Souder’s long face showed a grin, as the fellow nodded. Dolthan surveyed the intended victims. He saw determined looks upon their faces. He shook his head.
“You won’t stand idle with those guns,” jeered Dolthan. “When you hear me give the word to fire, you’ll make a fight for your lives. At least you’ll try to; but you won’t get far.”
THE crook’s words bore significance. Kermal, Claig, Goodling — all had the same thought: to drop their guns to the floor, so the evidence would show that they had not fought. Yet it was impossible for them to do so. Human desire to live would force them to a fight for their lives, even though the odds were against them.
Already guns were trained upon the victims. Glowering fiends would let the doomed men start upward with their weapons; then those covering crooks would shoot down the victims, letting them do no more than fire scattered bullets while they sank dying to the floor.
As Dolthan said, time was not essential to his scheme. He had forgotten the little clock upon the desk. But from the floor below came the booming tones of an old grandfather’s clock, an heirloom that Doctor Claig had always prized. It was intoning the hour of midnight.
Twelve strokes of doom; the change to a new day. The fateful hour that had meant so much to Myra Dolthan. It marked the day that Taussig Kermal had hoped would come with haste; that Rufus Dolthan had wished would wait until his evil schemes were fully fashioned.
Kermal’s cause was lost; Dolthan’s crimes were ready for their culmination. The fiend chuckled as he heard the clock’s strokes. While the tones still boomed, he raised his hand, waiting only until the final echo to give the signal for slaughter. The time was suited to Rufus Dolthan’s need for massacre.
Then came a sudden pause. Dolthan’s lips, about to speak, froze with their twisted smile. From that door that stood ajar behind him came a sound that stopped the crook’s command. Into the room of doom crept the ghoulish quiver of a mocking laugh, a sound that brought chilled rigidity to all who heard its eerie tones.
Another had waited for this crucial moment, hard on the stroke of twelve. An unseen visitant had listened to Rufus Dolthan’s plans and was here to prevent their delivery.
That creepy taunt from the blackness of the hallway was the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XX
AFTER MIDNIGHT
RUFUS DOLTHAN wheeled. With their leader’s turn, henchmen of crime swung also toward the doorway. Already the partly opened barrier was swinging inward. The Shadow’s laugh rang loud.
Burning eyes from darkness. They were the only visible tokens of the master avenger. His cloaked form shrouded in the gloom, The Shadow was a creature of invisibility.
Then, with amazing suddenness, a sweeping form moved inward. Automatics blazed an opening message into the ranks of crooks. The Shadow could afford no quarter to murderers who held helpless men at bay.
Wildly, crooks scattered, firing quick shots toward the shape that whirled inward from the door. As always, The Shadow had sprung the unexpected. He had deserted his post of safety. Forgetful of his own safety, he wanted to draw all shots in his direction.
The automatics blasted thunderously. That withering fire gave no choice. The Shadow was the only target to every would-be murderer who saw him. Dropping, crouching, diving, crooks stabbed wild shots toward the figure that was wheeling half across the room.
There were others who joined in the fray. Men to whom The Shadow had given opportunity; those upon whose aid he had counted to cover his bold stroke. Rufus Dolthan had good cause to regret the plans he had made to camouflage this scene of crime. Men whom he had branded helpless were far from being so.
Backed against the desk, Jay Goodling was jabbing shots at close range. Making every bullet tell, he was crippling Dolthan’s henchmen as those rogues aimed for The Shadow.
Taussig Kermal had snatched his automatic from the desk drawer. With two quick shots, the lawyer dropped one of Dolthan’s aces, the long-faced Souder.
Fred Lanford had sprung to fight with Wurling and Hazzler. That was the only reason why The Shadow had left Souder to someone else.
Wurling, desperate, had aimed to finish Lanford. The Shadow had fired two consecutive bullets to drop Dolthan’s murderous chauffeur.
It was Hazzler, now, who threatened. He had left Lanford to Wurling and was aiming for The Shadow as the chauffeur fell. Fred Lanford, furious, made a dive for Hazzler and drove the fellow’s gun arm upward. Then the pair grappled. Hazzler’s well-aimed shot had been sent wide.
All the while, one man had devoted himself to a single task. Doctor Claig, dropping back into a corner, had fired diagonally across the room, hoping to drop one foeman, Rufus Dolthan.
The supercrook had dived for cover as Claig’s first bullets whined past his ears. Dolthan had chosen the refuge that The Shadow had scorned: that blackened hallway that led to Myra’s room.
Frantically, Claig had emptied his gun. His shots were too hasty; all five of the bullets from his old-fashioned revolver had gone wide of their mark.
Claig was clicking his trigger before he realized that his opportunity was gone. He looked about; he saw Kermal and Goodling standing with smoking guns. All about were sprawled crooks.
Claig tried to shout; his voice failed him. Kermal and Goodling were transfixed as they watched the finish of a desperate fray. Lanford and Hazzler were locked like wrestlers. Hazzler was striving to twist his revolver muzzle toward Lanford’s head.
ACROSS the room, The Shadow stood like a blackened statue. He saw Hazzler’s hand come clear. Goodling sprang forward frantically, too late to be of aid to his threatened friend. But before Hazzler could press the trigger of his gun, The Shadow acted. One of his automatics boomed a timely shot.
The Shadow was swinging as he fired; spinning to an angle that offered opportunity. His gun roared as he neared the door through which Dolthan had sped.
A swift shot clipped Hazzler’s forearm. With a wild cry the man clawed the air, his revolver dropping from his grasp. Then Goodling was upon him; the prosecutor hurled the fellow hard against the wall, while Lanford staggered free.
It was then that Claig found his voice. Wildly, the physician appealed to Kermal. Frantically, he pointed toward the door on the left, gesturing with his emptied gun.
“Get Dolthan!” gasped Claig. “Stop him! He’s gone to murder Myra!”
Before Kermal could turn about, a last antagonist came upward from the floor. It was Roy Parrell. The yellow lieutenant had dropped at the first shots from The Shadow’s automatics.
Covered by a fallen body, Parrell had escaped injury. Lying there, he had believed that his pals had triumphed. Then, when he started to arise, he saw Kermal squarely in front of him.
Thinking he had but one man to finish, Parrell had sprung upon the lawyer. With vicious snarl, the coward was aiming to kill; his finger on revolver trigger. Doctor Claig, his own gun emptied, had no chance to save Kermal. He thought that the lawyer was doomed.
The Shadow fired a final shot. One automatic emptied, this was the last that the other gun contained. Straight from the front of the opened door, his cloaked form black against the background of the hallway, The Shadow dealt this stroke with absolute precision. As his automatic gave its message, Parrell’s murderous drive was ended.
Kermal, staring into the detective’s gun muzzle, saw Parrell spin about in air. The revolver clattered to the floor; mechanically, Kermal reached for it as Parrell sprawled, rolled over writhing and lay still.
The Shadow had spun about, out into the hall. Instead of following it, he drew back into a short alcove at the nearer end. He had given up pursuit of Rufus Dolthan. The master murderer had already reached the doorway of Myra’s room.