The Englishman sensed the verdict. Though he had not heard Glade’s whisper, he had caught the involuntary gesture of a downward pointed thumb. Glade had ordered Hank to hold his prisoner a few minutes longer — then to kill.
Hank was but a few feet away; Elkin knew why. When ready for the shot, the rogue would jam the gun forward, to muffle the shot against his victim’s body. Elkin shifted as though his arms were weary; then, with a sudden spring, he launched himself upon his captor.
The act caught Hank off guard. With a sweeping clutch, Elkin caught the fellow’s wrist. As he grappled with his captor, Elkin twisted. The revolver clattered to the floor. Hank, writhing in pain, wrenched himself free. Then, as Elkin pounced upon him, Hank met the attack with powerful force, he flung Elkin toward a wardrobe trunk.
The Englishman slipped. His head struck the edge of the trunk. His slumping body yielded. Wesley Elkin rolled unconscious to the floor. Luck had come to Hank. The villain pounced to the floor and grabbed his gun.
Elkin had received a heavy blow. The man was out; it was plain that he would not recover consciousness for some time to come. Holding his revolver, Hank grinned as he leaned toward the slumped form and shoved the gun muzzle directly above Elkin’s heart. His finger was on the trigger, it was a sound from the door that prevented Hank from firing the fatal shot.
Thinking that Richard Glade had returned, Hank turned. The door was open. There, framed in the gloom of the corridor was a black-cloaked figure. Hank, a product of New York’s gangland, recognized the awe-inspiring shape.
“The Shadow!”
Hank gasped the name as he swung in desperation. He aimed his revolver squarely toward the door. Before Hank could press the trigger of the gun, a burst of flame came from an automatic wielded by a black-gloved fist. Hank sprawled upon the stateroom floor.
OUT on deck, Richard Glade heard the report. An oath came from the chief crook’s lips as he stepped back from the trunk in which he had stowed the final paintings. Glade turned to two of his men.
“Back in there!” he snarled. “See what that boob Hank has done! I told him to hold that shot!”
Two ruffians dashed into the ship. They reached the end of the passage outside of 128. The Shadow, just within the stateroom door, heard their footsteps. With a backward swing, the black-garbed warrior swerved into the passage.
Glade’s henchmen were holding drawn guns. They stopped short as they saw the blackened shape which confronted them. The burning eyes of The Shadow were orbs of fearful vengeance. As one man scrambled wildly back toward the opening to the dock, his companion fired at The Shadow.
The man’s shot, delivered from a rising gun, was wild. The rogue never gained a chance to deliver a second bullet. The Shadow’s response halted the ruffian’s rising aim. Tongued flame came from a mighty automatic.
The crook crumpled. The second of Glade’s henchmen had failed. His body, like Hank’s, lay motionless upon the floor. The Shadow was moving swiftly forward, past the man whom he had downed.
For The Shadow knew the route that crooks had taken. He had seen the chaos in Elkin’s rifled cabin. He knew that the paintings had been carried from 128. His opportunity still existed.
Alone, The Shadow was after desperate men. Warned by the crook who had fled back to the deck, they would be prepared for battle. A chilling laugh came echoing from The Shadow’s lips. One against five, The Shadow was ready for the fray!
CHAPTER XX
SPOILS OF BATTLE
THE SHADOW’S first shot had alarmed Richard Glade, the white-shirt leader of a mobster crew. The Shadow’s second burst, coupled with the report from the revolver of his victim, had roused the ship.
Echoing through the long passage, the shots had carried with surprising loudness. Above the throbbing of the liner’s pounding engines came shouts raised by those who had heard the gunfire.
Harry Vincent was listening at the door of his stateroom. In his right hand, Harry was holding Raoul Darchonne’s gun. The Frenchman still lay senseless on the floor. As he harkened, Harry could hear the aftermath of The Shadow’s first skirmish. Scurrying footsteps sounded past the stairway.
Another man was listening to the noises that came through the stateroom door. Raoul Darchonne, suddenly reviving, had risen to hands and knees. Blinking, the Frenchman saw Harry Vincent staring out into the passage.
With surprising recovery, Darchonne arose and crept forward. Then, with a sudden leap, he precipitated himself toward the man at the door. Harry Vincent swung just in time to meet him. Turning at the sound of Darchonne’s approach, The Shadow’s agent met the Frenchman just within the door.
Before Harry had a chance to fire, Darchonne delivered a clip to his chin. Harry staggered across the stateroom. He caught himself against the writing table. Darchonne’s intended knock-out had failed. The Frenchman, however, had gained a break. Before Harry could cover him with the revolver, Darchonne yanked open the door and reached the passage.
As Darchonne rounded the corner to the stairs, he ran squarely into a steward who had come from above. The man was holding a revolver. Darchonne pounced forward and swung a heavy fist. The steward crumpled. Darchonne seized the gun that fell from his hand.
Continuing onward, the Frenchman sped toward the companion way that would take him to 128. Knowing that his part in crime had been discovered, Darchonne sought to join the other rogues aboard the steamship.
Meanwhile, events were happening below. Glade and his men had gained their warning from the crook who had fled to the deck. Glade had ordered two of his men to guard the side passage. With Terry and another, the chief crook was hoisting the four-blocked trunks to the rail.
Shouts continued. People aboard had not located the source of the trouble; yet Glade knew that time was short. Bracing the trunks against a post that extended above the rail, Glade snarled an order to his men.
“Get him!” Glade’s words were ferocious. “There’s four of you! Get him! It’s your only out!”
The crooks understood. The ship was in a furore. They were in for desperate trouble, even without The Shadow. His presence made their plight hopeless. As Glade poised the large, but light trunks, the two men who stood beside him leaped to join the pair at the passage.
THE SHADOW had been waiting. He had known that an attack must come. He was in the passage by Elkin’s stateroom. Already, he could hear shouts at the further turn. He had deliberately waited, in order to bait Glade’s men to an attack. He could linger no longer.
Brandishing an automatic in each hand, The Shadow sprang to the passage that led on deck. He arrived there, just as the first pair of crooks were lunging inward. Flashing revolvers were in readiness. Fingers were pressing triggers.
It was a matter of split-seconds. These minions of crime were prepared for The Shadow’s thrust; the master fighter, in turn, was ready for them. Thin-gloved forefingers were on the triggers of the automatics.
Three shots crashed within the little passage. Two came from The Shadow’s guns. The third, an instant later, was from a crook’s revolver. The second of Glade’s henchmen never fired.
Fired at five-foot range, The Shadow’s bullets had found their mark. Crouching as he loosed the bullets, The Shadow had burnt a leaden slug into each lunging form before him.
One crook had fired also, almost at the moment when he staggered. His bullet, sped toward a dropping shape, whistled through the upturned collar of The Shadow’s cloak, barely singeing the hidden face within.