The Shadow - Crime Rides The Sea Part 13

"These bear the signature of Jerome Trebble," declared The Shadow, in a sibilant tone. "Let this man who calls himself Trebble try to duplicate them."

Pointer's hand recoiled from the pen that The Shadow thrust toward him. It was plain that the big-shot knew the task would be useless.

"Those signatures were forged," added The Shadow, "by a man named Raydorf, who is dead. One clever forgery could lead to another. These faked letters" - hetapped those that bore the signature of Hugh Barvale - "were also signed by Raydorf. They are valueless."

As proof, The Shadow lifted the letter that bore a date of the thirteenth; the letter that concerned the cruise of the lugger Welcome.

"This letter," The Shadow announced, "was in the possession of Pointer Trame on the twelfth, the day before which it was purportedly written. It is the most obvious forgery of all, for it was prepared in advance!"

Quick understanding came to Vic Marquette. His own testimony could support The Shadow's. Vic hadn't seen the letter until later, but there was no way in which it could have been brought aboard the Marmora after the date The Shadow had named - the twelfth!

The Shadow had turned to Pointer Trame.

"Theft was your motive," he told the big-shot. "Theft that was covered, because the stolen goods seemed gone forever; in ships sunk too far at sea for salvage. Your first setback came when the Ozark was brought close to land, through my design.

"You tried to recover Barvale's strong box, to sink it deeper; but you foresaw that the attack on the salvage ship would partly reveal the game. No longer would the swag be totally forgotten, as you had hoped. Prepared for such emergency, you let crime come to light, but tried to shift the burden to Hugh Barvale."

Vic Marquette lifted the unclamped handcuffs from Barvale's wrists, then turned to slap them on Pointer Trame. But the big-shot was too quick for him.

Wrenching free, Pointer made a mad dash past the boxes, hoping to reach the front door of the garage. It was a wild flight, seemingly hopeless; but there was luck that traveled with Pointer Trame.

As he ran, the big-shot uttered a high-pitched call. A big automobile, cruising along the street, took a jerky swerve straight into the garage.

Pointer dropped where he was temporarily safe. His pursuers scattered as bright headlights bore down upon them.

From across the street, Marquette's reserves were hurrying over to attack the crooks who had so suddenly rolled in from nowhere, to make a last fight in behalf of Pointer Trame. But they couldn't arrive in time to stop the coming slaughter, threatened by a big machine gun that poked from the interior of the car.

Only one living being could halt such carnage. He was The Shadow. While others dived for cover, he stood stock-still. His lips pealed a challenge, to bring the machine-gun muzzle in his own direction. Eager crooks swiveled their weapon toward The Shadow.

The cloaked figure faded, but they followed it. The Shadow was diving for the side wall, away from everyone else. Once at that wall, he could not turn away. Crooks saw him roll for the floor; as he hit, they started the machine gun into action. They thought its rattle meant The Shadow's doom.

Instead, they were shooting at blankness. The Shadow was gone!

He had dived into Harry's "rat hole," which no longer had a grating.

STREAMING bullets battered the wall beyond The Shadow. A gun resting on the inner edge of the depressed opening, The Shadow jabbed shots from the level of the garage floor.

There was a furious cry from Pointer Trame. Behind the boxes, he had seen what happened. He spotted the outline of the pit and saw his chance to attack the lone fighter who had chosen it as a fort. Along the wall came Pointer, lunging for that hole.

He was above it, driving his gun downward. This time, his revolver heldreal bullets. He thought he saw The Shadow in that lower blackness. Pointer tugged the trigger, delivering a rapid fire. His bullets spattered the slime.

From another corner of the pit, the spurt of a gun flashed upward, knifing a bullet into the body of Pointer Trame. The big-shot wavered, gripping his side. Just then, the machine gun resumed a last spasmodic burst.

Its muzzle faced the big-shot. His sagging form was flayed by a metal hail. Swept from his feet, the bullet-riddled body of Trame tumbled into the pit beside The Shadow, dead before he struck.

Sidestepping that shattered corpse, The Shadow again aimed for the machine gun. No shots were needed. Vic Marquette and his reserves had ended the brief outburst.

Placing his automatic beneath his cloak, The Shadow strode to the darkness at the rear of the garage and merged with the night beyond.

Harry Vincent remained. There was a blond head on his shoulder, a hand plucking at his arm. The tension over, Edna Barvale was sobbing happily, seeking comfort from the new friend who had helped her through the final effort that cleared her father.

Then Edna's bravery returned. Like Harry, she heard a token from the outer darkness, that told the triumph of the master fighter to whom Edna and Harry - like the others who stood near them - owed their lives.

It was the parting laugh of The Shadow. Strange mockery that trailed into the distance, then faded into nothingness, save echoes that seemed to cling within the brick walls of the old garage.

Echoes that settled as though they had found the pit that Edna termed the "rat hole," there to dwindle upon the unhearing ears of Pointer Trame.

Another Finger had defied The Shadow. The result was one less member of The Hand!

THE END.