A revolver gleamed in the big fist that held it. The downward stroke began, driven by a malletlike arm. But the killing blow was doomed to fail. An interruption came from the last spot where would-be murderers expected it. An automatic roared from the darkened street that Bruce Duncan had left.
With the burst of the gun came a pointing tongue of flame. Like an arrow from gloom, it thrust its reddened shaft straight toward the villain who was about to drive down a death swing. The bullet from the speaking gun was true in its mark.
With a wild cry, the big thug spun about. His swinging hand poised in mid-air; then quivered as his body toppled sidewise. The upraised arm dropped helpless; the body spin became a backward stagger as the thwarted killer stretched his length upon the cobbles.
Hard on the echo of the gun shot came a taunting cry. A weird laugh rose; then blended with the thunderous roar of a train that sped overhead. But that mockery had reached the ears of the killers for whom it was intended. They knew the author of the shot that had spilled the big gorilla. Men of crime were faced by The Shadow!
MOBSMEN swung their guns toward the corner whence the shot had come. The thugs who gripped Bruce Duncan let their prey slip to the street as they, like their fellows, brought weapons into play. Revolvers spat wild shots toward the side street. Bullets ricocheted as they dug the asphalt.
Crooks had seen the flash from midstreet. Blackness, however, had obscured The Shadow. When thugs aimed for where The Shadow had been, they found their foe no longer there. Automatics answered suddenly; their flashes, this time, came from the corner of an old brick building.
Killers broke before The Shadow’s cannonade. Eight at the outset, their force was reduced to five. Another fell as he tried to deliver a shot when he backed away. A gangleader’s command came in a high-pitched snarl. The Shadow heard the cry as he ended his barrage.
Crooks were leaping for cover — behind the touring car, into the shelter of elevated pillars. Before them lay the body of Bruce Duncan, ready to be riddled with bullets should they fire at the man whom they had knocked unconscious.
Out from his shelter sprang The Shadow. Entrenched mobsters raised a shout as they caught a flash of a cloaked figure sweeping toward the elevated. Revolvers barked to stop The Shadow in his new maneuver. Almost as if he had timed the exact second of the outburst, The Shadow swung back.
Shots whizzed wide. Thugs were forced to change their aim. As they did, gloved hands swept from beneath The Shadow’s cloak. Diving into blackness, the dread fighter unlimbered a new brace of automatics. Mobsters ducked as he began a new barrage.
Just as the mobsmen had failed to pick off The Shadow, so was he failing with his present volley. But The Shadow had purpose in his actions. By presenting himself as a momentary target, he had made the crooks forget Bruce Duncan. By sending them to shelter, he was still keeping the intended victim from their minds.
Apparently, The Shadow was wasting his ammunition. Attackers were holding their own bullets in reserve. Again the snarl of the mob leader rose above the din. Triumph of evil seemed imminent, should The Shadow continue his wasteful fire.
A sudden pause. Mobsmen were tense, watching the spot where they had seen the last flashes. The mob leader barked a sudden order. Henchmen sprang out, opening fire into blackness. Automatics spurted hastily, as if in retreat.
Then came the overdue break on which The Shadow had depended.
DOWN the avenue came a taxi that jolted to a sudden stop half up on the sidewalk. As the mob leader whirled about to view this cab that had defied the danger zone, three men sprang from opening doors.
Harry Vincent and two others had arrived. Their faces could not be seen in the darkness; but the rattle of their loaded automatics meant disaster to the cause of crooks. The Shadow’s laugh rose triumphant. He had tricked four thugs into exhausting their guns, that his expected agents would have a clear field before them.
One mobster dived away from beyond the touring car. His gun empty, he wisely took to flight. He was beyond The Shadow’s range of vision; the shots of agents failed to drop the scurrying rat. Two others snarled as they dived for pillars to fire their last shots. They sprawled, clipped by bullets from guns of The Shadow’s men.
Then from behind a pillar leaped the leader of the mob. Squarely into the path of one of The Shadow’s agents, he came face to face with this comrade of Harry Vincent. From the mob leader’s bloated lips came a snarl of recognition:
“Cliff Marsland!”
The mob leader had spotted a face he knew. He had learned a secret that the underworld had failed to guess. He had identified Cliff Marsland, man of repute in gangland, as an agent of The Shadow.
Cliff, chisel-faced and firm-jawed, recognized the man who had snarled his name. The ugly, distorted face of the mob leader was that of “Stinger” Lacey, who sold the services of his gorilla crew to bidders who wanted murder. But Cliff did not reply by giving the mob leader’s name.
Stinger’s gun was coming up. Cliff swung his automatic to meet the revolver thrust. Harry Vincent and the third agent swung about. They were too late to stop the duel. It looked like a double finish: Stinger seeking vengeance with the last bullet in his gun.
An automatic barked from beside an “el” pillar. It beat the trigger finger of both contestants by a split-second. The Shadow, too, had held one bullet in reserve. Catching the profiles of the fighters, he had delivered his shot straight for Stinger.
The mob leader wavered. He tried to press trigger as he sagged; then Cliff’s automatic boomed spontaneously. The leader of the murderous crew went down, clutching an elevated pillar with the slipping fingers of his left hand. His revolver clattered on the cobblestones as his weakened effort ended.
Police sirens were whining. From somewhere along the avenue, a harness bull was clattering his night stick on the sidewalk. A hissed command came from near the touring car. The Shadow’s agents swung about to see their cloaked chief lifting Bruce Duncan’s body.
No need to aid The Shadow. He had picked up that unconscious form as one might raise a child. His command was for departure. Acknowledging it, the agents leaped back into their cab as The Shadow headed for the street from which he had made his first appearance.
When police cars came spinning to a stop beneath the elevated, the taxicab was gone.
HALFWAY up the side street, a luxurious limousine was rolling away. A puzzled chauffeur was wondering. He had stopped halfway down the block and had turned about to await his master’s return. He had listened, troubled, to the gunfire.
In the back seat, a shrouded figure was leaning above the form of Bruce Duncan. The Shadow’s rescue was successful. Though beaten into unconsciousness, Bruce still lived.
A gloved hand took the speaking tube. It was a quiet, almost methodical voice that spoke to the chauffeur.
“Stanley,” came the order, “turn left at the next street. Then continue to Doctor Sayre’s.”
The chauffeur nodded.
“Tell him,” continued the quiet voice, “that you are from Mr. Cranston. That he is to keep this gentleman, Bruce Duncan, at his home until I call.”
Again Stanley nodded. He swung left at the next corner; slowing to let traffic pass. The Shadow, blackened in the rear of the limousine, had eased Bruce Duncan into a comfortable position. Gloved hands were probing the young man’s pockets.
The light of a street lamp gave The Shadow a flash of lines drawn on a sheet of paper. Then the limousine completed the left turn. It came almost to a standstill as Stanley was forced to let a car cut in, turning right. The left side of the limousine was in darkness just past the corner.