THE FINAL RECKONING
IT was nearly midnight. Two elderly men were seated in a little windowless, luxuriously furnished room. The men were at opposite sides of a highly polished table. The walls of the room were tapestried, at each side, curtains denoted hidden niches that served as closets.
There was one door leading into the room — a massive door, with strips of iron and a huge knob of the same metal.
This was Stanley Wilberton’s study. He was talking to Howard Griscom. There was a contrast between the two men. Both elderly, Wilberton was keen and alert, while Griscom seemed on the point of collapse.
“It’s terrible, Griscom,” said Wilberton. “I sympathize with you. I should like to help you; but I do not know how.”
“I thank you for inviting me here tonight,” replied Griscom.
“That is nothing,” returned Wilberton. “It is the very least that I can do. But you have made a grave error, Griscom. You should have conferred with me before you notified the police that your daughter was gone.
“I have warned you all along of the dangers that might come. Now, I fear it will be too late. These racketeers are cunning.
“Your daughter would have been safe in their hands, so long as you kept the abduction to yourself. Now, they can choose no other course. They may have to do away with her.”
“I’ll give up anything,” exclaimed Griscom. “I must have been insane, when I called the police. Maurice Belden has disappeared. There is no way to reach him, now.
“My daughter means everything to me, Mr. Wilberton! I would sign a thousand papers like the one he laid before me, if I had the opportunity now! They could keep her hostage for a year — if I could only know that she was alive — if I could only hear her voice!”
“Perhaps,” said Wilberton quietly, “you may have that opportunity. It may be that Belden will visit you secretly. You might offer him thousands of dollars in advance.
“If your daughter should return suddenly, you could tell the police that it was a mistake. These are possibilities, Griscom.
“I would advise you to return to your home — to remain there — to make it plain the place is not being watched—”
Griscom nodded.
“But, after all” — Wilberton’s voice took on a strange tone — “you may have gone too far. The next few days will tell, Griscom. If you hear nothing then, I am afraid you will never hear anything!”
He studied Griscom closely. The theater owner had his hands on the side of the table. He was pitifully weak. Wilberton seemed apprehensive. Griscom might collapse at any moment.
It was because of his intentness that Stanley Wilberton did not see the door open. When he glanced in that direction, he was startled to see a tall man standing there.
The visitor was a most amazing figure. He appeared to be a mass of shadowy darkness that towered before the door. A long black cloak draped from his shoulders. Upon his head was a hat with turned-down brim. Not a sign of his features showed beneath that brim.
Wilberton stared.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Why are you here?”
“I bring a message!” said the man in black. “A message for Howard Griscom!”
WHEN he heard his name, Griscom looked up. The sepulchral tones of the voice startled him.
“I am Howard Griscom,” he said automatically.
“Your daughter is safe,” said the man in black. “By now, she has returned to her home.”
A gasp of relief came from Griscom’s lips.
Wilberton stared at the man in black, as though doubting his reality.
“Who are you?” he questioned, in a raspy voice.
“They call me The Shadow.”
The reply brought a tenseness to Wilberton’s face. He had heard of this mysterious man of the night. It had been rumored that he was the person who had waged the destructive war against the New York racketeers.
If this man proved to be The Shadow — and Wilberton showed no signs of doubt — the words that he had uttered must be true!
The Shadow was approaching now. He stood before the table, an ominous, threatening figure, and surveyed the men before him. Both seemed to accept his presence. Griscom appeared hopeful; Wilberton expressed intense interest.
“Your daughter,” said The Shadow, to Griscom, “was abducted by the man who murdered George Ballantyne. That man was called Killer Durgan. He died tonight — very suddenly. Your daughter has been taken to safety.
“Killer Durgan” — The Shadow now seemed to be addressing Wilberton — “was a notorious racketeer who managed to cover his tracks well.
“He disappeared the night that the dock racket was broken. He went into hiding — in a house belonging to a super-racketeer, whose commands Durgan obeyed.”
Howard Griscom looked at The Shadow wonderingly. Lamont Cranston had spoken of a super-racketeer — a billion-dollar master mind — whose hidden hand pulled the invisible strings that controlled the greatest rackets in New York!
“When messengers came from this overlord,” continued The Shadow, “their orders were picked up at a designated spot and taken to their destinations. The messengers did their work and disappeared.
“Not even they knew who controlled them. They were paid to work and to forget.
“Their master made one mistake. He chose a car that could be identified — a Halcyon Eight of a particular model, with certain equipment that made it recognizable.
“That car was discovered and watched — by agents in my employ. It came from a house above Ninety-sixth Street — the exact address is irrelevant.
“In that house, Killer Durgan was hiding. Arline Griscom was in his power. She is now safe. But after she had gone away, a certain man — myself — entered the house once more.
“Upon the body of Killer Durgan were discovered — these!”
A black-clad hand was thrust forward. It dropped white sheets of paper upon the table. Upon them were inscribed typewritten messages.
Another sheet of paper fluttered to the table. It was a letter, bearing the address of Stanley Wilberton’s private office.
“You will find,” said The Shadow, “that those typings are the same. They bear distinct marks that show they were made with the same machine — the typewriter outside your office — the one used by your confidential secretary, Crowley!”
HOWARD GRISCOM seemed bewildered. He began to recall cryptic remarks made by Lamont Cranston. He looked at Stanley Wilberton. The financier was staring with hard, cold eyes.
