“So Biscayne double-crossed me, eh?” Fredericks snarled. “Double-crossed me. Wanted me to die with Wilhelm. Squealed to you, too, did he? You know too much — all three of you, now. So this is the end of you!”
Fredericks had his finger on the trigger. A shot resounded. Smoke appeared about the physician’s gun. But it was not from his revolver.
An automatic pistol had spoken. Thrust from behind, its muzzle had pressed against the physician’s arm.
The hand of The Shadow had delivered that shot. Through the opening of the door, the man in black had sent the bullet that thwarted the intended crime.
Fredericks staggered forward. His revolver fell from his helpless fingers.
Joe Cardona was firing, now, taking no chances, pumping bullets into the man who menaced three lives.
Fredericks lay dead upon the floor.
The Shadow was gone. No one in that room caught even a fleeting glimpse of his departing figure.
FOOTSTEPS were coming up the stairs. Mayhew, in the lobby, had heard the explosion. He had not waited for the elevator, which was somewhere in the shaft.
He had hurried upward with all possible speed. But events had been moving swiftly in the apartment of death.