Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 040 - The Death Triangle

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THE DEATH TRIANGLE
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DEATH AWAITS
? CHAPTER II. GEMS AND GUNS
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW LEAVES
? CHAPTER IV. A QUESTION OF ETHICS
? CHAPTER V. THE MAN WITH THE BEARD
? CHAPTER VI. THE CONSULTATION
? CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW HEARS
? CHAPTER VIII. DESIGNED DEATH
? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW'S CLEW
? CHAPTER X. MURDERERS GLOAT
? CHAPTER XI. THE SILENT GUEST
? CHAPTER XII. THE SEARCH BEGINS
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW'S SEARCH
? CHAPTER XIV. THROUGH THE MANSION
? CHAPTER XV. THE TRIANGLE
? CHAPTER XVI. THE CONFERENCE
? CHAPTER XVII. PLOTTERS DECIDE
? CHAPTER XVIII. VORBER SEES THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIX. THE NEW VIGIL
? CHAPTER XX. MARCHELLE CHECKS
? CHAPTER XXI. MURDERERS MOVE
? CHAPTER XXII. THE FATAL SHOT
? CHAPTER XXIII. TRUTH REVEALED
CHAPTER I. DEATH AWAITS
"THERE'S the spot. Ease in."
The rakish sedan came to a sharp stop. The driver had responded instantly to the voice of the man
beside him. The car turned and rolled into a parking space between two old buildings.
The driver, with a deft turn of the wheel, backed the sedan against a wall. He turned off the motor and
extinguished the lights. Silent, sullen men listened in the darkness.
While they waited, their watching eyes were turned toward the street. Taxicabs and other vehicles rolled
by, following the narrow thoroughfare that formed a straight line through New York's upper East Side.
This was an old district of Manhattan. It was filled with buildings which had once been pretentious
homes, but which had now been altered into apartment houses of a cheaper sort. It was the type of
district where one might expect to find an idle automobile, lying in wait for some unknown purpose. This
fact accounted for the precaution of the men in the sedan. Their leader, the man beside the driver, was
anxious to make sure that the car was not under surveillance.
Satisfied, at last, that he and his men were unobserved, the leader began to speak in a low growl. His
instructions were terse and specific.
"The fire escape is just in back of this building," he explained. "The kitchen is one window to the right.
You'll get my signal if I need you -"
"Sh-h!" came a warning whisper from the rear seat. "Wait a minute, Mitts."
THE man in back was peering from the side of the sedan. Two who sat beside him craned their necks in
the same direction. Tough fists tightened on the handles of revolvers. Strained silence added to suspense.
At last, the warner spoke again.
"Guess I was goofy, Mitts," he remarked. "Thought I saw somebody, but I was wrong."
"Whereabouts?" quizzed "Mitts."
"Out by the front corner of the building," responded the man in back. "I didn't see nobody - but I sorta
saw somethin' blot out that light across the street. It wasn't nothin' important, though. I've been lookin'
close since then."
"There's nobody out there," growled another fellow in the rear.
"Keep your eyes open, anyway," ordered Mitts. "Remember what I told you. One window to the right of
the fire escape -"
"Which floor, Mitts?"
"The third."
With his final statement, the man beside the driver alighted from the sedan and moved off through the
darkness. Those in the car remained silent. Toughened, experienced mobsters, the four were waiting until
their chief had left the vicinity. Later, they would watch for the signal from behind the house.
The departing leader did not appear in view until he had reached the street. There, he went up the front
steps of the building, and entered an open door. He stood in the dim light of an apartment-house lobby
which had once been the vestibule of a home.
Picking from the name cards beside a row of push buttons, the gang leader pressed. The name on the
card was Ralph Lorskin. This was the name to which the visitor referred when he heard a voice through
the old-fashioned telephone receiver which hung from the wall.
"Mr. Lorskin?" he questioned.
"Yes," came the cautious reply. "Who is calling?"
