The Shadow was expert at that system. Tumbling with another fighter, he could always land on top, letting his opponent take the full force of the crash. In this case, The Shadow did not intend to throw the whole brunt the other way, for he still had future plans for Bert Glendon.

He tried, however, to give Bert the stronger share of it. Somebody still had to be in action after they hit the cellar floor, and The Shadow preferred that he should take over duty personally.

Oddly, things turned the other way about. As the floor clattered shut above, something seemed to pluck The Shadow in the darkness. Actually, both The Shadow and Bert Glendon jolted in midair. Then, grappling amid the darkness, they were falling again, but in the final spill their positions were reversed.

For the first time in his career, The Shadow felt what it was like to smack a solid floor with someone else's weight on top of him.

Rising dizzily in the darkness, Bert stumbled across The Shadow's p.r.o.ne and motionless form.

Everywhere that Bert went, he blundered into a solid wall. This cellar was indeed a pit, with no outlet except the closed trap, a dozen feet above.

Time and again, Bert stumbled across The Shadow, who did not stir. After a few minutes of it, Bert groped along the pitch-black wall, his hands lifted, only to find that there was no way to scale the surface.

Hands still raised, he stumbled inward, and his fingers felt something flap. He groped for it and found a length of cloth, hanging like a rope. Instantly, Bert stiffened from his daze. Rope climbing was his specialty, and there was nothing wrong with his arms, even though his head did whirl.

Hand over hand, he went upward, until his knuckles reached the closed trap. Swinging, Bert found a s.p.a.ce at the side and dug his fingers through. Of a sudden, he clicked a catch and the trap dropped again.

Bert's hand still held. He slapped the other alongside it and hauled himself out, thanks to the upward return of the automatic floor. Looking back as he rolled to the solid sector of the room, Bert saw the ropelike device that had helped him. It was The Shadow's cloak!

Catching between the trapdoor and the solid floor, the cloak was the thing that had produced the haltingjerk in midair. It wasn't until The Shadow and Bert ripped free of it, because of their combined weight, that the fall continued.

For once, The Shadow's garb of black had proven detrimental to his own welfare. The Shadow was lying stunned in the blackened pit, while Bert was out. Of course, The Shadow had regained his cloak, even though he didn't know it. But it would prove of little use to him, now that it had dropped through from the crack of the floor trap.

ON his feet, Bert looked around. He gingerly avoided the trap, until he found that it had locked again, since the cloak was no longer wedged between it and the solid floor. So Bert turned to the desk, and found himself staring at Simon March.e.l.l.

For a moment, Bert smiled; then his expression turned to horror, when he saw that March.e.l.l was dead.

Strewn all over the desk were the stocks that March.e.l.l had brought from the drawer. His gun was lying on the floor, close to the desk. In his own pocket, Bert clutched his stubby revolver, and remembered that he had picked it up from the cellar floor. He remembered firing those shots, too, but couldn't quite believe that they had been accurate enough to drill March.e.l.l.

Then, in the midst of Bert's quandary, a voice spoke from the floor. It was Timothy's tone, but when Bert turned about, he saw Trelger. Of course, he really saw Timothy, wearing gla.s.ses and keeping his face away from too much light, but it took Bert a few seconds to grasp the impersonation. Then, recalling all the things that had happened, Bert exclaimed: "I didn't mean to kill March.e.l.l! Look, Timothy! There is his gun! He was trying to shoot me, first!"

Timothy nodded, solemnly. He took off his gla.s.ses, having no need for disguise, and stepping forward, immediately became himself. Bert pleaded anew.

"My shots were wild, Timothy," Bert insisted. "I was falling through the floor. I was fighting that fellow in black. He's still lying in the cellar. Maybe he killed March.e.l.l."

Timothy didn't even smile. He merely said: "Perhaps he did."

"But you must have seen it," argued Bert. "You could testify that I didn't murder March.e.l.l. Why, you were right there at the door-"

"Calm yourself, Mr. Bert," interposed Timothy. "I have only one thing to say: I killed March.e.l.l."

