THE FIFTH MAN
Time seemed endless to Harry Vincent as the torture continued. Birdie Crull was working slowly. The pressure seemed to increase by infinitesimal degrees. But now it had reached a point where it would soon be unbearable.
Isaac Coffran held up a halting hand.
“No more pressure, Birdie,” he said. “Turn the knob at the center. That will advance the spikes alone.”
Sharp pains gripped Harry’s back. He gasped with anguish.
“Hold it,” ordered the old man. “Will you speak now?”
Harry was desperate. This prolonged agony would become insufferable. No hope lay ahead, yet his one desire was to postpone the coming torture. He nodded his head.
“All right,” said Isaac Coffran. “Who sent you here?”
“I came — of my own — accord,” gasped Harry.
The old man gazed at him sharply.
“I know who sent you” — his voice hissed through tightly closed teeth. “You came from The Shadow!”
If Isaac Coffran had sought to make Harry betray the fact which he suspected, his efforts were without avail. For no change came over the young man’s face.
“You know who The Shadow is, don’t you?” questioned the inquisitor.
Harry shook his head to indicate his ignorance. Old Isaac Coffran laughed harshly.
“Go ahead, Birdie,” he said.
Harry turned his head. His eyes were toward the gloomy passage that came from the farmhouse. He was the only one looking in that direction.
He gasped in sudden hope as a man emerged from the tunnel, and came into the light. Then he groaned.
The newcomer was the short, dark man with the black mustache who had captured him some nights before. This must be the fellow they called “Jerry.”
The stocky man moved quietly as he approached the group. When he had nearly reached them, he stopped short. Isaac Coffran heard him then, and turned.
The man was standing with his hands behind his back. He brought them to view with remarkable quickness, and threw two automatics toward the four men who were torturing Harry Vincent.
“Hands up!”
The businesslike command of the stranger had its effect. The four surprised men raised their arms above their heads, without an instant’s hesitation.
The dark-visaged man handled the revolvers carelessly. Disdain was on his face, as he walked toward the casket.
He seemed to learn everything at a glance. His eyes were quick; his hands were restless. Even though he failed to cover all of the men, not one dared to move.
The stranger motioned toward the casket with one of his automatics.
“Turn that wheel back!” he said to Birdie Crull. “Use one hand to do it. Act quick.”
Crull obeyed the order. Harry Vincent breathed deeply with real gratitude as the pressure was relieved. The mysterious arrival glanced at him.
“So you aren’t with the gang!” he exclaimed softly. “No wonder I couldn’t make you talk. I thought you must have tipped them off, after I couldn’t locate you anywhere.”
He deliberately turned his back on the four men who stood with upraised hands, and nonchalantly walked across the cavern.
Isaac Coffran began to move slightly; at that instant the stranger turned suddenly, and covered the old man with an automatic.
“One move out of any of you,” he said, “and I shoot. This is my last warning. Remember it.”
He looked at the printing press out of the corner of his eye. He kicked over a box, and printed bank notes fell from it.
As he moved about the room, he discovered plates that lay in a smaller box. He finally glanced at the table, and laughed as he saw tools there.
“The whole works,” he said. “You make the engravings, you do the printing, and you unload.”
He looked at the men who stood before him.
“You’re the engraver, eh?” he said to Vernon.
The man did not reply.
“Blair Windsor,” said the dark-faced man, “I’ve seen you before. You’re in the racket, too. I didn’t suspect that. You’re the blind. You make the place look respectable.”
He studied Isaac Coffran and Birdie Crull.
“You’re the bird behind it,” he said to the old man, “and this other fellow is your strong-arm man. A nice bunch.
“Been making counterfeit money, and unloading it, for a long time, haven’t you? Well since you’re in the business, you’ll know my name when you hear it. I’m Vic Marquette, of the secret service.”
An audible gasp came from Vernon’s lips. The old engraver knew that name and dreaded it. Vic Marquette heard the gasp.
“You were in the jug once,” said the Federal agent. “I’ll have you placed before I’m through. Making an easy living here, eh?
“Well, I’ve caught the four of you, and I’m going to tell you the lowdown before I march you out of here” — the secret-service man was handling his automatics as though his fingers itched to press the triggers.
“The other government men thought the phony bills were being made in New York,” he said. “But I knew different. I traced a few of them up to Springfield; then I found some in Brookdale. Not many, I admit; but two or three were enough to show me that you fellows were operating strong in this vicinity.
“I had suspicions about the old farmhouse. I hung around there a bit. That’s where I nabbed that fellow you have in the box. Thought he was with you.
“I kept him in a shack for a couple of days. Then he got away. That’s why I came here to-night. I’m alone. All alone. That’s the way I work. You might have wised up if I had brought a crowd with me.
“Your old farmhouse was deserted when I came there, an hour ago. That meant one of two things — either that you skipped or were in your hangout. So I looked around the cellar a bit.
“It took me a little while to find the entrance to your tunnel. But I’m used to looking for places like that.”
Marquette looked at Harry Vincent.
