Jumping toward the bank wall, Duke escaped the devastating puff that came from the third box. He aimed his revolver at the door of the truck. Before he could fire, a gun spoke from the very spot toward which Duke aimed. The big-shot gave a howl and staggered, clutching a wounded shoulder.
Hard upon Duke's bellow came a strident laugh; its challenging mockery froze Duke's open lips. That truck was not the one the crooks expected. It was another, that had purposely arrived early; and its commander was The Shadow. The crew consisted of men who served as agents of the black clad crime-fighter.
While Duke gawked from amid his writhing, crawling crew, the door of the armored truck slammed shut.
The wheeled fortress rolled onward to further action, straight for the corner where Cliff Marsland had the reserve crew.
Those crooks did exactly what Cliff expected. They went berserk. Springing from their lurking spots, some peppered the armored truck with revolver bullets; while others clattered the steel vehicle with streams of slugs that drilled from submachine guns. The bullets bashed like putty when they hit the thick metal walls.
The only shots that took effect were those that blasted with intermittent precision from the loopholes of the armored truck. The Shadow and his accompanying marksmen were picking off every gunner who showed himself in the open. That included all except Cliff Marsland who remained under cover as arranged.
Fire from the street was finished when The Shadow's fortress wheeled a corner. Clipped crooks were crawling along the gutters yelping curses. Their epithets were drowned by the shriek of sirens from the other direction.
Up to the bank came the expected armored truck, accompanied by officers on motorcycles. The police had received a last-minute tip to meet the truck on its way to the Gotham Trust and convoy it the rest of the trip.
LOOKING along the street Cliff saw Duke make a mad jump for the taxi that his henchmen had occupied. Though he had one arm crippled, Duke performed wonders.
He wheeled the cab on a wide arc to drive in the opposite direction. He whizzed between a pair of motorcycle officers before they could halt him. The policemen fired a barrage of bullets; then took up the chase. Shots sounded farther away as Duke ran the gauntlet of arriving patrol cars.
Officers had corralled the five members of Dukes tear-gassed crew. The thugs were recovering from the temporary effects of that choking vapor to find themselves completely out of luck.
The bank watchmen had also recuperated and were trying to explain matters. Police were coming along the street to round up the thugs who had been winged from the armored truck.
It was time for Cliff to clear out. He took a last quick look; saw something that halted him.
One thug had crawled back to a doorway. He was crouched above a machine gun pointing it along the sidewalk. He was ready to let the cops have it. Cliff took prompt care of that matter.
It was twelve feet to the doorway where the thug had his back to Cliff. Pulling a revolver, Cliff reversed the weapon as he sprang forward. He gave the thug a short, hard tap behind the right ear.
The thud from the gun handle took perfect effect. The crook caved, senseless; the machine gun clattered beside him as he sprawled.
Turning about, Cliff made a quick run for the corner close behind him. He jumped in one of the reserve crew's sedans and drove away just as an officer reached the corner. There was a command to halt; shots followed.
Cliff did not stop. He was out of range. A few minutes later, he was entirely clear of the zone that the police had occupied.
Cliff had a definite destination. The captured members of his reserve crew would realize that their own folly had brought them wounded into the hands of the law. When they guessed that Cliff was still at large, their natural conclusion would be that he had been the only one to use his head. They would regard Cliff as a smart crook; a real credit to the underworld.
Even the thug that Cliff had slugged would have nothing to blab. His opinion would be that some cop had tapped him; he would never blame it on Cliff.
Hence to preserve his phony status, Cliff's game was to play the part. The natural move was to seek a hide-out and stay there. It was unlikely that any captured thugs would blab his name; nevertheless a few days' sojourn in a hideaway would be the conventional underworld procedure.
CLIFF had the place. After he abandoned the touring car, he went there. He reached a darkened spot in back of an old bowling alley.
The clatter of bowling pins sounding through the rear window, drowned the groaning of metal that came when Cliff drew down the hinged extension of a fire escape. This was his route to an empty rear room on the second floor of the old building.
Despite his care, Cliff was heard. A whispered voice spoke from darkness at his elbow when Cliff was on the second step of the extension. One word was spoken:
"Report!"
It was The Shadow. In undertone, Cliff gave the details of all that had followed after The Shadow's departure. There was a pause, while a huge clatter told of some bowler's ten-strike. In the ensuing silence The Shadow spoke:
"You told Duke the location of this hide-out. If he escaped he will send word to you. Use any chance for that contact! Learn everything possible!"
Silently, The Shadow was gone. Cliff sneaked up the fire escape. As he reached the hide-out he recalled one slight detail that he had forgotten to state to The Shadow. That was the fact that Cliff had moved from cover to tap the last machine-gunner.
The detail was more important than Cliff supposed. Back at the Gotham Trust, the street had cleared when bony fingers closed the curtains of the upstairs window in the restaurant. Eyes that had watched from that space had seen all that occurred, including Cliff's elimination of the last thug.
Soon afterward a lean, stooped figure left that little restaurant, moving at a rapid spidery gait. Lips, buried in a well-wrapped muffler, were muttering pleased words. Last night this observer had placed Harry Vincent; tonight he had labeled Cliff Marsland.
Insidiously, links were being welded in a chain that would later enwrap The Shadow.
CHAPTER VII. THE LAST PAY-OFF
IT was late the next evening when Cliff Marsland awoke from a jerky doze in the blackness of his hide-out. He rolled softly from his army cot, reached for a gun beneath the bundled sweater that he used as a pillow.
Cliff had heard the clang of footsteps on the fire escape just below his window. He waited for the sound to recur. Instead, there was a rattle of a different sort. Something scaled through the window; hit the floor with a tinny thud.
After listening for half a minute, Cliff crept to the window. He heard a slight clatter down below.
Someone was completing his descent. The answer to the visit would be found in the object that had come through the window.
Using a flashlight along the floor, Cliff found an old tobacco can. It contained a badly scrawled message in pencil. Cliff recognized the handwriting; it was Duke's, but badly off normal. Evidently the big-shot had barely had strength to complete it.
The painful message gave Cliff an address not far from Cliff's own hideout. Duke wanted to see his lieutenant. In a hurry. That was all.
Five minutes later Cliff was in the darkness of an outside alleyway. He gave a low psst; a hunchy little man joined him. He was "Hawkeye," a clever spotter who knew every crevice of the underworld.
Hawkeye was The Shadow's agent who had helped Cliff tie up Wally a few nights before.
Cliff told Hawkeye of Duke's message and added the opinion that Duke was probably in bad shape. No time could be wasted. Hence Cliff suggested that Hawkeye call Burbank; and come to the vicinity of Duke's hide-out, afterward.
That suited Hawkeye. The agents separated.
Duke's hide-out was over an abandoned pawnshop, whose proprietor had moved to a better location.