A door had opened in the further wall — one that Cliff had taken for an entrance to a closet. Cliff was gripped by a big mobsman who had entered. With the rowdy was a man whose face Cliff recognized. It was that of Cully Freer, the mob leader.
Too late, Cliff realized the real man whom Luke could have named. The whole frame-up dawned on him. Chance of escape, however, was ended. Cully was finding Cliff’s automatic; the mob leader had it.
“Turn him around,” snapped Luke. “I’m taking him out, Cully. You follow.”
As Cliff was spun about, Luke jabbed the revolver muzzle in the back of his neck. He drove his prisoner through the door, into a house that was the twin of the one they were leaving. Here, however, Luke took a flight of rear steps. They reached the bottom. Luke pushed Cliff through an opened door.
Two men were standing there. One was Louie, Matt Theblaw’s henchman. The other was a second gorilla on Cully Freer’s payroll. Cully ordered his man upstairs. He turned to Luke.
“What’s next?”
“You’d better head up, too,” returned Luke. “See what that shooting is all about.” The gambler paused as he heard new shots from far in front. “Leave this mug to Louie and me. So long, Cully. We’re heading into the garage.”
THE firing that Luke and Cully had heard was a peculiar one. Its direction had changed in singular fashion. That was because The Shadow had opened one of his surprising frays.
Almost at the doorway of the front building, he had been spotted by a picket across the street. Instead of dropping back, The Shadow had landed squarely upon the two guards out front. Felling one with a swing of an automatic, he had met the second, guns muzzle to muzzle, and had beaten the thug to the shot.
Whirling into the doorway while bullets spattered all about, The Shadow had tricked Cully’s pickets as he had Loco’s on that night at the Colonnade Trust building.
Bounding from their posts, mobsters had sought opportunity to fire. Swinging suddenly back into view, The Shadow had jabbed quick, effective shots at the nearest figures. As two mobsters toppled, wounded, those further away had dropped to take aim at their cloaked enemy.
That was when Hawkeye opened. Crawling forward, the crafty little agent had reached a spot near one of the knocked-out mobsters whom The Shadow had first felled. With his left hand on a revolver that one had dropped, Hawkeye raised his automatic in his right and began to pump away at figures on the gloomy street.
He was firing pot luck as he emptied his revolver. His wide shots ricocheted from asphalt. Lucky enough to wing one mobster, Hawkeye heard the fellow’s cry; but with it came the oaths of others, as they wavered and dived for the shelter of buildings.
Hawkeye had emptied his own gun with spreading fire. His object was to give the impression that a real flank attack was coming through. Hawkeye succeeded. As his quick shots ended, he heard The Shadow’s ringing challenge, a weird mocking laugh that defied all comers. With last stabs from his automatics, The Shadow swung about and dashed up the stairs of the building.
With the gorilla’s revolver in his clutch, Hawkeye scrambled back to the shelter of the corner building, ready to open against any who came his way; ready, also, to blaze at the doorway across the street, should mobsters follow The Shadow.
But the street gained a complete lull. Mobsters, not guessing the number of The Shadow’s reserves, were crouching in the holes that they had gained.
At the top of the steps, The Shadow formed a weird figure in the flickering gas light. He was looking at the first door; stepping close, he listened. He could sense movement within. The Shadow stepped back. His eyes rested squarely upon a panel of the door.
Raising his right hand automatic, The Shadow poised; then drove the weapon downward with sledge hammer power. That calculated blow could have felled a steer. The heavy gun ended its terrific sweep straight against the flimsy panel just above the doorknob.
THE blow did not merely crack the door. It smashed the panel completely out of its frame, opening a rectangular window that showed the room within. With that downward stroke, The Shadow had brought his gun from the vertical to the horizontal.
As the stroke fell, the guarding mobster swung to aim. Instinctively dropping back as he heard the crash, the fellow lost the advantage that he needed. The Shadow’s gun was through the door; above it came burning eyes. The Shadow fired quick shots while his foeman gave response.
Neither aim was perfect; but The Shadow’s hand was moving as he fired, spraying while the lone mobster fired wild, frantic shots. Revolver bullets tore through the door just above The Shadow’s shoulder; then a slug from The Shadow’s gun found its desired mark. The mobster sprawled.
The Shadow clicked back the bolt with the barrel of his automatic. He swung into the room; sprang forward as the far door opened, and pounced upon the second mobster who was coming through. The fellow dropped back, diving for the rear stairs as The Shadow followed.
Other enemies might lie ahead. The Shadow’s unused cartridges were few. The master fighter needed no bullets to deal with this surprised foe. As the gorilla wheeled at the top of the stairs, The Shadow swept in past his aiming gun and felled him with a downward blow of a heavy automatic.
As the gorilla sagged at the top of the stairs, a springing figure met The Shadow. It was Cully Freer, lunging up from below. The Shadow dropped away from a revolver muzzle that was thrust between his eyes. He rolled beneath the forward sagging body of Cully’s henchman.
Cully’s revolver delivered its blast a split-second late. A bullet singed the top of The Shadow’s hat. As Cully snapped his hand downward to deliver a second bullet, The Shadow’s .45 spoke its answer upward.
Cully rolled to the floor. Like Stinger, like Loco, he was another mob leader gone.
Rising clear of Cully and the mobster, The Shadow hurtled down the steps. He was stopped when he reached the bottom. Cully had locked the rear door and taken the key.
There was a light here. It showed the door to be a flimsy one. No need for The Shadow to bother with the lock. Swinging about, The Shadow leaped three steps upward, to prepare for a lunge. A sound from above stopped him. He looked up to see the slugged mobster raised on hands and knees, aiming with a revolver, down the stairs.
The Shadow could not beat the shot. But he whirled sidewise as he aimed with his own gun, trusting that the mobster’s hand would waver. A burst came from the revolver; a stinging sensation came to The Shadow’s left shoulder as the bullet nipped his flesh.
As the mobster essayed a second shot, The Shadow fired with his right-hand gun. His bullet reached its living target. The crook straightened, wavered right to left, then pitched forward.
LAUNCHING himself right shoulder foremost, The Shadow hit the door in a fierce drive from the steps. The shaky barrier caved. The Shadow staggered out into the open air, tripped, then regained his footing. A clatter was coming from behind him. It was the mobster, plunging head foremost down the steps.
Gathering momentum, the crook’s body came spinning out through the opened door, to roll over and lie sprawled. This gorilla, like the one upstairs, had witnessed Cliff Marsland’s capture. Both he and his pal were dead, along with Cully Freer. None of the cover-up crew — the only ones who would remain in New York — knew that Cliff was an aid of The Shadow. Those who had known, were dead.
Blood was streaming from The Shadow’s arm. The sleeve of the cloak was soggy. The trickle had reached the gloved left hand. Crimson drops were slowly pattering the paving. But The Shadow gave no thought to his wound.
He was listening to the roar of a motor. A car was leaving an old garage across the tiny court from the house that The Shadow had left. Dashing for an opening, The Shadow cut through to the next street. He saw the departing car turning a corner.