gripped the men who watched. They knew that eyes were gazing at them from the cover of the broad-brimmed hat. They saw two black-gloved hands, each holding a powerful automatic.
They were twelve opposed to one—Partridge and his men—yet none dared move to attack this weird personage who had come to awe them.
The Shadow spoke. His words carried an eerie mockery. Those words, like the presence of The Shadow, caused men to quail. The Shadow's tones were addressed to Lucien Partridge.
"Murderer"—The Shadow's words were cold—"your doom has arrived. Your vile schemes are ended.
Slayer of Fitzroy"—Marquette gasped as he heard the name—"of Forster—of Guthrie—of Armagnac—you failed to-night!
"Your failure spelled your doom. No more will you give the fatal handshake that lies upon the gloves beside you. The poisoned powder of the Orient will never again deliver the creeping death!
"Your laboratory is demolished. Your furnaces are ruined. Your plan to flood the world with synthetic gold will go no further. To you will not even belong the vast stores of real gold that lie in the vault beneath me. That gold is guarded—by—The Shadow!"
The voice ended its impressive tones. Not a man had moved while The Shadow had been speaking. The climax of the revealing words was the announcement of identity that brought chills of fear to those who listened.
To Vic Marquette, The Shadow's statement was of the utmost moment. It cleared the cloud of mystery that had befogged the secret-service man in his investigation. It brought a flood of understanding thoughts to Vic's brain.
This was the source of the synthetic gold that had entered the coinage of the world! This was where Fitzroy had come to investigate! Lucien Partridge was the man who dealt the creeping death!
Vic saw the gloves upon the ground. He realized that he, too, was to have been a victim!
Forster and Guthrie—Vic had read of them in the newspapers. He did not know the details of their connection with old Partridge; but he realized that all could soon be learned.
LUCIEN PARTRIDGE was on his feet. The old man was shaking his clenched fist at the figure in black.
He cursed The Shadow with venom; then cried out the threat which was in his evil brain.
"You have spoken too much!" he shouted. "You shall die—you who call yourself The Shadow! You shall never leave the spot where you are standing!"
Choking with rage, the old man was about to order his men to the attack. He was sure that with their superior numbers they could conquer this menacing foe. Before Partridge could speak, The Shadow laughed again.
"You do not menace me," said the gibing voice of the black-clad being. "It is you who are menaced.
Your enemies approach you at this very moment!"
With a taunting peal of mirth, The Shadow stepped back into the gloom of the little workhouse. The steel-clad door clanged shut.
A cry of triumph burst from Partridge's lips. The Shadow was retreating! There, in the little house, he was tra
pped! Now was the opportunity to blast The Shadow's refuge place!
Turning, Partridge waved his men on. His plan was to surround the little building; to riddle its wooden walls with bullets; to burn the shack with the doomed man within it. But before Partridge could speak, a shot rang out from across the lawn. A bullet whistled by the startled group of men.
Alfredo Morales and his crew had entered by breaking down the gate. They were coming for the gold.
They had seen the group of men beside the work-house and they were opening an attack!
IT needed no command for Partridge's men to respond. They did not know the identity of these attackers. They did not care. They must fight to live. Scattering for cover, they returned the fire.
The lurid glare from the flaming mansion made a mighty spectacle of the startling skirmish that broke loose upon the lawn. Morales, though dumfounded to find men alive here, did not dare to hesitate.
Partridge, his rage a fury, was determined to resist at all cost.
One of Partridge's henchmen fell dead at the old man's feet. Partridge seized his gun and leaped for cover. Behind a protecting tree, he joined in the gunfire that was crackling from all sides.
Partridge's force numbered a dozen men. Morales had brought approximately the same number. It was an equal conflict between two evil forces.
For once, The Shadow disdained to play a part in a hectic fray. He had brought about this situation. He had matched the opposing forces. It was not through pity that he had saved Lucien Partridge and his henchmen from the doom that Alfredo Morales had planned.
Instead, The Shadow had drawn them from the marked mansion so that they might oppose Morales.
Craftily, The Shadow had brought trouble to both forces.
He had done nothing to prevent the firing of the bomb from the mortar. Thus destruction had come to Partridge's great house where crime was fostered. The Shadow had lured Morales into the conflict which now raged; thus had he ruined the Argentinian's plans.
The fray was becoming a fight to death. Those who were engaged deserved death. They showed no mercy in their actions. Every time a man fell wounded, his enemies used his body as a target. No quarter was asked, and none was given. Both sides knew that death awaited them either way.
The conflict, equal at the start, suddenly changed. The tide was turning to favor Lucien Partridge. He and his men, although surprised at the outset, knew the terrain. The circumstances that had forced them to cover proved to their advantage.
The open space of the lawn was covered with the fallen forms of the men who had come with Morales.
Shots were resounding from trees and bushes, discharged by Partridge's men. They were targets only when they fired. Between shots, they were difficult marks to reach.
The battle ended suddenly. Only Morales and three of his men remained, with bullets harassing them from every quarter. Jose was beside his master. A bullet laid him low.
Seeing Jose fall, Morales realized that disaster was upon him. With a cry to his men, he fled across the lawn, his companions close behind him.
The way had been closed by three of Partridge's men who had moved in that direction. They sprang out of hiding and leaped upon the fleeing men.
Morales shot one of his enemies dead; then he staggered and fell face foremost. His companions dropped a moment later. The men who had killed them riddled their bodies with bullets.
THE attackers were annihilated. Yet Lucien Partridge's forces had suffered heavily. Only a few remained unwounded, among them the old man and Vignetti. They were under cover, away from the territory close beside the workhouse.