Facts crowded through Bert's half-splitting head. It was quite obvious, after all. From the doorway, Timothy had a direct line on March.e.l.l. Naturally, he had fired in Bert's defense, as soon as the way was clear. Bert could vaguely remember other shots, chiming in with his own, when he and The Shadow were going through the floor.

Watching, Bert saw Timothy step behind the desk and tilt March.e.l.l's body back, to disclose the bullet wound through the heart. Then Bert, realizing that Timothy had done the deed in his behalf, found his own sense of loyalty springing to the fore.

"You say you killed him, Timothy," a.s.serted Bert, "but I'm willing to declare, under oath, that I slew March.e.l.l."

"Thank you, sir," acknowledged Timothy. "But let me remind you that we have a further duty. Come; help me gather these papers together." "Why?" queried Bert. "They're worthless. At least, March.e.l.l said so."

Timothy began to look over the securities, and for once, the butler's expression was one of real surprise.

Timothy didn't have to be told again that the stuff was no good.

"My word!" he exclaimed. "Here are some shares of Alhambra Smeltery! Even your uncle refused to buy Alhambra! And Coastal Aviation-why, the company doesn't even exist!"

"Maybe this is junk that March.e.l.l had on hand," suggested Bert suspiciously. "Stuff that suckers wouldn't even buy. Perhaps he was trying to kid us, Timothy."

Timothy shook his head.

"March.e.l.l dealt exclusively in real estate," said Timothy. "As a sucker-to use your own term, Mr. Bert-he would have been quite perfect, where stocks were concerned. I happen to know who specialized in these: our fifth man."

"The fifth man-"

"Yes. Artemus Enwood; the craftiest of them all! So clever is Enwood, that I left him to the last."

"He's here in New York?"

Timothy smiled.

"Enwood is always here," he declared. "But he might as well be on the moon, it is so hard to reach him.

He lives in a penthouse guarded by his servants."

"What sort of a man is he?"

"Abrupt," defined Timothy. "Very abrupt. He has a secretary named Olivan, who is very sleek and smooth. In fact"-Timothy smiled slightly-"I might say that Olivan is as soft-footed as myself."

"You've been to the penthouse, Timothy?"

"Never. Enwood always came to the house, with Olivan. The day before your uncle was well enough to leave his bed-"

TIMOTHY stopped short. His clutch was eager on Bert's arm. Old Timothy had struck upon the very fact he'd been seeking ever since the day when Lionel Glendon died.

"That's it, Mr. Bert!" Timothy e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "They killed your uncle-Enwood and Olivan!"

"But... how?"

"Can't you see?" queried Timothy. "I watched everyone who came there. I remembered Enwood, but I'd forgotten Olivan. He is the one man who could have slid into the parlor and placed those chemically treated papers in the oblong box! Yes, I remember the time! It was when Enwood was talking to me so earnestly, regarding Mr. Lionel's health."

"But... why?"

"Why should Enwood have been the one to kill your uncle? Look there, Mr. Bert!" Timothy pointed, not to March.e.l.l's body but to the papers that littered the desk. "He didn't want old Mr. Lionel to know that March.e.l.l had bought these. When two swindled men get together, they can accomplish more than one." The facts were dawning upon Bert. Gathered, those facts bulked into a single name: Artemus Enwood.

Unless Bert chose to regard Olivan as an additional factor, he could consider Enwood as the one great enemy to be met and conquered.

Trelger, Rayne, Wight, and particularly March.e.l.l, were dwindling into insignificance. Behind them lay Enwood, most dangerous of all. A master swindler, whose only merit lay in the fact that he could milk others of his ilk, as well as honest men. More than a swindler, Enwood was a murderer. That point made Bert forget everything else.

Even Timothy's mutters failed to dent Bert's hearing, so eager was Bert for final vengeance. Timothy's words were rueful, inspired, perhaps, by sight of March.e.l.l.

"If only we had sought Enwood first!" was Timothy's mumbled burden. "These other trifles could have been settled later. It was my fault-yes, all my fault! Not that I trusted Enwood; I simply thought that his malice had been satiated. He had shown his hand too far, so I believed, for him to attempt something else.