"Hello, Sparkles," growled the visitor, with a low laugh. "This is Mitts Cordy."
"Come up," was the prompt order that came through the wall phone.
Mitts Cordy turned toward the outer door. He was a big man, with an iron jaw, and hard, close-lidded
eyes. He glanced keenly toward the street to make sure that no outsider was watching him. Then, as the
buzz came from the door, he swung quickly and entered the decadent inner hall.
Two flights up a pair of gloomy stairs brought Mitts Cordy to the rear apartment on the third floor. The
gang leader rapped. The door opened. Mitts entered to face a tall, stoop-shouldered individual who gave
a gold-toothed smile of greeting.
"Hello, Sparkles," said the gang leader, as Lorskin shut the door. "Everything all set?"
"You're asking me?" returned Sparkles. "How about the mob?"
"Outside and waiting."
"Good."
THE two men sat down. Mitts Cordy pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to "Sparkles"
Lorskin. The stoop-shouldered man declined. He picked up a pipe from the table beside him.
"This is better," he said. "I'm playing the part of a recluse - an unapproachable chap who doesn't like to
go out. Lives alone, puffs his pipe, and admires his collection of rare gems."
With this statement, Sparkles produced a box from beneath the table. He opened it to display a glittering
array of jewels. Mitts Cordy showed both eagerness and surprise.
"Say, Sparkles!" he exclaimed. "I thought you had fenced all that stuff. What's the idea -"
"Bait," interposed Sparkles. "The longer I keep these gems, the easier they are to sell - without
experiencing difficulties. In the meantime, they have enabled me to gain the envy of certain collectors who
occasionally visit this apartment. I expect one tonight. That is why I wanted you on the job."
"To knock off a jewelry collector?" snorted Mitts. "Say, Sparkles, that don't seem like very much of a
lay, unless -"
"Unless what?" Sparkles smiled as he spoke.
"Unless he's bringing a lot of jewelry with him," added Mitts. "Is that the gag?"
"Partly," returned the pretended collector. "More important, however, is the money which this man may
be carrying. I estimate that it will be in the neighborhood of twenty thousand dollars."
"Twenty grand!" Mitts whistled. "I'd bump off a regiment for that dough!"
"This is no regiment," returned Sparkles. "As a matter of fact, the job is an extremely easy one. I expect
the man to appear by nine o'clock, if not before then. You will be surprised when I tell you who he is."
REACHING to the table, Sparkles picked up an old newspaper and displayed the portrait of an elderly
man with a large white beard.
Mitts looked puzzled.
"The old doctor with the Santa Claus whiskers?" he questioned. "You showed me his picture last night,
Sparkles - I thought it was a joke when you told me I might meet him some day."
"Doctor Johan Arberg," declared Sparkles quietly. "The Danish specialist from Copenhagen. A blood
specialist - here in America attending the medical conference in Chicago."
"A doctor," repeated Mitts, "in Chicago. If this guy is in Chicago -"
"He is not in Chicago, tonight," interrupted Sparkles. "He is in New York. He is coming here. He sails
within a few days - that is, he is scheduled to sail - for Denmark. He has made an appointment to visit me
this evening.
"Doctor Arberg has one other interest besides medicine. He collects precious stones. He frequently visits
obscure collectors like myself" - Sparkles grinned - "and tempts them with a display of wealth. If they
happen to be in financial straits - as I am supposed to be - they often fall for the lure of cash."
"I get you," laughed Mitts. "You've got the jewels, and you want the cash, too. Old Kris Kringle will
leave his dough here."
"Exactly. Furthermore, he will take a short one-trip ride at your request. That will be the end of Johan
Arberg."
"O.K., Sparkles," grinned Mitts. "You're paying for the job; but I don't see where you need a crew to
handle one old guy."
"I don't," returned Sparkles. "That part of it is easy. I'm thinking about what might happen afterward.
