Treasures of Death
- Автор: Грант Максвелл
- Серия: The Shadow #44
- Год: 1933
- Язык: английский
- Год: Street and Smith
- Жанр: Крутые детективы
Электронная книга - «Treasures of Death». Краткое содержание книги:
The Shadow reached the wall. He stood there, unseen by Mercher. Yet in the tense moments of waiting, his weariness increased. His body began to sway. It was with the utmost difficulty that he could keep up the vigil.
Mercher was coming cautiously down the stairs. He did not see The Shadow. A flashlight gleamed in the secretary’s hand. It was directed toward a spot on the wall away from where The Shadow stood.
Mercher uttered a hiss. The panel closed above. The secretary, thinking himself alone, began to examine a grated opening in the side of the cellar wall. His flashlight showed what had once been an old drain, or passage, leading off from the side of the cellar.
Mercher turned to move away. He paused a moment; then moved back to the spot that he had examined. His flashlight flickered upon the old grating. A hissing cry escaped his lips. The grating shot inward from a powerful thrust; with it came the form of a stalwart man!
Mercher’s flashlight showed the arrival’s face. It was Thibbel, Wendel Hargate’s hard-faced servant, whose shot had wounded The Shadow three nights ago. Coming from the opening, Thibbel landed full upon Mercher. Thibbel’s hand displayed a gun as the flashlight fell. The husky man swung it to crush his enemy.
Then came a third fighter. The Shadow, springing forward from the gloom, was in the conflict. In the melee, Thibbel staggered free from Mercher’s grasp. Then, with a mighty sweep of his arm, he blindly struck The Shadow’s crippled shoulder.
UNSEEN, the tall black form went toppling. It was not the fury of Thibbel’s swing; it was The Shadow’s own weakening, under strain, that made it futile for him to continue the fray. His tall form collapsed, while Mercher leaped to contend with Thibbel. The Shadow was out of the fight.
Motionless upon the floor, his right arm limp, The Shadow lay while Thibbel and Mercher fought silently in the dark. The Shadow’s left hand was clenched beneath his cloak. It was pressed against the precious bottle that he had brought with him from his sanctum, along with the wide flat box.
A hand descended in the darkness. A chance stroke dealt a heavy blow with a revolver. Thibbel was the author of that stroke; Mercher received it. The secretary collapsed with a muffled groan. Thibbel sent his body spinning to the floor. Mercher rolled over and lay sprawled above the crumpled form of The Shadow.
Thibbel picked up the flashlight. He uttered an ugly laugh as he turned its rays upon Mercher. He did not see the obscured figure of The Shadow, nor did he linger. Satisfied that Mercher was no longer an antagonist to fear, the yeoman who served Wendel Hargate, headed toward the stairs.
He extinguished the flashlight when he reached the panel. He rapped. The panel opened. Like a shot, Thibbel sprang into the room of waxwork curios. His revolver swung as it covered the man who had opened the panel. Corry Fawkes, glaring with his fiendish eyes, was trapped by this unexpected enemy from below!
Thibbel, bold and dangerous, yanked a second gun from his pocket. His action was well timed. At that moment, a panel clicked and Sanyata stepped from the elevator. With a hoarse laugh, Thibbel covered the Japanese.
HARRY VINCENT, from the landing, could view the entire scene. He could also hear the growled challenge that Thibbel uttered to the men whom he had so neatly snared. Thibbel had shown his mettle in his encounter with The Shadow. He was proving it once again.
“Thought you’d fool us, eh?” snarled Hargate’s henchman. “Well, I figured your game. There was only one way to get into this joint — from the old house at the end of the row. We’ve been working there and I thought maybe you’d wise up to it.
“So you were waiting. Letting us come on through. So you’d have us with the goods. Thought you’d have a chance to plug whoever came and take it up with the police afterward. Well, you missed your guess.
“I knew there were three of you. So I came alone” — Thibbel’s laugh was sarcastic — “and I picked off the first guy down in the cellar. If you two want to go the route, just try something.
“I’m here to see old Eli Galban and nobody’s going to stop me.”
Harry Vincent, on the landing, was debating what to do. At the spot where he stood, he was directly in the path of Thibbel’s aim. To move at this moment might mean his own destruction. Unarmed, he could bring no aid; the very fact that he had left his room might lead Fawkes and Sanyata to regard him as an enemy.
Thibbel was backing across the center of the room. He paused near the waxwork figures, his face displaying an evil grimace. It seemed that he might be planning to slay Eli Galban’s servants in cold blood.
Yet Fawkes and Sanyata remained motionless. The Japanese was stolid; the monstrous, big-chinned man still retained his fierce glare. Of a sudden, Harry Vincent realized that they must be waiting some strange action that would rid them finally of this enemy, Thibbel.
The action came, as Thibbel neared the closest of the waxwork figures. With a fearful silence, the Indian chief came suddenly to life. As Thibbel, suspecting danger, swerved to glance behind him, the figure swung its mighty war club. The descending weapon landed with a crushing force upon the head of Wendel Hargate’s servant and henchman.
Thibbel’s body dropped to the floor. No human skull could have stood the fury of that blow. Thibbel was dead; Harry saw Fawkes and Sanyata step forward to remove his body. Then, as Harry glanced again toward the waxwork figure that had come to life, he saw the Indian chief back in his old position.
It was like a fearful dream — this stroke that had slain an intruder before Harry Vincent’s eyes. Like a living corpse, the Indian chief had again rejoined his fellow statues formed of waxwork!
CHAPTER XXII
MEN FROM THE DEPTHS
FAWKES and Sanyata had carried away Thibbel’s body. They were returning to the waxwork gallery. Harry Vincent had not moved. He realized now that strange eyes might be watching the very stairs on which he crouched.
For a few moments, Fawkes and Sanyata held a conversation. The Japanese made gesticulations toward the open panel that led to the cellar. Then Fawkes headed in that direction, but stopped before he reached the opening.
Some one was coming up the stairs. Fawkes drew back and pulled a huge revolver into view. Harry saw the weapon drop as the servant recognized the arrival. Lycurgus Mercher, stooped and weary, was coming from the cellar. Blood showed upon his distorted face.
Mercher was quite helpless. Sanyata caught him by the arm and helped him to a big chair on the other side of the room. The secretary slumped pitifully. He held his hand to his forehead and tried to wipe away the blood.
Sanyata disappeared. He came back with a bowl of water. He mopped the blood with a cloth and pressed the bandage to Mercher’s forehead. All this while, Fawkes, his face as hideous as ever, was standing watching. His big chin covered his chest; his eyes glared from his bowed head. The monster seemed to enjoy the sight of blood even though the victim was one of his own companions.
All the while, the Indian chief was standing unnoticed in his poised position, the war club above his head. Harry Vincent, feeling the weakness of the past few days, began to think himself in the realm of some unreal nightmare.
Fawkes attracted Harry’s attention. The evil-looking servant was backing away across the room, to be clear of the panel. His eyes stared toward the Indian chief, and Harry caught a fierce, knowing glow as Fawkes once more looked steadily toward the open panel.
Fawkes was out of sight of the opening; so were Sanyata and Mercher. The room seemed empty as two men suddenly sprang into it from the panel. They stopped at sight of the gun with which Fawkes covered them.