"That finishes the job."
It was Judge who spoke the satisfied words to Harvey Bronlon. Deacon, stooped near the wall, closed the lid of a packing case, in which were stacked piles of paper money. The three were in the subterranean strong room under Harvey Bronlon's garage. The iron door was closed.
They were safe there.
Deacon clamped the cover of the last packing case. The big boxes stood in a row, beside a line of opened coffins. The transfer of a vast amount of cash had been effected.
"Come on," said Bronlon.
He led the way from the room. He locked the iron door behind him. The three men walked through a long, dark passage, back to the house, then up a flight of steps, and at last arrived in Bronlon's smoking room.
"When Critz calls up, we're all right," he declared with an insidious leer. "Now that The Shadow's taken care of, our game is safe."
"We must speed matters, however," declared Judge. "With more than two million tucked away, I think it would be best to let the security business ride."
"I think you're right," returned Bronlon. "I can get you that job in the East at any time. Let the new president hold the bag."
"There'll be real dough coming in all along," observed Deacon.
"Yes," agreed Judge, "but we've passed out so much of the queer that we'll be getting too much of it back. There isn't much of the genuine left in this neck of the woods."
"It will be a while before the queer gets spotted," said Deacon. "We did a real job, Judge.
You can't beat the engraving work. It looks like it came from the government bureau. All except the numbers. They're duplicates of good bills. Major knew his paper. That makes it perfect.
Butcher really did an exceedingly good job, too — on the printing—"
He paused reflectively, then added:
"I hated to see those plates drop overboard in the Caribbean. It was like a burial at sea. I put plenty in them, Judge — plenty—"
Judge nodded and smiled. He was about to speak when an interruption occurred — so sudden that neither he nor Deacon had an opportunity to move from the room.
Jake Critz, appointed leader of the vigilantes, came dashing into the smoking room. His eyes were wild as he stopped in front of Harvey Bronlon. Then, seeing the others there, he hesitated, panting.
"What happened, Critz?" growled Bronlon. "Never mind who's here. Tell me — quick!"
"He got away!" blurted Critz. "Him and the girl! Both of them! We had him, but he managed to sock me one, and the other fellows fell down on the job. They're laying there — at Delmar's — half of them dead!" Bronlon's huge form slumped in its chair. Judge seemed stunned.
Deacon's face was long and melancholy.
"It will get traced to me, sure," groaned Critz. "When they see who the crowd is — well, the cops will be on my track sure."
Bronlon was nodding; but Judge interrupted.
"That won't happen for a while, Bronlon," he said quietly. "There's no reason why they should look for Critz right away. Vigilantes are illegal; but they have so many to take care of, that it will be some time before they think about others. Critz must get out tonight."
Bronlon nodded.
"He can go in one of your trucks," added Judge in an easy tone. "Let him take that shipment of boxes from the strong room, so it will look as though he is doing business for you.
Mr. Best here" — Judge indicated Deacon — "can go along to help him. That will aid him in his escape." Bronlon saw the shrewdness of the scheme. Apparently, Critz would have fled in a stolen truck. At the same time, the money would be taken away. It would be safe at its place of concealment long before the police began to seek Jake Critz. The flight of the man would also clear suspicion from the name of Harvey Bronlon.
"We'll help you out of this, Critz," declared Bronlon. "It will mean money for you, too. Enough so you can travel and keep away from here. Go down to the garage, and get the big truck. Bring it to the garage. Speak to no one."
Critz, nodding eagerly, hastened from the room. Judge arose and motioned to his companions.
"Under the garage," he said. "That is where we belong." The three men descended. They went through the passage, and entered the strong room. Deacon unbarred the side door that led toward the delivery drive. Seated on the boxes, the men discussed in low tones the strange turn that events had taken.
"We're rid of The Shadow for the time," declared Judge with emphasis. "He was lucky to escape. He can't try anything now. The danger is down at the bank — and in the undertaking establishment. It may be best to let Deacon stay away. Let everything be discovered. My name and yours are safe, Bronlon. The bad money will pass for good—"
"Suppose The Shadow gets in and rifles the vault?" said Deacon.
"I'll go down as soon as we are through here," said Judge thoughtfully. "If that has happened, I shall have to get out of town, too. As for Bronlon—"
He stopped short. Critz was entering from the drive. The man came in through a passage that led to the side door of the strong room. The three stood up, and Deacon hurriedly prepared to help Critz in the lifting of the first box.
A low laugh came from the inner door of the room. The four men turned as one. They found themselves staring into the muzzles of two revolvers. The guns were held by a man in black.
"The Shadow!" cried Judge.
Up went the hands of the trapped men. There was no chance of escape. The Shadow lowered his left arm with a slight sign of weariness; but the right gun was sufficient as a threat.