“From that night when you were at Griscom’s home” — The Shadow was addressing Griscom — “your purpose was evident to me. You would lend the money for the theatrical merger — if the business would be stabilized by yielding to racketeers!
“A wonderful investment, Wilberton, with you and your silent partner, Crowley, collecting through the racket, with interest rates on your money besides!”
The truth was dawning on Howard Griscom. His old strength returned. He looked accusingly at Stanley Wilberton.
“So you are responsible!” he exclaimed. “You were the cause of Ballantyne’s death! Now I see how you have gained your tremendous wealth — you — the greatest crook of them all—”
He could not utter further words. He was bursting with indignation. The Shadow stood silent, the accusing figure in this dramatic scene.
Stanley Wilberton laughed, and the evil of the man’s nature manifested itself as a thin, malicious smile crept over his features.
“You are right!” His voice came in a hiss. “Crowley and I were in back of it all. But only two men know the truth — and they shall never live to tell it!” He paused, then added sharply:
“Will they, Crowley?”
Curtains parted at the side of the room. There stood Crowley, the pretended secretary, the actual partner in crime of Stanley Wilberton!
He held an automatic in his hand. It swayed back and forth from The Shadow to Howard Griscom.
The Shadow did not move. It seemed incredible to Griscom that he had not come prepared for this. Could it be that the man in black had some plan that would frustrate Wilberton and Crowley?
With a slight bow, Wilberton arose from the table. He walked deliberately to the door, a smile on his lips.
“Turn this way,” he commanded. Both Griscom and The Shadow obeyed. The threat of Crowley’s gun brooked no refusal.
“Guns,” remarked Wilberton, “are noisy and troublesome.”
Crowley was following him to the door and took his place there, still covering the men by the table. “I have a much better way” — Wilberton was affecting pleasantry — “a far better way to dispose of you!”
He drew a cord from behind a picture.
“When this is pulled,” he said, “a gas will enter the room. It will not be unpleasant. You will die easily — with nothing but regrets for your folly.
“When I draw the cord, Crowley will open the door. I shall leave; he will follow. His gun, by the way, will go last. Crowley is an excellent shot.
“Until the door is finally closed, you will not be freed from the menace of his automatic. Once the cord is drawn, I may add, nothing can stop the flow of gas. That has been arranged!”
Wilberton looked at Crowley. The man nodded. Wilberton drew the cord. There was a slight hissing somewhere in the room. It ended immediately. The gas was flowing.
“Open the door, Crowley,” ordered Wilberton.
A CRY came from Crowley as he placed his hand upon the knob. He was staggered by a powerful electric shock. He fell forward, the automatic dropping from his grasp.
Before Wilberton could seize the weapon, The Shadow’s arms were outstretched. Each gloved hand held an automatic.
Crowley had risen to his knees. His hands were above his head. Wilberton’s hands were also raised.
“Come,” said The Shadow to Griscom. The man in black went to the door. His gloved hand turned the knob. This time there was no shock. The door opened.
Howard Griscom stepped through the doorway. The Shadow remained in the room, his automatics covering the occupants. He smiled slightly. Then he, too, stepped swiftly out. The door closed behind him.
In the hallway, he detached a wire from the outside door knob and disconnected the other end from a floor plug. Then The Shadow’s hand darted into his cloak. When it emerged, a pistol shot blazed in the darkness. With one bullet the lock on the door had been jammed.
Even with a key, Wilberton and Crowley would not be able to escape the doom that they deserved.
But with that shot came a surprise attack. A door of a side room opened. The Shadow stood revealed in the light — a tall, black figure.
Four gangsters were there — Wilberton’s trusted bodyguards, murderers all!
It was an instant before they understood the presence of the man in black. These men of Wilberton’s own murder squad were kept by him for emergencies. They had come at the sound of the shot; but they had not known of The Shadow’s presence.
In that one moment of hesitation, The Shadow acted. Crouched against the wall, Howard Griscom stared in amazement. Instead of firing his automatic, The Shadow hurled himself into the midst of the mob!
Then came shots. They were fired by the gangsters; but not a bullet reached its mark.
Hands that held guns were struck upward. A gangster was thrown headlong against the wall. Another staggered from a blow and fell. One man seized The Shadow. Together they rolled upon the floor.
The last gunman was waiting eagerly, to fire the death shot without hitting his companion. But even as his finger pressed the trigger, a shot came from the floor.
The Shadow’s gun had spoken, with its perfect aim! The eager gangster slumped. Griscom saw a black-clad arm rise. The butt of The Shadow’s gun struck the head of the man who was battling with him.
The last of the gangsters lay motionless.
The man in black rose to his feet. He moved swiftly along the hallway, motioning silently to Griscom. They left by a side door.
Outside, a car was awaiting them. As they rolled along the street, policemen shot by on motor cycles. They were rushing to the scene of the firing.
Griscom stared from the window of the car as they passed. What would the police find? Gangsters — crippled or dead — the bodies of two evil men in a gas-filled room!
The car had stopped to let a patrol wagon go by. Griscom watched the police vehicle; then he turned to speak to The Shadow. He received no reply. He turned on the dome light.
He was alone in the back of the limousine! Silently, mysteriously, The Shadow had left the car. The man in black had vanished into the night!