The man in the black cloak calmly pocketed his revolvers. They slipped from sight beneath the sable folds. Evidently he feared no attack from either Blair Windsor or Vernon.
The two men stood stock-still, their hands above their heads. The departure of Birdie Crull had left them too frightened to move.
Ignoring them, The Shadow went to the table. He produced a paper and pen, and began to write. In the midst of his words, pistol shots echoed through the tunnel in which Birdie Crull had disappeared. The Shadow uttered his mocking laugh.
Across the top of the written page, he inscribed these words: “The Confession of Bertram (Birdie) Crull.”
* * *
Two men came from the opening, supporting the body of a third. They were Harry Vincent and Vic Marquette, carrying the helpless form of Birdie Crull. The killer was coughing. His clothes were stained with blood.
“I tried to get him easy,” explained Marquette, ruefully. “We were laying for him, just as we were ordered to do. But somehow, I always kill them when I have to shoot.”
“Bring him here.”
The Shadow’s order was obeyed. The man in the black cloak rose and stepped aside, while Birdie Crull was placed in the chair. The Shadow thrust the pen in the gangster’s weakening hand.
“Sign!”