There he saw Spark Ganza stooping beside the couch. The thug had seen his lost revolver and was groping for it. Near Spark was Ku-Nuan, rising weakly, his ugly, oversize head gripped between his hands.

Turning to Rennig, The Shadow pressed Wardlock’s revolver into the servant’s quivering hand. Quickly, he told Rennig to threaten Wardlock, should the secretary appear at the top of the stairs.

With that, The Shadow sprang into the prison room, straight for Spark Ganza.

THE thuggish lieutenant whipped up from beside the couch, bringing his regained revolver. The Shadow was upon him before he could aim. Plucking the gun from Spark, The Shadow jabbed the muzzle toward the thug’s body.

At that instant, a new attacker entered. Ku-Nuan came lurching squarely on The Shadow. Clawing, biting, the Mongol tried to seize the revolver. So did Spark. He jabbed a hard fist against The Shadow’s jaw; used his other hand in an effort to help Ku-Nuan get the gun. Reeling backward, The Shadow fired. Pressure suddenly relaxed as Spark sagged with a groan.

Catching Ku-Nuan by the side of the neck, The Shadow sent the spidery killer skidding along the floor. Ku-Nuan rolled over and lay still. The Shadow came up to hands and knees, to hear a shout from Rennig. The servant was aiming up the stairs.

From above came a clatter. Wardlock was driving down to battle the quaky old servant.

The Shadow sprang to Rennig’s aid. He was in time, but his approach was unnecessary. Rennig was gripping his revolver with both hands. He fired as The Shadow arrived. Wardlock mouthed a cry as The Shadow reached the bottom of the stairs. Rennig had gained a hit.

Poised, Wardlock slumped forward. His hand released a pair of heavy fire tongs that he had found on the ground floor. As the tongs clattered to the bottom of the steps, Wardlock tumbled headlong – to sprawl, inert, at Rennig’s feet. Like Spark Ganza, Wardlock was dead.

The Shadow knew that he could depend upon Rennig. He hissed instructions to the servant:

“Second floor! Telephone the police! Tell them your master is dead! Have them protect his wealth! After they arrive, send them to the Maribar Hotel!”

Rennig nodded his full understanding. Once aroused, the old servant was quivery no longer. He had shown his mettle.

Leaving him in charge, The Shadow went back to find Ku-Nuan. The Mongol was no longer on the floor. The Shadow heard him snarl from the farther door.

Ku-Nuan had played possum after his second overthrow. Knifeless, his only chance was flight. He was taking it as The Shadow saw him. The door slammed before The Shadow could aim. Quick in pursuit, The Shadow followed.

Ku-Nuan had cut out through the cellar. The Shadow reached a back passage behind the old house; he aimed at a fleeing figure as it hopped to the street. Again, Ku-Nuan was quick enough to get away; but there was no question regarding his flight. It was genuine. Ku-Nuan would not return here to face The Shadow alone.

That knowledge served The Shadow.

He knew that he could leave the field to Rennig. The servant would lose no time in calling the police. The Shadow was certain that there were no other enemies upon the premises. Had they been present, they would have entered the last fray. Moreover, no crooks lurked hereabouts. Malfort was too wise to let more than a chosen few know the location of his headquarters.

Another fact was certain.

Ku-Nuan could not get word to Malfort. The master crook was already in Rowden’s penthouse, where calls would not reach him. Moreover, Ku-Nuan was a lone hand, who had no contact with Malfort’s minions inside the Maribar Hotel. Spark Ganza or Wardlock could have dispatched an alarm; not Ku-Nuan. With Spark and Wardlock dead, Malfort would gain no news.

THE SHADOW had a lone objective, one that he must reach with speed. His goal was the Maribar Hotel. He wanted to be there before the police reached Helmedge’s; for after that, the law itself would visit the Maribar Hotel, to investigate on Rennig’s behalf.

Taking a direction opposite Ku-Nuan’s route of flight, The Shadow reached the front street through a passage and headed toward the nearest avenue. There, he found his taxi parked by the curb. The Shadow’s long absence had not perturbed the driver; for The Shadow had given no orders to cover a period of delay.

There were instructions, however, as soon as The Shadow entered the cab. The vehicle sped from the curb; it covered three blocks, then stopped at a small cigar store. Alighting, The Shadow entered in the fashion of Arnaud. He found a telephone booth and put in a call. A quiet voice answered:

“Burbank speaking.”

The Shadow’s tone became a whisper.

“Instructions,” he voiced. “Deliver box at Maribar Hotel immediately, by armored truck. Instruct agents to be outside, awaiting taxicab. Expect police within half hour after I arrive.”

“Instructions received.”

Burbank was The Shadow’s contact man. He would flash the orders that The Shadow had given. All was ready in accordance with a prearranged plan. The Shadow’s word had alone been needed. The Shadow was returning to the original schedule that he had fixed for tonight.

Back in the cab, The Shadow ordered speed to the Maribar Hotel. He tugged at his Arnaud make-up; pulled his face away, to leave the features of Cranston beneath. Tonight, however, The Shadow resorted to final details. From the satchel on the floor, he produced a make-up box that glowed with a tiny light the moment that he opened it. The Shadow applied new dabs to the features of Cranston, covering every minor point.

Even then, The Shadow was not satisfied. Edging forward, he pulled at the back of the rear seat; reached down and drew out a flat dress suitcase. From it, he brought a tuxedo. While the cab wangled through side streets and unimportant avenues, The Shadow performed a rapid change of attire, even donning light shoes instead of the heavy brogans that had served him so well in battle with Ku-Nuan and Spark.

When the taxi neared the lighted district above Times Square, The Shadow’s transformation was complete. From the satchel, he took two automatics; shoved them beneath the ample front of his tuxedo jacket, into deep pockets that were made for the big guns. The Shadow, however, did not take a cloak and hat that were lying in the satchel.

THE cab stopped in front of the Maribar Hotel. The Shadow alighted, paid the driver and gave a leisurely wave of his hand to dismiss the cab. Strolling past the doorman, he entered the hotel lobby. He approached the desk where Barthow was on duty.

Quietly, The Shadow inquired for Major Philip Rowden; then announced himself as Lamont Cranston. Barthow nodded and remarked that he would call the penthouse at once. While the clerk was picking up the telephone, The Shadow added:

“I came here by taxi; but I expect my limousine to pick me up. Can you see to it that there is parking space out front?”

Barthow nodded, and called for the doorman. When the fellow arrived, the clerk gave him the instructions. That done, Barthow telephoned the penthouse. After a short conversation, he hung up and turned to The Shadow, with the invitation:

“You may go right up, Mr. Cranston. Major Rowden is expecting you.”

When The Shadow reached the elevator, he found two operators aboard, one explaining the mechanism to the other. The tall man who looked like a house detective came over from the cigar counter and also entered the elevator. The Shadow’s thin lips showed a barely visible smile.

Crooks were taking no chances tonight, as they had with George Furbish. They were on the watch for such chaps as Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland. They feared no trouble from The Shadow, however. To them, he was Lamont Cranston, the victim whom they had been told to expect.