“Gouger!”
The bodyguard appeared in answer to Furzman’s summons. The big shot made a sweeping motion with his hand.
“Look around the place,” he said. “Make sure there’s no snoopers here.”
“Not a chance,” rejoined Gouger. “Say, King - the way I keep that outside door locked -“
“Take a look anyway,” ordered the big shot.
WONDERING, Gouger walked out between the curtains. He was heading for the anteroom to begin his search. King Furzman picked up the telephone. He dialed a number.
“That you, Wolf?” he inquired. “This is King Furzman. Say, Wolf - that idea of yours about The Shadow sounds right. I got a tip-off from Wellerton. He says The Shadow was on his trail, too.”
“He says what?” Wolf’s reply was an incredulous tone over the wire.
“He says The Shadow is on his trail,” repeated King. “That is, The Shadow was on his trail, until he managed to duck out.”
“Where?” came Wolf’s question.
“That’s my business,” snapped Furzman, remembering Graham’s injunction to say nothing regarding his whereabouts. “The point is that Wellerton figures The Shadow trailed you here last night.”
“So that’s his game, eh?” Wolf’s snarl sounded clearly in the receiver. “Tryin’ to blame somethin’ on me. Say, King, don’t let that egg stall you. He’s got somethin’ up his sleeve. He’s out to double-cross you, Wellerton is.”
“I know where he’s gone,” declared the big shot harshly. “I want you to keep away from here. Lay low for a while.”
“Honest, King,” came Wolf’s plea, “I ain’t handin’ you no boloney. Let me come up there tonight - I can put you wise to the kind of a bird Wellerton is. He’s tryin’ to slip somethin’ over on you. Say - he couldn’t duck The Shadow if that guy was on his trail -“
“Can the gab, Wolf,” ordered Furzman. “You won’t get anywhere by knocking Wellerton. You heard what I had to say. Lay low until you hear from me.”
“Listen, King -“
Wolf’s plea was cut short as Furzman hung up. The big shot set the telephone heavily upon a table and growled to himself as he stood staring at the wall.
His mind was at odds. Graham Wellerton’s warning had been impressive; Wolf Daggert’s doubts, however, began to change the matter.
King Furzman wondered.
Was Wolf right? Had Wellerton been stalling?
It was conceivable that Graham could have some game of his own; that he had followed Wolf’s lead and used The Shadow as an alibi.
The big shot’s face was grim. His eyes were angry. With hands thrust in his Tuxedo pockets, he fumbled with the revolver that he kept there. At last he brought his hands into view and reached for the telephone again. On the point of giving Wolf Daggert another call, he laid the instrument aside.
Two lieutenants, at odds with one another. Were both on the square or were both crossing the big shot? Weighing the matter, King Furzman considered yesterday’s episodes.
Wolf Daggert had failed. Graham Wellerton had succeeded. Moreover, Graham had deliberately left his share of the loot in Furzman’s possession. That was the deciding point. Graham Wellerton was on the level.
A new thought came to King Furzman. Graham Wellerton was a keen worker. He had suggested that The Shadow might even now be spying on the big shot. Gouger had started out to search the apartment. How was he making out?
Turning, King Furzman looked toward the archway with its hanging draperies. He stopped suddenly. His eyes became fixed; his body rigid. In one instant he had gained positive proof that Graham Wellerton’s warning was a sound one.
Standing within the range of light was a living apparition of darkness. A tall figure, clad in black, was blocking King Furzman’s path. The folds of a sable-hued cloak were motionless. The face of the being who wore that garment was hidden beneath the projecting brim of a black slouch hat.
The only tokens of the hidden face were two gleaming eyes that burned with steady light. Despite the hypnotic power of those sinister optics, King Furzman could visualize the entire form of the personage before him. His startled gaze took in the muzzle of an automatic that projected from the folds of the cloak, held firmly by a black-gloved hand.
King Furzman made no motion. Like a statue, he stood gazing at the spectral figure which had so silently materialized itself. There was no mistaking the identity of this weird phantom that had seemingly emerged from nothingness.