One man had lain safe through the entire fray. He was Vic Marquette. The secret-service man had leaped for shelter beside the workhouse. He had fired no shots; hence his presence had passed unnoticed.
The flames of the mansion died suddenly, as though they were no longer needed. In the gloom, Vic Marquette emerged slowly from his hiding place. His plan was to reach the gloves and smock that Lucien Partridge had cast aside; to carry the gloves within the smock and escape with them as evidence.
But as Marquette moved forward, another man spied him. It was Vignetti. The Corsican, unwounded, crept out from the shelter of a bush to intercept the secret-service man.
Vignetti was not sure that it was Marquette he saw. Hence the Corsican did not fire. Instead, he carried his sharp knife.
A burst of flame from the dying embers of the old mansion threw a new glow upon the scene. Lucien Partridge spied Marquette. The old man fired. His bullet wounded the secret-service man. Partridge pressed the trigger again. There was no response. The last cartridge had been discharged.
Now Vignetti was leaping forward to finish the work that Partridge had begun. Marquette saw the menacing foeman. He raised his gun, but his hand trembled from a pain that gripped his shoulder. Vignetti knocked the automatic from Marquette's hand.
Down went Vic Marquette, with Vignetti above him. The Corsican's face was aflame with reflected light.
It was the hideous face of a fiend.
Up went the gleaming knife. Vic Marquette was helpless. He closed his eyes as he saw the wicked blade ready to descend. Vignetti was poised for the fatal stroke!
CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW FIGHTS
BEFORE Vignetti's upraised hand could drive the knife blade down into the heart of Vic Marquette, a shot blazed forth from an unexpected place.
The door of the workhouse had opened. The Shadow's aim was trained upon the murderous Corsican.
The unerring hand did not fail. The bullet from The Shadow's automatic struck Vignetti's right arm. The wounded limb collapsed; the knife fell harmlessly upon the ground beside Marquette's body.
With staring eyes, Marquette saw what had happened. The timely rescue gave him his opportunity. It was one wounded man against another.
With a mighty heave, the secret-service man threw the Corsican from him. Vignetti's left hand made a desperate clutch. The two men locked in a struggle.
Marquette's plight was apparent. Despite the fact that he had gained a temporary advantage over Vignetti, the outcome still was hopeless.
At the door of the workhouse, safely away from gunfire, The Shadow could pick off Vignetti at the first opportunity. On the other hand, Lucien Partridge and his few remaining men, hidden in darkness, could direct their fire upon Marquette.
Tense moments followed. Whichever won the struggle, Vignetti or Marquette, the other would be prey to an avenging shot. Seemingly, both were doomed.
Partridge and his men were afraid to shoot at the writhing forms for fear of striking Vignetti. The Shadow, who could easily have clipped the Corsican, desisted because Vignetti's death would mean the end of Vic Marquette!
The struggling men kept on their weakened battle. Neither one seemed capable of gaining an advantage.
Both had reached a defensive stage.
Figures were slinking through the dark, keeping away from the workhouse door where they knew death lurked. Partridge and the others were wary; and they were taking sure positions from which they could slay Vic Marquette, should he overpower Vignetti.
The gleaming eyes of The Shadow pierced the darkness. They seemed to sense the logical spots where the foemen were located. Then, as the situation reached its most crucial stage, The Shadow acted!
He chose a moment when the flaring mansion dulled spasmodically. Like a weird phantom, he swept silently from his place of safety. So perfectly did The Shadow choose his time that he had virtually reached the fighting men before Partridge and his minions saw him.
A chance burst of flame from the mansion revealed the tall, advancing figure. A being of black—a stalking form—with a long, grotesque shadow stretched across the lawn. That was the sight that the watchers saw!
Marquette and Vignetti were struggling side by side. Each was working desperately. The Corsican had clutched his knife again, holding it in his left hand. The secret-service man, likewise utilizing his left hand, was vainly endeavoring to bring
his automatic into play.
THEN The Shadow was upon them. With one swift motion, he propelled Vignetti clear of Marquette's body. Vic saw only the rolling form of the helpless Corsican. He fired his gun point-blank, his elbow resting on the ground. Three shots resounded in quick succession. Vignetti lay still.
Marquette was rising to his knees when he heard a voice hissing in his ear. The words were plain. The Shadow was ordering him to the shelter of the workhouse. With hands of steel, The Shadow gripped Marquette and plunged him on his way to safety.
The act was none too soon. A fusillade of shots burst forth from encircling spots. Partridge's men were blazing at the spot where two targets had been, but only one remained, now that The Shadow had hurled Marquette from the danger zone.
The Shadow staggered, but did not fall. Instead, he swerved in his course and zigzagged across the lawn, forming an eccentric course that defied accurate fire.
He was wounded; that was plain, for he had been unable to protect himself while aiding Vic Marquette.
But now he was possessed of an uncanny faculty that enabled him to elude new bullets.
A wild shot was aimed at Vic Marquette, who was scrambling to the workhouse. That shot was answered—by The Shadow!
Turning, his body merging with the ground, The Shadow had raised his left hand. With eagle eye he had spotted the exact place from which the shot had flashed. His perfect aim sought out the man who had delivered the shot. That marksman was felled by The Shadow's bullet.
Again, the black-clad hand pressed the trigger. This time a bullet sped toward a foeman who was dimly outlined in a fringe of dull light. The second enemy fell.
Now The Shadow's course had changed. He was invisible as he skirted the lawn, lost in the dying rays of flickering light. Men fired wildly. Each flash received a prompt response.
With his right hand useless, The Shadow was working with his left alone. Both hands were trained to perfect accuracy.
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