THE incredible appearance of The Shadow had thrown Palermo completely off his guard.
The master criminal had fully believed that he had captured The Shadow when Harry Vincent had fallen into his hands. He had taken every precaution necessary to assure the success of his nefarious plans. This denouement had been totally unexpected.
For once he had encountered a situation that completely dismayed him.
The amazement of the evil man was fully reflected in the countenance of his servant, Hassan, the Arab.
To Harry Vincent, the arrival of The Shadow was a godsend. Clyde Burke’s life was saved. Harry thought of his friend before himself.
The helpless man on the operating table was too weak from the effects of drugs to fully appreciate what had happened, but a sudden light that appeared in his listless eyes showed that he partially understood his deliverance.
Only one being in that room preserved a completely unchanged expression. That was the dwarf Chong.
The hideous monster still glared in its statuesque pose. The false image thus escaped the attention of The Shadow. The man who had arrived from the night was centering all his attention upon Palermo.
The Shadow lowered his arms. He drew an automatic and covered Palermo and his servant with the shining muzzle of the revolver.
Reluctantly, the doctor dropped the knife and raised his hands above his head. Hassan was quick to follow suit.
“Move back,” came The Shadow’s whispered command.
He stepped forward as Palermo and Hassan obeyed.
With his free hand, The Shadow manipulated the bars that restrained Harry Vincent. They seemed to break beneath his touch. Only for a second did a tiny steel instrument gleam in the hand that broke the fetters, thus revealing the method that the man of mystery employed.
Harry scrambled from the chair. He needed no instructions. He went to the side of Clyde Burke to cut the straps that bound the helpless man to the operating table.
Oddly enough, Harry performed this action with the very knife that Palermo had held. The murderer had dropped it when The Shadow had entered.
The Shadow had moved away from the opening to the roof. There Palermo saw the explanation of the amazing arrival of The Shadow.
On the roof rested a strange machine — an autogiro. Long horizontal arms extended from the top of the remarkable airplane — arms that revolved slowly like the wings of a Dutch windmill.
Descending almost vertically, the remarkable machine had stopped upon the roof with only a single turn of its wheels!
Although his work had been foiled, Palermo still plotted. The Shadow had arrived; now he must depart, carrying his two aids with him.
Palermo had taken a special precaution. When he had entered that evening, he had been followed by none other than Stanley Warwick. Even now, the detective was posted in the lobby of the Marimba Apartments, waiting word from his secret master.
Palermo’s one thought was to temporarily avoid The Shadow’s vengeance. If he could communicate with Warwick — and he had a means of so doing — he might defeat The Shadow at this late moment!
THE SHADOW’S immediate actions brought keen disappointment to Palermo. The man in black pointed to Hassan, and waved the Arab toward the chair where Harry Vincent had been held prisoner.
Hassan was sullen as he obeyed the order.
Harry had propped Clyde Burke in Palermo’s Chinese throne. Now he saw what The Shadow was doing, and came to aid. With a smile of real enjoyment, Harry put the clamps on Hassan.
The Shadow made no disposition with Palermo. The archvillain was standing by the tapestried wall.
Not for one instant did The Shadow remove his relentless eye from his enemy. He was giving orders to Harry Vincent, who was obeying them with precision. The final command concerned Clyde Burke.
Harry placed one arm under the newspaperman’s shoulder. He helped Burke across the room and through the open French doors. Then Palermo could see a man beside the autogiro. The Shadow had not come alone: he had brought an experienced pilot with him.
Burke was lifted into the plane. The pilot took his seat and turned the ship while Vincent aided from the roof. Then Harry was aboard.
The motor roared as the autogiro started across the roof. At first it clung to the top of the building and seemed endangered by a crash. Then it rose suddenly, to clear the far railing. With increasing swiftness the flying windmill moved upward and disappeared from view.
Palermo had observed it all, with staring eyes. The Shadow, his back toward the roof, had taken it for granted. He had not even made a move to turn and watch the autogiro make its successful departure.
Palermo’s intended victims had escaped his clutches. The Shadow alone remained, ready to demand a settlement for the villain’s crimes.
“Palermo,” came the sinister voice from beneath the black hat, “I demand two things. First, a confession of your double murder — your killings of Horace Chatham and Seth Wilkinson. Second, your own life.
