Deacon, standing by the open door that led to the alleyway, was superintending the loading of coffins upon one of Harvey Bronlon's trucks.
Four men were at work. They had brought the caskets from below, and had stacked them in the alley. Now their task was nearly completed. Only two of the long boxes remained.
"Put them in the hearse," ordered Deacon. "I didn't think the truck would hold them all."
The men obeyed.
While the workers were thus engaged, Deacon drew away from the front door and stepped into the funeral parlor. "Butcher," he whispered.
The big man advanced through the gloomy room.
"I'm riding up to Bronlon's," declared Deacon, in a low voice. "Following right after the truck, with the hearse. As soon as we're away, go through and tip off Major and Ferret."
"Sure," replied Butcher. "The only thing, Deacon, is the idea of you going alone on this ride. Suppose—"
"Don't be a fool, Butcher. This trip is nothing. It has to look on the level. Wouldn't it look fine" Deacon's tone became sarcastic — "for you to be taking a ride in an undertaker's hearse?
"You know that nothing can go wrong. These men don't know what they're carrying. Those coffin lids are clamped down so tight, it will take a crowbar to open them. Don't you worry. Judge will have them within half an hour. Your job is to slide along, with the others. Be sure the door stays locked. I'm locking it now."
"O.K. I'll be seeing you soon."
"You will not. I don't know you. Stick to your teller's window, and I'll keep doing business in the funeral parlor."
With that, Deacon was gone. Butcher heard the door close behind him. Listening, the big man caught the sound of the truck driving away; then the hearse followed. Butcher started for the stairs. He paused a moment in the gloomy morgue. Butcher grinned as he stared at the depleted piles of old coffins. A clever idea, tonight's shipment. These were brainy men — Judge, Deacon, and Major. Butcher felt that he and Ferret were fortunate to be linked up with this crew. Unlike Ferret, he had never fancied acting on his own initiative. Butcher was content to follow, and do as he was told. Realizing that Major and Ferret would be waiting, Butcher hurriedly opened the panel and shoved back the sliding stone barrier behind it. His flashlight was in his hand. His revolver was in his pocket. The flashlight was needed, for the corridor was dark. But before Butcher pressed the button, he paused and sniffed in the darkness. His nostrils caught the pungent odor of powder. As he stepped forward in the gloom, Butcher's foot stumbled against a form. He quickly pressed the flashlight, and its rays shone upon a black-clad figure, sprawled upon the floor of the corridor. The discovery astonished Butcher. It was entirely unexpected, and he could make nothing of it. The thought occurred that it must be either Major or Ferret.
He bent over the prostrate form, and decided that it was a corpse. Should he go on — or should he stop here? Butcher decided that the latter course was preferable. He gripped the body and dragged it back through the panel, until he reached the floor of the morgue.
There, Butcher let his burden rest gently on the floor. He carefully rolled the body over on its back. He pulled away the slouch hat.
This was neither Major nor Ferret. Here was a stern, calm face — a face that bespoke death. Butcher turned the flashlight upon it. He noticed that the face was masklike, a disguise that might have been applied by some artificial touch. It was white and waxen.
Butcher was sure that his find was dead. He ran his light close to the eyelids. He could not understand how this stranger had reached the secret corridor. He wished that Deacon was here to tell him what to do. Well, Major would tell. He must hurry and find Major. Butcher entered the corridor, but he hesitated to advance. Even though he was sure that the body now in the morgue was dead, it would not be wise to leave if it could be avoided. Butcher hallooed softly along the silent corridor. His call came back — a whispered echo.
Butcher's light was turned toward the other end of the passage. Off in the dimness, the big man fancied that he saw someone lying there. He walked forward, directly over the spot where the black-clad form had lain.
He stepped within an inch of a revolver that lay on the floor. Butcher had not observed it before; for it had been beneath the body that he had found. Nor did he see it now, with his attention diverted toward the other end of the corridor.
Revolver drawn, Butcher advanced. He neared the end of the corridor. He came upon the forms of two men, one lying on his side, the other on his back. An incredulous gasp came from Butcher's lips. Major and Ferret — dead!
Butcher was totally bewildered. He stooped down and examined both bodies. They had been killed. So had the other man. No one else was in the corridor save Butcher himself. A triple gun fight in which all had been slain! That was the explanation that came to Butcher's brain.
Slowly, he gained his wits and realized that it would be wise to return and examine the third body.
Back in the morgue, that waxen face was still turned toward the ceiling, as Butcher had left it. Now, the eyelids slowly opened. The eyes of The Shadow stared straight upward. The head began to turn. His senses aroused by the dragging of his body, and the bright light that Butcher had flashed before his eyelids, The Shadow had returned to semiconsciousness; but until this moment he had remained in a daze.