King Furzman, erstwhile racketeer who had turned his hand to crime, was face to face with the master mind who battled men of evil. The gasp that came from the big shot’s twisted lips was proof of the recognition that was in his mind.
King Furzman was face to face with The Shadow. Graham Wellerton’s warning had failed to save the big shot from this meeting with the archenemy of crime!
CHAPTER VI
THE BIG SHOT SPEAKS
KING FURZMAN, as he faced The Shadow, was a man who betrayed consternation. The big shot was a man who constantly wore an expression of cold brutality - a mask which ever hid the emotions which he felt. The mask had lifted now. Stark fear had replaced King Furzman’s habitual glower.
The big shot was knowing the fear that had gripped other crime wreakers when they had encountered The Shadow. Furzman’s forehead glistened with perspiration; his hands were limp; his body trembled. Through his mind was passing all that he had heard concerning the vengeance which The Shadow had delivered to those who sought to thwart his purposes and his ends.
Before the first shock of fear had passed, King Furzman gained new knowledge of The Shadow’s terrifying presence. The token that came was an audible one - a whispered laugh that shuddered as it came from unseen lips. Quavering reverberations, silent shocks of impending doom, beat weirdly against Furzman’s eardrums.
Then came the voice of The Shadow. It followed the persisting echoes; it carried an eerie note that resembled a sneer, yet which held a strain of bitter mockery. Each whispered word was delivered in an uncanny tone that changed King Furzman’s trembling into a state of tense fixation.
“King Furzman” - The Shadow’s statement sounded as a knell - “you have plotted crime. That is why you have met The Shadow. You can hope for no deliverance while I am here. You will tell me what I wish to know.”
Unconsciously, the big shot found himself nodding in reply to The Shadow’s words.
“You have heard from your henchman,” resumed The Shadow. “Graham Wellerton has told you where he has gone. Give me that information.”
Tensely, Furzman tried to resist the threat. The eyes of The Shadow glinted. The muzzle of the automatic moved forward with a subtle thrust. Furzman replied mechanically, hoping only to avoid the menace of The Shadow.
“Wellerton has gone” - the big shot’s voice was no more than a gulping gasp - “to - to Grand Rapids - gone with his mob -“
“His purpose,” came The Shadow’s cold demand.
“Bank holdup,” gasped Furzman. “The - the” - the pause was hopeless - “the Riverview Trust will be his first job.”
“The time,” quizzed The Shadow.
“Two nights from now,” gulped Furzman. “Two nights from now - before nine o’clock -“
THE SHADOW’S laugh was one of whispered scorn. The tone provoked new terror in King Furzman’s evil brain. Despite the fact that he had told the truth, the big shot knew that The Shadow was not yet through with him.
“You have money here” - The Shadow’s words broke in a hideous, sneering chuckle - “money which does not belong to you. Tell me where you have hidden it.”
“In the wall of this room,” panted the big shot. “Behind the third panel from the door - in a safe -“
“The combination,” prompted The Shadow, with his terrifying aftermath of whispered mirth.
“Three - four - one - eight -” Furzman spoke in monotonous fashion, is though his lips worked of their own accord.
“Your crime is proven,” came Th
e Shadow’s sinister judgment. “You have profited by the work of others. You shall suffer of your own accord. That telephone” - the blazing orbs stared beyond the big shot - “will be the instrument that will deliver you to the law. Pick it up.”
The big shot obeyed.
“Call detective headquarters,” ordered The Shadow. “Ask for Detective Joe Cardona. Tell him who you are. Tell him you are waiting for him. That is all. Remember” - the tone was ominous - “one word concerning my presence here will seal your lips with the cold rigidity of permanent doom -“
Pangs of terror brought convulsive shudders to King Furzman’s stout frame. The big shot’s knees were quaking, his hands could scarcely lift the telephone. In a quavering voice, the man called as directed.
He could hear The Shadow’s whisper coming closer; staring, he saw the black cloak swish and show its crimson lining as The Shadow moved to a point no more than a yard away.