Choose your mode of death. If it meets with my approval, I shall stand by to witness your suicide.”
“Suppose I choose no death?” retorted Palermo.
“There can be but one alternative,” replied The Shadow firmly. “I shall be forced to kill you!”
Palermo tried to consider the situation. For a moment his cause seemed hopeless.
Had The Shadow spoken of turning him over to justice, matters might have turned in his favor. But The Shadow had foreseen this. He had come as a grim agent of retribution, determined to end Palermo’s villainous career and bring protection to all intended victims.
Palermo’s mind refused to function until his eye chanced to observe the image of Chong. It gave him a sudden flash of inspiration. He determined to deceive The Shadow.
“You have won,” said Palermo to The Shadow. “I am willing to accept your terms. What do you wish me to do?”
“Draw up your confession,” said The Shadow sternly.
“There is no need of it,” said Palermo, in a dull voice. “Full evidence exists. It is more convincing than any death statement that I might make. You will find it all in that taboret in the corner. Your agent was searching there when I surprised him.”
The frankness of Palermo’s statement did not disarm The Shadow. Still, it made him hesitate. If Palermo spoke the truth, his confession would be a useless requirement.
Palermo watched The Shadow. He believed he knew exactly what thoughts filled the mind of the man.
To learn if Palermo had spoken true, The Shadow would have to examine the documents in the taboret.
It would not do for him to wait until Palermo had died. The logical plan was to make an immediate inspection.
If The Shadow ordered Palermo to bring out the papers, the criminal might find an opportunity to make a break for freedom. Should The Shadow perform the operation himself—
That was Palermo’s only hope!
PALERMO suppressed a smile that crept automatically to his lips. The Shadow was moving toward the taboret!
Should he turn the knob to the right — Palermo believed that Vincent had done the opposite by some freak accident — it would be The Shadow, not Palermo, who would die.
Still watching his quarry, The Shadow reached the taboret. He turned his back to it as he stooped. From this position, his view was partly toward the image of Chong.
The Shadow turned the knob. The result for which Palermo had hoped did not occur. The Shadow had turned the knob to the left. The door of the taboret opened.
It was then that Palermo acted boldly. He realized that his death would be postponed, if possible, only until The Shadow had examined the documents. With hands still upraised, Palermo began to move to the right, drawing The Shadow’s eyes away from the image of Chong.
The man in black sprang to his feet. Before the menace of the automatic, Palermo stopped short. His boldness left him. He trembled as he saw The Shadow’s finger on the trigger.
Satisfied with his threat, The Shadow stepped back to the taboret. He began to stoop, still watching Palermo.
The criminal was almost gloating. The Shadow was falling into the same snare that had enmeshed Harry Vincent. In another moment The Shadow stopped just as his gaze was completely away from the bronze image. His captive had unconsciously shifted a trifle to the right. Without realizing it, Palermo had disobeyed The Shadow’s command.
Again The Shadow was on his feet, covering Palermo closely. Now he spoke.
“Palermo,” he said, “I have warned you. I shall not hesitate to end your life if you make another move!”
Palermo regretted his mistake. The opportunity would come again within a few seconds, however.
The fate of The Shadow was virtually in the hands of Chong. As soon as the man in the cloak returned to the taboret, his game would be scheduled for a sudden and unexpected conclusion.
The Shadow smiled. He looked intently at Palermo. “Perhaps”—his voice became a sinister whisper—”perhaps you consider yourself immune from bullets. Perhaps you doubt the perfection of my aim.
“Let me show you, Palermo, just what a bullet can do when it strikes an object”—the automatic was swinging slowly back and forth — “for instance, an object made of — bronze!”
The automatic barked as the finger pressed the trigger. That very instant, The Shadow’s sweeping aim had turned directly toward the glaring image of Chong, with its evil, saturnine countenance.
Perhaps the hideousness of the idol had caused a sudden repugnance to seize The Shadow. Whatever had caused his twist of fancy, he had certainly not expected the result that followed.
THE bullet, instead of flattening itself against an ugly mass of bronze, found its mark in the forehead of a living creature.