When Doctor Arberg fails to show up in Copenhagen, there's going to be a search for him. Somewhere
between Chicago and Copenhagen. A long trail, nevertheless, it would look bad if the police found that I
skipped out on the same night that Arberg disappeared.
"I'm going to play it safe - make it look like a straight gang job. Even the old doctor won't know the
difference. You and your crowd can carry that old boy out of here right under my nose. If something
goes wrong, drop him. He'll testify that I tried to save him.
"If all goes well, I'll stick right here until the end of the month, when my lease expires. Then I'll go on my
way. No one will ever know that Doctor Arberg paid a private visit to an obscure gem collector named
Lorskin."
"Smart stuff," affirmed Mitts. "You always played a cute game, Sparkles. Leave the job to me - I'll bring
up the gang while you're talking to old whiskers. You want us in the kitchen?"
"Yes. Bust in when the time looks ripe."
Sparkles Lorskin tossed the newspaper aside. He began to remove the jewels from their box. Mitts
Cordy watched this procedure. Both men were looking toward the table. They did not see a peculiar
motion upon the floor.
A long streak of blackness, a flat splotch that bore a startling resemblance to a silhouette, was drawing
itself along the floor, receding toward the door. The gliding shape upon the carpet was not a token of an
approaching person; it was the sign of a departing visitor!
As it dwindled and finally vanished, it indicated that someone had entered while these men conferred; that
the same unseen visitant was moving away, unheard in his departure!
Had Mitts Cordy been followed to this place? Had invisible eyes been watching his arrival? Had listening
ears overheard the plans for crime?
Only coming events could answer that question. Yet, had either Sparkles Lorskin or Mitts Cordy seen
that moving silhouette upon the carpet, they would have suspected the presence of a sinister visitor
whose proximity boded them ill.
For the phenomenon of a gliding shape of blackness, the passage of a soundless silhouette - these were
manifestations which cautious crooks feared more than open, visible signs of a human enemy.
Stealthy, gliding darkness; such was the sign of The Shadow, the strange, mysterious being whose hidden
hand dealt death to men of evil. His very identity a veiled secret, The Shadow was a menace that all
gangdom dreaded.
The arrangement of the jewels was ended. Sparkling shafts of light came from glittering gems upon the
table. Wealth and rarity awaited the arrival of Doctor Johan Arberg. Here was a shining snare that gave
no inkling of the danger which lay behind it.
Sparkles Lorskin arose. The crook paced the floor at the very spot where the gliding shape of the
blackness had been. He saw no sign of The Shadow; nor did Mitts Cordy. Both men of crime were
ready for the evil work which they had planned.
Grim death was awaiting the arrival of Doctor Johan Arberg.
CHAPTER II. GEMS AND GUNS
SPARKLES LORSKIN and Mitts Cordy were two men who worked efficiently. The snare which they
had prepared for Doctor Johan Arberg was not the first effort of their evil cooperation.
Sparkles had the instinct of a ferret when it came to locating valuable collections of jewelry. Mitts, a bold
ruffian who led a hardened crew, was always ready to follow the lead which Sparkles gave.
The gems which at present lay upon the table in Sparkles Lorskin's apartment were the spoils of raids in
which Mitts Cordy had played the leading role. Sparkles, who always had money, paid cold cash for the
work which Mitts performed.
This was an effective arrangement. Mitts Cordy preferred jobs that were laid out for him. He liked to
avoid the trouble that attended the disposal of stolen goods to a fence. Sparkles, who preferred planning
to action, and who was willing to bide his time in selling stolen valuables, was also satisfied. He was in a
position to reap the greater profit.
Sparkles considered Mitts as much a henchman as an associate. Mitts admired Sparkles. Tonight, more
than ever before, Mitts envied his companion's quiet nerve.
The gang leader knew that the gems which lay on the table as a lure for Doctor Arberg represented
thousands of dollars in stolen goods. The police, had they suspected where such valuables lay, would be
here in an instant.