“Your man Gouger,” warned The Shadow, “has completed his search for me. He is in the other room. He does not know that I am here. He - like yourself - belongs to the police -“
A voice was clicking over the wire. The Shadow’s sinister tones ended. King Furzman, fighting for his life, asked weakly for Joe Cardona. He heard the reply that Cardona himself was on the wire.
“This is King Furzman,” said the big shot, pathetically. “I’m in my own apartment, Cardona. I - I want to talk to you here” - Furzman’s voice broke as his eyes stared toward the glowing orbs that were The Shadow’s eyes - “I - I was in on those bank robberies yesterday. The dough is here - in the wall of this room -“
Furzman’s lips were twitching, his eyes were moving furtively, trying to escape the terrible gaze of The Shadow. Suddenly, they became transfixed with a gleam of wild hope as they saw beyond the shoulders of the black-clad master. With a short gasp, Furzman stepped back a little. The telephone dropped from his hands.
There was a swish as The Shadow whirled. Furzman’s sudden gaze, his defensive action - both were indicative, but The Shadow’s keen intuition was already working when the signal came.
Before the telephone had clattered to the floor, The Shadow was facing the draped archway where the figure of a man was looming in the darkness of the room beyond.
Gouger was there. Purely by chance, the bodyguard had come back over the trail which he had taken through the anteroom. Arriving in the darkened space between anteroom and reception room, he had heard the sound of King Furzman’s voice.
THE instant that he had observed the blotting form of The Shadow, Gouger had drawn his revolver to point it toward the menacing figure in black. Swift in action, steady in aim, Gouger had acted with prompt precision; but as his finger touched the trigger, The Shadow, miraculously alert, had swung.
A mere turn would not have sufficed. The Shadow’s whirl, however, was a sweeping move. As his tall form swung, it whisked to the right, just as Gouger’s revolver blazed from the darkened room.
A bullet singed the left shoulder of the long black cloak. The Shadow’s lips responded with a mocking cry of laughter - a weird peal that was no longer hushed.
While taunting mirth rang through the room, Gouger swung his revolver toward the enemy in black. His finger, still upon the trigger, was about to loose a second bullet when a terrific roar came from The Shadow’s automatic.
The shot was perfect. Beyond the archway, Gouger tottered. The bodyguard’s revolver fell from the useless hand which held it. Gouger collapsed upon the floor.
If Gouger was prompt in action, so was King Furzman. The revolver shot from the other room dispelled the power of The Shadow, so far as the big shot was concerned.
With the first spurt of flame, King Furzman’s nerve came back to him. His hand sped to his pocket. His fingers yanked forth the revolver that was there. On the upswing, the big shot drew his weapon just as The Shadow’s shot felled Gouger.
With that shot, The Shadow turned. Furzman’s upward-moving revolver was racing with the automatic that came in a wide sweep as The Shadow whirled back to meet his first enemy. Both guns reached their aiming points at the same instant. Two reports sounded as one.
But another phenomenon occurred. The form of The Shadow seemed to collapse a split second before his finger pressed the trigger. King Furzman remained bolt upright.
When the guns boomed, both figures were momentarily motionless; then, as The Shadow’s form became erect, King Furzman’s body swayed and crumpled. His revolver slipped to the floor beside him.
The Shadow’s wits had prevailed. Simultaneous shots, each delivered with quick accuracy, had gone forth from rival guns. But The Shadow had dropped away from Furzman’s aim.
The big shot’s bullet, aimed for The Shadow’s heart, had done no more than clip the upper edge of the black slouch hat. The Shadow’s bullet, with Furzman’s body as its target, had found its appointed mark.
A SARDONIC laugh came from The Shadow’s lips. The tone seemed to carry a note of tragedy. Once again, The Shadow had performed swift deeds that were essential to his ceaseless war against men of crime. The fallen telephone, connected directly with detective headquarters, had recorded the shots of the unexpected fray.
Forces of the law would be on their way, to find that grim justice had been delivered; yet the part which The Shadow had played would never be known. Such was The Shadow’s method.
He had offered King Furzman a chance to live; the big shot had sought to kill him in return. King Furzman, therefore, had received the reward which he deserved.
