AT HEADQUARTERS
BOB GALVIN nodded wearily as he faced Acting Inspector Herbert Zull. He was undergoing the third degree, weakening before the brutal tactics of the police officer. Zull bore a reputation for two things: brutality and results.
Another man was present, taking notes. This was Crowell, the young detective. It was one of his first experiences in watching Zull’s methods. He sighed in relief when Zull finally paused and leaned back in his chair.
“What have you got, Crowell?” demanded Zull.
Crowell began to read off the unintelligible replies that Bob Galvin had made. Zull grunted disdainfully.
“We’ll get it out of him,” he declared. He glanced at a sheet of paper and handed it over to Crowell. “I’ve got all the dope there, haven’t I?”
“Nearly everything,” replied Crowell.
“What do you mean, nearly everything?”
“Well” — Crowell spoke hesitatingly — “it may not be important, but when I got there last night, I found a corner of a rug turned under—”
“Forget that foolishness!” roared Zull.
“It’s the third time,” objected Crowell. “First, with that man who was dead in old Galvin’s study. Then Harkness, who knew old Galvin. Now it’s Galvin’s nephew—”
“Talk sense!” ordered Zull. “Go out and take a walk. Call me up in ten minutes. I’ll tell you then when I want you back.
“I’m going to let this smart guy rest a while. He’ll be bewildered when he wakes up.”
Crowell left the room, while Zull’s keen eyes were still watching the nodding form of Bob Galvin.
The Acting Inspector sat with folded arms. He intended to break this man’s resistance; to force a confession.
The door opened. Zull thought it was Crowell returning.
“I told you to stay out a while,” he said, gruffly.
There was no reply. Zull looked up. He was staring into the muzzle of an automatic.
It was held by a man in a black cloak — a man whose face was hidden by a low-turned slouch hat.
“The Shadow!”
A WHISPERED laugh came in response to Zull’s exclamation. The acting inspector had heard that laugh before. Sullenly, he raised his hands.
“Tonight,” came The Shadow’s whisper, “you pay the penalty.”
“For what?”
“For your crimes.”
Zull stared, brutally sullen.
“A big man on the force!” said The Shadow, contemptuously. “Tipped off to certain crimes by crooks, to add to your prestige. In return you have protected them when they needed it — and have been paid for that protection.
“Cover-up man for a group of criminals! That is ended now. Your pals are dead — all but one who escaped.”
“Hiram Mallory!” blurted Zull, forgetting himself.
“Hiram Mallory is dead,” came the reply.
Zull still stared, now bewildered.
“As for this man,” declared The Shadow, signifying Bob Galvin, “he is innocent, despite your trumped-up charges.
“You were ordered to get him as the slayer of Zachary Mitchell — another feather for your rogue’s cap. I can tell you the name of the real killer. Bob Maddox!”
“No one can prove it,” growled Zull.
“I can prove it. Where you destroy evidence, I can replace evidence, of which you know nothing.
“When Crowell began his examination in Mitchell’s apartment, you arrived. He was about to look for finger prints on the receiver of the telephone. You put him on another task. You destroyed the evidence.
“Crowell thought you took the record. It was taken — not by you, but by myself — before you arrived. It is here.”
From beneath his cloak, The Shadow drew forth a photographic impression.
“The finger prints of Bob Maddox,” he declared. “That young man did time, some years ago. You will find that these prints compare exactly with police records.”
The telephone bell rang.
“Who is it?” questioned The Shadow.
“Crowell,” replied Zull.
“Answer it. Say what I tell you.”
Zull obeyed.
“Oh, hello, Crowell,” he said.
The black form of The Shadow was bending over his captive, whispering instructions into his ear.
Zull grimaced fiercely. He knew that a single word could bring Crowell to his aid, but he feared the threat of that automatic. He knew from experience that The Shadow would not hesitate in an attack.
“Listen, Crowell,” said Zull, tensely, “I’ve just figured that we’ve made a mistake… Yes… We’ve got the wrong guy… Remember those finger prints? They don’t correspond.
“Yes, I found prints there; thought I told you about them… Tell you what… Run up to Mitchell’s place and give another search… See what you can find… No, I don’t think I’ve got all the evidence.”
He hung up the telephone.
“A clever idea,” commented The Shadow, stepping back. “A turned-down corner of a rug. I was in that room while you were there, Zull.
“The door opened inward. I stood behind it. The door was never once closed — all during the inspection.
“When your pals commit crimes, they leave their sign. You come along and kill the evidence. Like you did with Harkness. You still had that precious pad when I finished with you. But one sheet was gone—”
REALIZATION crept upon Herbert Zull. He knew that he was at the mercy of this amazing man — The Shadow. He felt that The Shadow was merciless.
“When Crowell reaches Mitchell’s,” declared The Shadow, “he will find a scrap of paper that was overlooked. It was written by Zachary Mitchell, just before he died.
“It bears three words above his weakened signature. Those words are: ‘Maddox shot me.’
“He will also find the hallman staring at a picture of Bob Maddox. I left it there tonight. The hallman identified Bob Galvin’s picture — uncertainly — when you showed it to him. He will know, now, that he is wrong!”
Consternation was overcoming Zull. He knew that his crooked work would be exposed. Not only this last exploit in Mallory’s service, but those that had gone before.
He wondered how much The Shadow knew. He was soon to be enlightened. The man in black seemed to read his thoughts.
From beneath the black cloak came a package of papers, held in a black-gloved hand.
“Hiram Mallory had these when he died,” whispered The Shadow. “They once belonged to Theodore Galvin. They contain many references to you.”
A groan came from Zull. Bob Galvin half awoke at the sound, and stared in bewilderment at the sight of his oppressor cowering before The Shadow.
But the effort was too great a strain on Bob’s tired physique. He slumped back in his chair.
“Write,” ordered The Shadow, pointing to the table. Following his command, Herbert Zull prepared a statement referring to certain crimes in which he had participated.
He also added that the dead members of his gang would be found in the secret room above the office in the Royal Building. He signed his name when he had finished.
The telephone rang. Inspired by the presence of The Shadow’s automatic, Zull answered it. Crowell was on the wire. Zull responded, following The Shadow’s instruction.
“A guy named Maddox, eh?” he said. “Yeah — I’ve suspected him of being crooked… All right, Crowell, get hold of Devlin… Tell him to come down here right away… Fix it to release Galvin… I’m going out… See what I can get on this case.”
“Call Devlin yourself,” ordered The Shadow, when Zull had hung up the receiver.
Zull obeyed. He located Devlin and told the man to report.
Here, Zull resorted to trickery. Devlin replied that he would arrive in fifteen minutes. Zull pretended to hear him say half an hour.
The ruse failed. As soon as the telephone was laid aside, The Shadow thrust the muzzle of his automatic against the detective’s ribs.
“I have been watching you a long while, Zull,” he said, in his low, sinister voice. “I knew you were engaged in crime; but you concealed your motives artfully.
“Tonight you may do penance. Your career on the force is ended. Its smirches are not known.
“We shall let it stand — and so reflect no discredit upon the force. More than that, we shall add to your ill-gotten prestige. I have need of you tonight.
“Come. Learn how The Shadow deals in justice!”
A few moments afterward, Acting Inspector Zull was walking down the deserted corridor accompanied by a man in black, the muzzle of an automatic reminding Zull that he was virtually a prisoner.
When Detective Devlin arrived at headquarters, he found Bob Galvin sound asleep in his chair, unguarded.