“I’m going to leave you where you are, young fellow,” he remarked. “But I’ll be back later on.”
He dropped one automatic into his pocket, and brought out a flashlight in its place.
“We’re going to hold a parade,” he said, quietly. “It’s about five miles down to Brookdale, and you fellows are going to march all that distance with your hands up; and I’ll be behind with my gun.
“The first sign of monkey business — out you go. There’s ten bullets in this gat. That’s six more than I need; and I have another loaded gun in my pocket.”
He walked among the helpless men, and reached in their pockets. He found revolvers on Crull and Coffran. He threw the automatics in a corner. Then he went over to the tunnel through which he had come, and stood facing the group.
“Line up,” he said.
The men formed as commanded.
“Look out!” cried Harry Vincent.
Before Marquette could heed the warning, a man fell on him from the tunnel. The new arrival had come out of the blackness; the noise of his approach had been drowned by the Federal agent’s command.
* * *
The attacker had skillfully seized Marquette’s automatic with one hand, and as the two men rolled on the dirt floor, the gun fell to the ground. That was the signal for a mass attack.
Crull and Windsor sprang forward, followed by Vernon and Isaac Coffran. The struggle was fierce, but brief. Vic Marquette lay helpless. Vernon brought ropes, and the secret-service man was bound.
The man who had come to the rescue walked to the center of the room. He was stocky, and clad in old clothes. He looked like a native of the district; but his face showed a cunning expression.
“Good work, Jerry,” congratulated Isaac Coffran. “You came at the right time.”
The rescuer grinned.
“Listen, Jerry.” The old man’s voice expressed disapproval. “Did you pass any of the phony cash over in Brookdale?”
Jerry nodded.
“Then it was your fault that this fellow came on our trail. Well, you’ve made amends for it. We’ve caught Vic Marquette — the secret-service man who works alone.”
“What will we do with him?” questioned Birdie Crull.
“Bump him off, of course,” replied the old man. “There’s nothing else to worry us. We might as well finish this fellow Vincent at the same time. Get it all over with.”
“We were going to make Vincent talk,” observed Crull.
“I know it,” replied Isaac Coffran, “but that’s hardly necessary. If he’s working alone, as he says, he doesn’t matter. If he comes from The Shadow, we don’t have to worry. Tiger Bronson got the Shadow.”
Harry Vincent groaned. Now he understood why he had received no detailed reply by wireless. The Shadow had been killed; the few orders that Harry had received came from his agents — not from the master mind. There had been no message over the air from WNX at nine o’clock.
“Want me to bump them off?” questioned Birdie Crull. His voice indicated that the taking of a life was no great matter to him.
“No,” replied Isaac Coffran, thoughtfully. “We’ll leave that to the working of natural laws. You may be an accessory to the crime, if it pleases you.”
* * *
He went to the center of the cavern, and lifted a wooden slab in the ground. Beneath it was a deep pit, covered by an iron grating, fastened with a padlock.
The purpose of the pit was obvious. It served as a drain for any water that might enter the cavern.
Isaac Coffran unlocked the padlock, and tugged at the iron grating. It was too heavy for him to lift. Birdie Crull assisted.
“Put them in here,” said the old man. “Cut them loose. Let them fight to get out. It won’t do them any good.”
Harry Vincent was lowered first. He was held above the pit. Vernon cut his bonds; then Crull and Jerry dropped him before he could struggle free. He fell into slimy mire at the bottom of the pit. The walls were slimy, too. He could not scale them.
Staggering to his feet, he stood to one side as Marquette came tumbling into the pit. The secret-service man’s bonds had been cut. He and Harry were trapped together.
The grating clanged shut, and the padlock snapped. They could scarcely reach the grating with their hands.
The end of a hose came through the grating. Isaac Coffran’s fiendish scheme was now apparent. He planned to fill the pit with water!
It meant sure death for the men imprisoned there. The top of the pit was above the grating. They would be drowned like mice in a wire trap.
Water began to come through the hose. Harry seized the end of the rubber tube and twisted it. It was pulled from his grasp by Birdie Crull, who stood above.
Crull arranged the hose so that it did not pass through the grating. The bars were too close together to reach through.
The water began to rise in the pit. It was simply a question of time before it would be above the heads of the helpless victims.
Neither man cried out. They whispered grimly in the darkness of the pit, seeking to devise some plan of action.
The water reached their ankles; their knees; their waists. Still they muttered, suggesting hopeless ideas to overcome this menace.
The water was up to their shoulders. Its rise had been slow; a few minutes more still remained.
The men in the cavern above waited for the fateful moment.
Birdie Crull was laughing. Blair Windsor’s face was sober. Both Vernon and Jerry appeared to be taking the affair in a matter-of-fact manner.
Old Isaac Coffran had retired to a corner. He was out of sight, behind the printing press. His face displayed a fiendish grin, as he waited in the darkness. He did not care to observe these trivial preliminaries.
He was waiting for the end. When Crull would signal that the water was above the victims’ heads, Isaac Coffran would come forward.
He would enjoy watching two men die.