"Why didn't I realize that such made Enwood all the more dangerous! Instead, I had to wait for evidence like this! And now, to reach Enwood"-Timothy's head was shaking wearily-"it will be impossible! He will be on guard against us. He will even avoid the only one of his pretended friends, Trelger."

Unaware of Timothy's musings, Bert was demanding the very thing that the butler considered impossible.

Starting to gather the papers on March.e.l.l's desk, Bert tossed them aside as worthless chaff and gripped Timothy's arm.

"Come, Timothy!" Bert insisted. "We must meet Enwood. Between us, we can settle him!"

The threat was solid enough. Between them, Bert and Timothy had already scored four settlements, and three of the men who had been the object of their aims were dead. The odds would be bad for Enwood, should these vengeance seekers reach him.

But Timothy, the old reliable, was falling down on the Enwood question. He still couldn't think of a way to invade Enwood's citadel, until an answer suddenly proclaimed itself.

The answer came with the unexpected ringing of the telephone on March.e.l.l's desk: Startled, Bert began a quick step toward the door; then turned back, as though to reach for the telephone. Timothy stopped him. The butler's eyes were very bright.

"It might be Enwood," remarked Timothy. "Again, it might not be. In either case, Enwood does not know that March.e.l.l is dead. Come, Mr. Bert; our path is open."

Cryptically, Timothy led the way out through the door, the telephone still clamoring from the desk. The sound died from their ears as they left the house and went down the old steps.

Partners in vengeance were bound on a mission of final vengeance, from a house where The Shadow lay helpless and forgotten, unable to take up the trail!

CHAPTER XVII. THE FINAL GOAL.

THE call to March.e.l.l's didn't come from Enwood. It was being made from the Cobalt Club, by Commissioner Weston. Beside Weston stood Horace Trelger, his face strained and anxious, while in his hand Trelger held a letter that he had just brought to the commissioner.

It was an old letter from March.e.l.l, asking Trelger to phone him on some minor matter and giving thenumber where March.e.l.l could be reached. Trelger remembered having called that number once, but he had no idea as to its location. Failing to get an answer, Weston hung up, and then proceeded to show how easily such a number could be traced.

An official call to the telephone company was the only step needed. Weston made it, and learned the address that went along with March.e.l.l's number. Telling Trelger that they both were going there, Weston called Inspector Cardona and ordered him to meet them at Gotham Place.

Already, two men were entering March.e.l.l's secluded house. Those two were Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland. They had seen Bert and Timothy hurry around the corner. Since there was no sign of The Shadow, Harry and Cliff took it that their chief might need them; which he did, very badly.

There was still no sign of The Shadow when the agents reached the room where March.e.l.l lay dead. Sight of March.e.l.l's body did not jar Harry and Cliff; it roused them to a new pitch. This wasn't the first time that tragedy had crossed their path while they were in The Shadow's service. Keyed to the new situation, they were more than ever anxious to locate their chief.

Since Bert and Timothy had gone out the front door, the agents took it that The Shadow must have chosen another route for exit. They looked for the back door, and found it heavily bolted on the inside.

Cliff was for trying upstairs, to see if The Shadow had left by the roof, whereas Harry felt that a look out front would be wise, in case their chief had come there and was trying to contact them. So the two separated, each to test his own theory-only to meet again in March.e.l.l's room, puzzled by their lack of results.

Looking at the dead man, both agreed that his doom must have come after The Shadow had entered the house, which made the case all the more mysterious. It wasn't surprising that neither Cliff nor Harry had heard the fatal shot while they were outside, for this room was deep in the house and its walls could have m.u.f.fled all sounds of gunfire.

This brought back the same question: Where was The Shadow?

Cliff almost solved the riddle as he paced across the floor. Under his tread, the boards creaked, but he didn't guess that he was walking over a trap. The trapdoor, now locked again, was fitted to a pattern of a rug that covered the center of the floor, and therefore was unnoticeable.