Now, he recognized his surroundings. He shifted his body to the left, and paused, expressionless as his body turned upon his useless left arm and shoulder.
With an effort, The Shadow shifted to the right. He managed to prop himself upon his right arm; then gained his knees. He stared at the half-opened panel.
Some one had entered the corridor, and had brought him here. That enemy was in the corridor now. Weakened and weaponless, The Shadow could make no retreat.
Crawling lamely, he made his way to the panel, so that he could close it. There, he hesitated, listening; then peered through the opening.
Far away, he caught the glimmer of the light, and knew that whoever was in the passage was at the other end. The light from the morgue threw a long, dim ray into the nearer end of the corridor, and on the edge of that slight shaft of illumination something sparkled — barely visible, but enough to attract the attention of The Shadow's keen eyes.
A revolver! The one that he had wrested from Major, to drop later when he had fallen unconscious. The sight of the weapon brought a sparkle to The Shadow's eyes.
This grim personage ended danger by encountering it. Weak though he was, he planned that course now. He dragged himself through the panel, and lay flat in the corridor.
Butcher was coming back. The man's heavy footfalls were echoing along the passage. His light was shining in this direction. It was yards away, but coming closer.
With renewed effort, The Shadow dragged himself forward, grimly heading for that revolver, which lay so near, and yet so far.
Butcher's light revealed him. An oath resounded in the passage. The heavy footsteps quickened, and a shot rang out. Butcher was hurrying toward The Shadow, firing as he came.
The range was great. The shot went wide.
Butcher paused to fire again. This time he barely missed. The bullet struck the floor beside The Shadow's body and ricocheted against the uplifted panel.
The Shadow never faltered. Crawling onward, he dropped prone as Butcher, once more on the run, fired a third shot.
It was high by inches only. The Shadow's drop had saved his life. The bullet whistled over his head. But it was not through fear of Butcher's bullets that The Shadow had lunged himself flat and forward. This was his last great effort to reach the revolver. It was successful.
The Shadow's outstretched right hand gripped the handle of the gun.
Butcher saw the hand as it fumbled with the weapon. He rushed forward, from fifty feet away, his flashlight gleaming like the mammoth headlight of a locomotive, his revolver swinging into position for a sure shot at close range.
The Shadow's hand came suddenly upward, its strength recovered to an amazing extent.
The black finger pressed the trigger.
A roar resounded. The shot was aimed directly at the blazing light. Butcher hurtled forward and landed in the corridor, his torch flying far ahead of him.
The Shadow's finger pressed the trigger again. The hammer clicked. Only one shot had remained from that fight with Major and Ferret. The last bullet was gone!
Moreover, The Shadow's strength was spent. His hand dropped to the floor. Butcher was roaring like a wounded bull. He fired thrice in the dark. There was no response. Butcher was on his hands and knees, leaning against the wall, forgetting the agony of a wound in his side, with his mad desire to slay this enemy who had clipped him.
Then the big man stopped. He had one cartridge left in his six-shooter. He would use it well. Staggering along against the wall, Butcher approached his helpless foe. He came to the flashlight. He stooped to pick it up, and stumbled. He sprawled on the floor, and rolled in agony.
Determined, he regained his knees; although he could not rise.
Butcher's lips were flecked with blood. He was sputtering, coughing, as he turned his light full upon the prostrate form in black, some twenty feet away, its outstretched hand moving feebly. The Shadow was striving to rise. He had dropped the revolver upon the floor. Butcher crawled forward. He was leaving nothing to chance. This wound was getting him, he knew. He wanted closer range, sure range from which to end the life of his foe. Fury fought with agony as Butcher neared The Shadow.
Butcher raised his gun to fire. He steadied himself upon his knees, with his light in his left hand, the finger of his right upon the trigger, ready to fire that certain shot.
The two men were not ten feet apart. The Shadow was raising himself painfully. Butcher was swaying unsteadily. He gave a hideous, coughing gulp. His throat was choked with a sudden rush of blood. With a last gasp, Butcher crumpled sidewise and fell dead.
The Shadow's last shot had done its work. Mortally wounded, Butcher had not known the seriousness of his hurt. He had striven onward, sustained by a mad desire for revenge. Now he was dead, like Major and Ferret. He had not lived to fire his one remaining bullet.
The flashlight, lying on the floor, sent a long, distorted beam toward the panel at the end of the passage. That light showed The Shadow, supporting himself against the wall, with his good right hand. Fighting his way, The Shadow gained the panel and crawled into the gloomy morgue. He lifted himself by the pile of coffins. With strange, unsteady gait, the man in black tottered wearily for the stairs, his mighty spirit carrying him onward.
Twice disarmed and left for dead, The Shadow, superantagonist of crime, had slain those who had sought his life!