Yet Sparkles did not fear them. Posing as an obscure collector of gems, he had deliberately opened
communication with a prospective victim. Mitts Cordy and his gang, instead of setting forth on a foray,
had come to Sparkles Lorskin's own abode, there to aid the shrewd jewelry crook in the accumulation of
further pelf.
Mitts Cordy watched Sparkles Lorskin pace the floor. The gang leader then turned to study the layout of
the apartment. The door that led to the kitchen was almost directly opposite the entrance to the
apartment. The table was slightly off line between the two portals.
Sparkles noted his companion's calculation. With a shrewd smile, he explained the proper arrangement
as he indicated two chairs near the table.
"I'll be facing the kitchen," he declared. "I'll have Doctor Arberg in this chair at the side. You'll get my
sign when it's time to break in. Work quick -"
Sparkles paused as a buzz came from the wall. He walked over to answer the telephone.
Mitts heard his brief conversation. Sparkles turned quickly as he concluded.
"It's the old boy, himself," he said, in a low tone. "Duck out, Mitts, and wigwag the crowd below. He'll
be up here in a couple of minutes."
As soon as Mitts Cordy had passed beyond the door to the kitchen, Sparkles Lorskin opened the main
door of the apartment. He heard lethargic footsteps on the stairs. He bowed as a stoop-shouldered man
came into view, carrying a portfolio. The visitor approached, and his white beard wagged.
"Mr. Lorskin, yess?" came the high-pitched question.
"Yes," replied Sparkles, with a smile. "I am glad to meet you, Doctor Arberg."
The physician received the crook's handclasp within the door of the apartment. As Sparkles closed the
barrier, the visitor's eyes saw the glittering gems upon the table. A cry of interest came from Doctor
Arberg's lips. The old man placed his portfolio on the floor.
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "These are wonderful, yess! It is good that I should have come here."
The elderly man sat down in the very chair that Sparkles had assigned for him. Still wearing his satisfied
smile, the crook took his own seat and watched the visitor examine the gems that lay before him.
Sparkles was particularly interested in Doctor Arberg's face. The Dane possessed a countenance that
was both kindly and dignified. He wore a heavy white mustache and well-trimmed white beard, yet the
strength of his features was apparent beneath.
Physically, however, Doctor Arberg presented no problem. His slow stride up the stairway had been
proof of his advanced years. Lorskin, who had never met the blood specialist before, placed Arberg's
age at about seventy-five. The physician was active for a man of that age, but it was plain, by his actions,
that he was well past his physical prime.
"By the way, Doctor Arberg," purred Sparkles Lorskin, "I trust that you have not told anyone of your
intended visit here -"
The speaker paused as Arberg slowly shook his head in negative reply. The old physician seemed too
interested in the gems to give a verbal statement.
"You understand," resumed Sparkles, "that I am willing to make a great sacrifice in disposing of these
jewels. That is why I did not want it noised about that they were for sale. I did not want to be annoyed
by troublesome bargain hunters."
"Certainly not," agreed the old physician.
"Of course," continued Sparkles, "I am interested in only cash transactions."
Doctor Arberg looked up from the table. A smile appeared amid the white beard. Reaching in his
pocket, the physician drew forth a thick bundle of bank notes. Sparkles stared as he saw bills of
five-hundred and thousand-dollar denominations.
"This will cover more than I intend to purchase," remarked Arberg. "I have plenty of money with me -
and I always buy with cash. Always, yess."
The words came in well-pronounced English, which was just a trifle thick in tone. Before Sparkles could
reply, Arberg thrust the roll back in his pocket and indicated the jewels with a sweep of his hand.
"There iss only one trouble, yess," he asserted. "These gems have value, but there is something about
them that I do not like. You understand, yess?"
Sparkles shook his head.