"The first to move will be the first to die!" said The Shadow. His ominous voice sounded as an echoed whisper in that subterranean room.
"Your game is ended, Bronlon," declared The Shadow coldly. "A man of wealth, you squandered much of your gains. You needed a way to make up for your losses, and to net millions in addition.
"So you chose a group of clever crooks. The Five Chameleons, they called themselves. Like the chameleon, that curious lizard of the tropics, they could change their appearances and their manners to adapt themselves to the requirements you desired.
"Now, three of the Five Chameleons are dead. The two who remain are trapped here with you. They are the survivors of a band of rogues."
All understood the menace of that tone save Jake Critz. He was bewildered and stupefied.
He did not recognize this amazing being as the one he had temporarily captured at Delmar's.
"A clever scheme," declared The Shadow. "The fruit of many years work — to be plucked one short week. I know the names of your Five Chameleons. I know the names they called themselves.
"Judge — Deacon — these two are here. Major — Ferret — Butcher — those three lie dead. Four were convicted men. Your influence secretly released them from prison before their terms were served.
"You sent them away — ten years ago — four of the cleverest counterfeiters in the land. They spent a life of ease and luxury, cruising in tropical lands, picked up at intervals by the yacht that you had ready to serve them.
"While they played, they worked. They prepared plates, and printed millions of dollars of the most perfect counterfeit notes that have ever been produced. Those were smuggled into the country — by airplane, I presume. The false money then was sent to Middletown — shipped here in an order of caskets."
"I knew nothing of it!" snarled Bronlon.
The Shadow laughed.
"That block you built," he said. "The block arranged to house Middletown's banks — with a passage underneath it to the undertaking establishment. It served your Chameleons well.
"One — this man who calls himself Judge — had no criminal record. He was here, and prosperous. He knew the banking business. He was familiar with the vault in the National Bank, as well as the one in his own bank.
"His campaign began with the bleeding of the other bank. Thousands of dollars were removed — taken from the County National Bank, and stowed in the vault of the Trust Company. Two murders proved necessary. Wellington was killed. Hubert Salisbury was framed. Roland Delmar's death was made to appear a suicide. The run began. The National Bank failed.
"Then into the coffers of your controlled bank poured all the resources of this territory. For every dollar of good paper money, your Chameleons had a dollar of the queer. Bad money for good.
"The vault of the Middletown Trust Company holds more cash than its books show. But none of the money is real. The millions pilfered from the public lies in those boxes — ready for a shipment that will never take place!"
Bronlon groaned. The others were silent.
"Your payrolls, Bronlon; the bonus you gave — all in counterfeit notes. Money — cash — drawn into Middletown; that you and your fellow crooks might reap a mighty harvest!" The Shadow paused. A laugh again echoed from his lips. He spoke now, slowly and emphatically.
"I trust that I have not wearied you" — his tones were cold and ironical — "for the knowledge that I possess is no news to you. I have been forced to pass a little while with you here. We are waiting — waiting for the officers whom I have summoned to this place!"
The voice of The Shadow was dragging. His efforts had been great tonight. He was still a wounded man. A feeling of dizziness was coming over him. His body swayed and almost toppled. Judge — keen in the face of danger — realized the reason. This was his chance. Like a tiger, he sprang forward to attack The Shadow.
The sudden thrust brought back The Shadow's fading strength. He raised his right arm as Judge fell upon him. The revolver barked. Judge's body rolled upon its back. The Shadow's shot had reached his heart. Bronlon leaped forward. Critz joined him. Deacon was drawing his revolver. Had Bronlon and his henchman not made their wild attack, Deacon could have shot The Shadow. But now The Shadow was beneath his enemies. His revolver fired muffled shots.
The men on the floor were writhing, as Deacon dashed to their aid.
One patch of that black form was all that Deacon wanted. It came to view as Bronlon's heavy body slumped to one side. But as Deacon saw his opportunity, the hand of The Shadow lifted with its gleaming revolver.
Twice the finger pressed the trigger, before Deacon had a chance to fire. And then the fifth Chameleon dropped in his tracks.
The Shadow slowly pushed aside the body of Jake Critz. With his right hand, the figure of vengeance raised itself to its feet. The Shadow arose, a motionless figure of belated justice.
On the floor lay Judge and Deacon, dead. Bronlon was groaning, moving feebly. Critz was gasping, his hands clasped against his side.
Slowly and painfully, The Shadow walked from the strong room, faltering on toward the reviving air. Thin gray wreaths of revolver smoke clouded his black-cloaked form. Then he was gone, out into the darkness. The scene of death lay waiting for the forces of the law.
The last of the Five Chameleons had perished — by the hand of The Shadow. Alone, he had ended the careers of the quintet of notorious criminals.
With the forms of Judge and Deacon lay the writhing bulk of Harvey Bronlon the millionaire crook, who had financed the game of crime.