When Cliff strode slowly from the room, Harry followed, creaking the boards in his turn. Mutually, they decided that there was no use staying in this house of death. Out front, they could at least depend upon meeting Moe, with his cab, if The Shadow did not appear.

The two were actually at the front door and Cliff was about to open it, when Harry exclaimed: "Hear that?"

"You mean the latch?" queried Cliff. "They usually click, don't they?"

"I mean the shot," returned Harry. "A m.u.f.fled one, from March.e.l.l's room!"

"March.e.l.l wouldn't be shooting," argued Cliff. "He's as dead as they come!"

Harry insisted that they return, and Cliff shrugged his agreement. They had reached the room again, to see March.e.l.l in the same position as before. Standing in the center of the room, Harry looked about,puzzled, and for the first time, his eyes went to the ceiling.

"Look there, Cliff!" Harry exclaimed. "Those bullet holes-who made them?"

The shots couldn't have came from March.e.l.l's angle, and they looked too perpendicular to have been fired from the doorway. Cliff joined Harry in the center of the floor, and as he shifted to get a line on the bullet holes, his added weight produced new creaks. This time, Harry noticed them.

"A trick floor!" he told Cliff. "Maybe the chief went through it, shooting when he dropped. Let's see what we can find in the way of gadgets."

THE bullet holes were Bert's not The Shadow's, but that detail made no difference. As for gadgets, Harry soon found the very one: the switch under March.e.l.l's desk.

Beckoning Cliff away from the rug, Harry pressed the switch. The floor opened, and below, by the light from the room, Cliff spied The Shadow.

Partly recuperated from his stunning fall, The Shadow had crawled a few feet, only to tangle himself in the cloak that Bert had dropped upon him. Along with his cloak, The Shadow had reclaimed his automatic.

It was responsible for the shot that the agents heard.

Instinctively, The Shadow had realized that the continued creaks on the floor above must represent new persons on the scene, most probably friends. He'd found enough strength to tug the gun trigger, giving a shot as a signal. As a result, rescue was at hand.

"I'll drop down there," Cliff told Harry, as the floor closed again, "but I'll need a rope or something."

"The telephone cord," suggested Harry. "It's strong enough. Here you are, Cliff."

Clipping the long cord, Harry tossed it across the desk. He pressed the switch again, and Cliff did a neat slide down into the cellar, which wasn't a difficult drop when taken properly.

Cliff looped the cord under The Shadow's shoulders, but it wasn't long enough to reach up to the floor.

Nor would the trap stay open for more than several seconds.

Harry solved both problems with a large, heavy floor lamp. He laid the lamp beside the trap, then pressed the switch. The floor dropped, and started up again. By then, Harry was lolling the lamp right into the s.p.a.ce. Lying horizontally, the lamp stopped the hinged flap and held it open.

The lamp had a cord of its own, and Cliff hooked it to the loop that he had already formed. He lifted The Shadow upward, while Harry reached out and rolled the lamp backward, coiling the wire around it like a windla.s.s. This eased Cliff's task.

Next thing, The Shadow was coming up over the rolling lamp standard, clutching at it feebly right near the side of the trap. Harry gripped his chief's shoulders and hauled him to the floor.

Dangling the cord again, Harry gave Cliff what little aid he needed to clamber out of the hole. Then both were helping The Shadow to his feet beside the flattened lamp, which was lying on the locked floor. The room was dim, for Harry had extinguished the floor lamp, and the only glow came from another lamp on the desk.

But it was plain that The Shadow was recuperating rapidly. His hands groped to a pocket beneath the cloak that was hanging from his shoulders. When The Shadow's fingers failed, Harry found what he wanted-a small gla.s.s vial containing a purplish liquid. Harry uncorked it and raised it to The Shadow'slips.

The effect of the elixir was immediate. The Shadow tilted his head and delivered a whispered laugh. He slid his arms into the sleeves of his torn coat; made sure that his automatics were properly in their holsters. He no longer needed the support of Harry and Cliff. He proved it very suddenly, when he spread his arms and sent them flinging aside.