"They are not like a collection," argued Arberg. "Not one bit, no. They are like many gems which might
have been taken from here and there. Like stolen gems, you understand -"
Sparkles stared coldly at the physician. He felt ill at case as he met Arberg's steady eyes. Sparkles did
not like the old man's expression.
"These jewels," declared the crook, "are not stolen. I have collected them regardless of their history.
Their value depends upon their own merits. I am sorry, Doctor Arberg, if they do not interest you."
THE crook shifted in his chair. He was just about to glance toward the kitchen door when Arberg caught
his eye with an odd gesture. Extending his left hand, the physician displayed a gleaming ring upon his third
finger. Sparkles looked in wonder at a beautiful opal which glimmered with ever-changing hues.
"This stone," remarked Arberg, "iss my favorite. See it - a rare girasol. Once it belonged to the Russian
czar who -"
Sparkles Lorskin was staring at the gem. Its glow, changing from maroon to mauve, was fascinating.
Sparkles did not notice Arberg's right hand, which rested beneath the old man's coat. The crook, thinking
this the perfect opportunity, signaled with his fingers.
Without moving his head, he peered upward to see Mitts Cordy stealing through the door, revolver in
hand. His gaze went back to the girasol.
It was then that Doctor Arberg acted in a most surprising manner. The old physician's keen eyes had
seen Lorskin's signal. They saw the crook's gaze turn downward. Arberg's right hand came from beneath
his coat, carrying an automatic. At the same time, his left hand shot for Lorskin's arm.
From a forward position, the white-bearded man snapped backward and upward. With incredible
strength, he yanked Sparkles Lorskin's long, light frame from the chair. As the crook shot sprawling
across the table, Arberg's right arm extended as a rigid bar upon which Sparkles fell.
With a mighty twist of his body, the amazing old man swept his arm on a long arc, and sent the crook
hurtling across the room directly toward the spot where Mitts Cordy stood.
The whole maneuver was an amazing one. A jujutsu thrust, which depended upon strength as well as
skill, it brought the fierce old man face to face with Mitts Cordy and the quartet of invaders.
The bitter tones of a mocking laugh burst from Arberg's beard. That blast of merriment betokened the
true identity of the visitor. This was not Johan Arberg, a frail old man. This being who had sprung into
action was The Shadow - the enemy whom all the hordes of gangdom feared!
AT times, the very appearance of The Shadow was sufficient to cow the most hardened mobster. But
when action occurred, the instinct of self-preservation was sufficient to bring a counterthrust. In this crisis,
Mitts Cordy acted with all the venom that was in his nature.
The gang leader had already covered the white-bearded visitor. As Lorskin's body came through the air;
as The Shadow whirled and emitted his identifying laugh, Mitts Cordy fired. Quick with the trigger, he
accomplished the rare feat of beating The Shadow to the first shot.
With his quickness of action, however, Mitts was forced to change his aim. The gang leader, in
side-stepping Sparkles Lorskin's body, had turned the muzzle of his revolver from the white-bearded
man. It was during the quick return swing that Mitts loosed his shot.
The Shadow, in his unfamiliar white-bearded garb, was still in motion. Mitts Cordy's bullet whistled past
The Shadow's shoulder. The gang leader pressed his finger to the trigger for the second shot. It never
came.
The Shadow's automatic delivered its explosion. Momentarily delayed for perfect aim, the shot reached
its mark. A hideous look appeared upon Mitts Cordy's face. The gang leader crumpled. The revolver
dropped from his right hand. Clasping both hands to his breast, Mitts sprawled forward upon Sparkles
Lorskin, then rolled sidewise and lay flat upon his back.
The eyes of The Shadow did not follow the gang leader's demise. Even while Mitts Cordy's gun was
dropping to the floor, the master fighter opened a swift attack upon the mobsters who stood beyond the
door.
Mitts Cordy's fall had cleared the way for action. Ready revolvers were coming up. Trigger fingers were
in action. But The Shadow, who had cleared the path for this new fray, was a fighter who dealt in split
seconds. Into the massed quartet before him, he opened a leaden hail from his powerful automatic.