Swiftly, The Shadow went to the wall and opened the panel of which Furzman had spoken. He turned the combination of the safe and loosed its metal door. He then closed the panel so the opening would have to be discovered by the searching detectives. King Furzman had admitted to Cardona that the stolen bank funds were in the wall of this room.
The black cloak swished. Swiftly, The Shadow glided away. He passed through the anteroom and left the outer door unlocked. His tall form disappeared down a stairway at the end of the corridor.
The Shadow had gained the information that he sought. Graham Wellerton, speeding westward with his mob, would be due for a surprise. King Furzman, the big shot, had spoken. He had given out the facts which he had heard from his lieutenant.
King Furzman, alone, had known his lieutenant’s plans. Now The Shadow knew them also. Knowing where crime was due to fall, The Shadow would be there to strike!
CHAPTER VII
CHANCE INTERVENES
THREE long minutes elapsed after the departure of The Shadow. The corridor outside of King Furzman’s apartment was silent and undisturbed. Then came the clang of an opening door. A man stepped out from an elevator which had stopped at the fourteenth floor.
This visitor was an unexpected one. He was not an officer of the law. Mere chance had brought him here during the interim between The Shadow’s departure and the arrival of the police.
The man from the elevator was Wolf Daggert!
The fang-toothed gangster looked about him in a furtive manner. He knew that he was taking liberties in paying a visit to this place against King Furzman’s orders. That was why he had not announced himself in the lobby. He had sneaked past the doorman to board an elevator; the operator had not seen the action and hence had raised no objection.
Wolf approached the door of the big shot’s apartment. He rapped softly, then loudly. There was no response to his knocking.
Wolf was restless. In his mistrust of Graham Wellerton, he felt it imperative to talk with King Furzman; yet he knew that the big shot would not welcome his intrusion.
After half a minute, Wolf nervously placed his hand upon the doorknob and gave it a turn. He was surprised when the barrier opened.
Stepping into the anteroom, Wolf glanced about in a puzzled manner. Where was Gouger? Why had the attendant left the door unlocked?
Wolf saw opportunity. He would walk boldly in, surprise King Furzman and inform the big shot of Gouger’s negligence. This would break th
e ice for the interview which Wolf was so anxious to gain.
Closing the outer door behind him, Wolf took the course toward the reception room. He reached the darkened room through which he had to pass; there he stumbled upon something which was lying on the floor.
Staring, Wolf discerned the body of Gouger! Leaning down to touch the inert form, Wolf found his fingers in a pool of blood.
Startled, the gang leader stepped over Gouger’s body and entered the reception room. A short gasp came from his evil lips as his eyes viewed the motionless form of King Furzman.
Springing forward, Wolf reached the big shot’s body. He raised King’s head and stared into the big shot’s whitened face.
“King!” panted Wolf. “King! Are you alive?”
Eyelids trembled. King Furzman’s glassy gaze stared directly at Wolf Daggert. The dying big shot did not seem to recognize the face before him.
“Who got you, King?” questioned Wolf anxiously. “Who got you? Not - not The Shadow?”
King Furzman’s head gave a feeble nod. Anxiously, Wolf stared about him as though fearing a sinister presence which still might be within this room of death. Then, to Wolf’s ears, came the gasping tones of dying words.
King Furzman was speaking; his voice was scarcely audible.
“The Shadow,” he said, weakly, as his eyelids closed. “The Shadow. He got me -“
A pause; then came disjointed statements, from lips that scarcely moved:
“Wellerton - gone - Grand Rapids - his mob - Wellerton -“
The head dropped back as Wolf held it. King Furzman’s body stiffened in death. Wolf stared at the gruesome countenance of this man who had been his chief. Scattered thoughts flashed through the gang leader’s brain.
WOLF had come here to damage Graham Wellerton’s connection with the big shot. Predominating in the evil gang leader’s mind was a hatred for Wellerton, whom he had encouraged into crookery and who had outgrown his sponsor.
Wolf had been sure that The Shadow had intervened at the Parkerside Trust holdup. Wolf, therefore, felt that his own failure had been justified, and Graham Wellerton’s success at the Terminal National had made the dose more bitter.
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