With a sickening gasp, the motionless dwarf toppled forward. Instinctively the monster spread its thin, horrible arms as death overtook it, body sprawled and writhing for a brief instant after it had fallen.
The Shadow’s arm dropped. The black cloak seemed to sway as though its wearer had been dumfounded. The Shadow, who had never known the emotion of surprise, was momentarily overcome by the hideous reality.
Not for an instant had he suspected that the metal monstrosity had been a freak of humanity. In the amazement of the moment, that tall, unyielding man forgot his surroundings, his mind completely fascinated by the sight of the ugly thing that he had unwittingly slain.
Palermo seized his opportunity. With three stupendous leaps, he fell upon The Shadow before the avenger had lost his astonishment.
The attack brought back the reality of the situation. Palermo had seized the barrel of the revolver. The Shadow still clutched the butt. Their free arms were locked. Together they staggered in the center of the room.
The physician was the first to yield. His sudden weakness brought no material advantage to his antagonist. Palermo simply allowed himself to be forced backward across the room.
The Shadow pushed him against a screen, which fell to the side. Palermo knocked against a table. The Shadow pressed the trigger of the automatic, as it was turning toward Palermo. The other man stopped the motion of the barrel and the bullet grazed his body.
Another shot followed. Again Palermo escaped.
“Help!” cried Palermo.
The Shadow saw the purpose of his opponent’s shout.
When Palermo had tipped the table, he had knocked a telephone from its place. The instrument, of French pattern, had fallen to the floor, with the receiver off the hook.
The revolver shots, the cry for help — all had been heard at the desk downstairs.
It was now a fight against time. Unless The Shadow could quickly overpower his antagonist, help would be at hand.
The odds seemed greatly in Palermo’s favor, but the criminal knew too well that he could not expect immediate aid. He, himself, had made it impossible for the elevator to rise above the thirty-ninth floor. He could only rely on Warwick’s keenness.
The detective might take the emergency measure of sending a man up the shaft on top of the elevator.
Even then it would take time to batter down the heavy door of the apartment.
Realizing this, Palermo displayed a sudden attack. He managed to wrest the automatic from his opponent’s grasp. Then the barrel eluded his fingers, and the gun fell to the floor.
Backward went The Shadow, while Hassan watched from the torture chair, his teeth clenched in hatred.
The Shadow staggered and fell to the floor. He came up again, still clutching his foe; but now his left arm had become limp.
The Shadow had weakened. He was fighting to hold his own. Palermo had the strength of a bull.
WITH raging force, Palermo virtually lifted The Shadow and bore him through the opening to the roof.
There The Shadow twisted free.
His hat was gone; now his cloak was torn from his shoulders in the grappling, but Palermo could not see his face in the darkness.
The physician was governed by one single purpose — to lift The Shadow bodily and carry him to the rail of the roof. He was succeeding, although the effort strained him to the utmost.
Now they had reached the parapet. The Shadow seemed weaker than before. Palermo pushed him to the rail. The Shadow clung desperately to the posts. He was over the rail now, still fighting.
Suddenly his efforts became tremendous. Palermo, leaning upon the rail and trying to force The Shadow downward, felt himself drawn over the edge.
Down below him gleamed the tiny lights of the street. The Shadow was almost conquered; but that sight of the depths below aroused in Palermo the one thought of self-preservation.
He was balanced on the parapet; he relaxed his hold upon his opponent in a sudden effort to gain a more secure position. Then The Shadow’s right arm shot upward through the air and caught Palermo by the neck.
It was the stroke that decided the struggle.
Palermo’s hands slipped from the rail. For an instant he was balanced on a fulcrum; then the leverage of The Shadow’s grasp toppled him outward.
Palermo’s hands struck the edge of the roof. They found no purchase there. Head foremost, the master of villainy shot forward into space.
He uttered a long, shrill cry of terror as he fell. It seemed to die away in the distance as he sped to his doom.
The Shadow watched as he clung feebly to the post beneath the parapet. He saw Palermo’s body grow smaller and smaller. He saw it turn twice as its speed increased. Then its downward course stopped with breath-taking suddenness.
From that point, high above the city, all that remained of Albert Palermo was a tiny, pitiful blotch of whiteness upon the sidewalk far below.