The roars of the .45 resounded with thunderous repetition. Three shots went forth from that mighty
weapon ere a single revolver responded.
The first answering report came from a staggering mobster. The man's bullet went wide. The second
bullet was dispatched by the rearmost gangster, who fired hastily as he turned to dive for shelter. The
gunman failed to reach his mark. He screamed, an instant later, as The Shadow delivered a shot that
winged his shoulder.
Of the four mobsters, one had fled, wounded, for the window which was out of The Shadow's range.
Another, also wounded, managed to scramble to his feet and hurry for the same point of safety. The
Shadow's laugh followed the fleeing crooks.
The other two mobsmen lay upon the floor. One did not stir; the second, however, showed a sudden sign
of life. He writhed, propped himself upon elbow, and leveled a revolver toward The Shadow. The
mobster's lips, twisted in dying pain, phrased venomous oaths.
Calmly, The Shadow covered the man with his automatic; but did not fire. A shot proved unnecessary.
The gangster's curses died; his leaning form collapsed before he could attempt a shot. He had succumbed
to a mortal wound.
Shots came from the direction of the kitchen. One mobster was firing from the window. Answering
reports from below; a shriek betokened the fall of a dying mobster from the window. The Shadow's
sinister laugh was repeated.
The Shadow knew the source of those outside shots. His agent, Cliff Marsland, who had been previously
watching the activities of Mitts Cordy's gang, had come below to cut off retreat. That was the reason
why The Shadow had allowed the two crippled mobsters to flee.
UPON the floor, Sparkles Lorskin lay unconscious. The crook had not recovered from the terrific jolt
which he had received. The Shadow, still in his bewhiskered impersonation of Doctor Johan Arberg,
laughed again as he saw that Sparkles had witnessed no part of the gun fray.
Suddenly, The Shadow swung upward. Dashing from the kitchen came the last of the mobsters.
Choosing the door instead of the window, where darkness lurked below, the wounded ruffian sought to
wrest victory from The Shadow.
With a cry of rage, the mobster hurtled forward, aiming his revolver directly into the white-bearded face
that he knew masked the visage of The Shadow. Up came the automatic. Its final roar resounded. The
gangster plunged forward, his trigger finger jerking spasmodically. Two hopeless bullets pierced the
floor.
The last of the mob lay dead.
In the room which now became strangely silent, The Shadow gave a whispered laugh. It was a grim
paean of triumph, the final note to the swift and scattered struggle.
Almost as in answer to The Shadow's taunt came the distant sound of a police whistle. The roar of guns
had been heard upon the street. The police were on the way.
Turning swiftly, The Shadow picked up the portfolio which he had brought with him. He laid it upon the
table, and there began the change that ended his amazing impersonation of Doctor Johan Arberg.
The Shadow's visit had begun with gems. It had ended with guns. The gems were gained; the guns were
silenced. The might of The Shadow had prevailed.
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW LEAVES
A POLICE whistle sounded in the darkness of the narrow thoroughfare beside the apartment house
where a battle had been waged. Heavy footsteps thudded on the pavement. Uniformed men crowded
into the parking space where an empty sedan was backed against the wall.
There had been an interval between the final shots and the arrival of the officers. During that interim, Cliff
Marsland, agent of The Shadow, had made a hurried departure. But The Shadow still remained, up in the
apartment where the police were due to converge.
The open portfolio lay upon the galaxy of gems. Long, firm hands drew forth a mass of black cloth. The
material developed into a shroud as it dropped over the white wig and false beard which The Shadow
wore. The shroud became a cloak. The Shadow's left hand, with its sparkling girasol glimmering brightly,
brought a slouch hat from the portfolio.
The hands slid the hat upward. As it reached The Shadow's head, the hat replaced the wig and beard.
The white-haired mask dropped from The Shadow's face, which was now invisible beneath the
projecting brim of the broad slouch hat. The hands bundled beard and wig into the portfolio; the pliable
bag folded and went beneath The Shadow's cloak.
Whistles from the fire escape. Shouts from below stairs. The Shadow laughed as his burning eyes once
again noted that Sparkles Lorskin, the only person present, lay oblivious to all that was transpiring.
The table again glittered with its array of jewels; a train of shining stones lay upon the floor between the
table and Sparkles Lorskin's resting place. The crook's hurtling body had swept these gems in his wake.
Swiftness, alone, could enable The Shadow to make his departure before the police arrived. Both ways
were blocked. Yet The Shadow, as he delivered his uncanny laugh, showed no haste. His hands were
drawing on black gloves. A spectral creature clad in somber garments, The Shadow scorned the need of
flight.
There was a telephone in the corner. The Shadow lifted it. He dialed a number. A response came. In
smooth, easy tones, The Shadow asked to be connected with Doctor Johan Arberg.
Sparkles Lorskin stirred. Groggy, the crook could hear the tones of The Shadow's voice. They seemed
strangely familiar to Sparkles Lorskin. There was a very definite reason. The Shadow was talking in a
perfect imitation of Sparkles Lorskin's own voice!
"Hello!" The Shadow's accents were dim in Lorskin's ears. "Doctor Johan Arberg?... This is Lorskin
calling... I am glad that I had time to call you before you left the hotel... No, a visit here will be useless...
The gems? I have disposed of them... Yes, the entire collection is gone... I was persuaded to part with
every gem that I possessed... Good-by, sir."
SPARKLES LORSKIN was rising to hands and knees. Like a man in a trance, he had heard his own
voice speak and cancel the appointment with Doctor Johan Arberg. All was a dream to Sparkles. He
vaguely remembered Arberg arriving here; then a whirl through air that had ended in temporary oblivion.
A whistle sounded from the kitchen window. The shrill noise startled Sparkles and brought him to his
senses. He saw the body of Mitts Cordy, a revolver lying beside the dead gang leader's form. Wildly,
Sparkles clutched the weapon.
Instinctively, the crook turned toward the telephone, to the spot where he had heard his own voice
carrying on a conversation. There was no one at that spot. Then came pounding at the outer door. Rising
to his feet, Sparkles stared in that direction.
It was then that Sparkles saw The Shadow. Tall, silent, and menacing, the black-garbed phantom stood
like a lonely sentinel, a creature of unreality amid a scene that told of imminent invasion. As a cry -
expressing both fear and amazement - came from Lorskin's lips, The Shadow's left hand turned the knob
of the door.
The barrier swung inward. A burly officer plunged headlong. At the same instant, another bluecoat
appeared at the door from the kitchen. The Shadow's hand was still in motion. As Sparkles Lorskin
cowered toward the wall, The Shadow pressed the switch and plunged the room in darkness.
Sparkles fired his revolver. He did not aim at either policeman. He shot for the spot where he believed
The Shadow stood, sensing that there was his immediate enemy. A whispered laugh, its very location
vague, was the mockery that came in answer.
New revolvers spat their flame. Both policemen had aimed toward Sparkles. Swinging wildly, the crook
began to return the shots.
Amid the staccato of revolver fire came the heavy roar of an automatic. The policemen's shots continued.
There was silence from the spot where Sparkles had stood.
Instinctively, the policeman from the kitchen advanced toward Lorskin's position. His gruff voice ordered
his companion to turn on the light. Simultaneously, a silent being edged toward the door from which the
officer had come.
On came the light. It revealed two uniformed men, one by the outer door, his hand upon the switch; the
other, staring toward the table. Sparkles Lorskin, his breath coming in convulsive gasps, was doubled up
on the floor, his revolver three feet away.
Vainly, Sparkles reached for the gun. His effort was useless. He sprawled, choking, as the policemen
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