THE SHADOW’S retreat ended with abruptness. Automatics thundered out from the hallway as the cloaked fighter pumped lead into the advancers. The flashlight went clicking upon stone.
At that instant, the front door snapped. Another light shot down the hall. The Shadow wheeled to meet its glare. He fired simultaneously with a revolver shot from the front.
A bullet whistled through the swaying sleeve of The Shadow’s cloak. The revolver shot was wide. But The Shadow’s aim was true. Again a flashlight went clattering; its owner sprawled upon the front steps.
Shots from the outer darkness. There were others in the alley. Then, like echoes, came further shots from beyond. The fire from the front door ceased as wild oaths snarled from vicious lips. The Shadow knew the answer.
Hawkeye and Cliff had covered. Those echoes were their automatics. They were starting conflict with the invaders who had come from the front. The clear path was through the rear.
The Shadow spun through the opened door. He spied a passageway that led to the next street. He headed in that direction.
A lamplight glared straight ahead. It made his path a bad one — a course that The Shadow would have avoided under ordinary circumstances. But tonight, The Shadow had reason to get clear in a hurry. He was hazarding the chance that he would reach a deserted street.
Abandoning caution, he swept out into the open. A space between houses on the opposite side — such was The Shadow’s new objective. But luck again tricked The Shadow in his purpose. A cry came from down the street:
“The Shadow!”
Revolver shots. The Shadow whirled to deal with distant skulkers who were bounding into view. One enemy spun about. The others dived for cover. Then came a shot from the other direction. Wheeling, The Shadow saw new foemen.
Chance mobsters, cruising in a battered sedan, had come into this street. They, too, had spied The Shadow. Had they held their fire, luck might have favored them. But one man had been too quick on the trigger. His wild, long-range shot had been The Shadow’s cue.
Automatics belched. The Shadow’s blasts were withering. Aimed for the front of the sedan, one bullet clipped a leaning mobster who was about to aim. Another shot found the windshield, shattered it and wounded the driver. The car went hurtling to the curb.
Wheeling, The Shadow took to the passage between the buildings. But now his course had taken on the semblance of a flight. This district, it seemed, was teeming with toughened crooks. The cry, was passing along:
“The Shadow!”
Distant shots from far behind. They told The Shadow that his agents were still engaged in combat.
Boldly, he headed back toward the street that he had left. Springing from the blackened wall of a building, he came face to face with a pair of pursuing thugs.
Action was swift. The Shadow’s long arms swung. Aiming thugs staggered as automatics thudded against their skulls. Springing away from the spot, The Shadow headed down the street while cries arose from behind him. Men of the bad lands were taking up his trail.
The new maneuver had its effect two blocks away. Cliff and Hawkeye, ambuscaded behind stone steps, were putting up a fight against attackers. Suddenly they saw their enemies turn and head for the direction of the shouts.
About to follow, Cliff sprang to his feet. Hawkeye grabbed his companion’s arm and pointed down the street. Bluecoated patrolmen were coming up from a new direction. The siren of a patrol car whined in the distance.
No chance to aid The Shadow. Instinctively, the agents knew that he had drawn off the attackers. He had chosen a course of his own. Their duty was to follow instructions.
Diving through an alleyway that offered them retreat, Cliff and Hawkeye scudded toward the spot where Harry Vincent, a waiting agent, was posted with his coupe.
CHAOS had swept this neighborhood. The bluecoats spied by Cliff and Hawkeye were but the vanguard of the law. Police were converging toward spots where shots were heard; but the maelstrom of the district was ever on the move.
For The Shadow, following a devious trail, was burrowing deeper toward the underworld, reversing the very course that underworld hordes expected him to follow. He had dropped from sight, leaving bewildered ruffians wondering where he had gone.
Oddly, the spot where the fighting had begun was no longer a center of excitement. Wounded mobsters had stumbled away before the arrival of the police. Those who remained in the actual vicinity of Beak Latzo’s hideout were dead — with one exception.
That was Goofy Ketch. The lone gorilla was still in the locked room where he had ducked to avoid The Shadow. He had rested gasping on the floor; now, as he heard firing fade, the wounded mobster managed to rise.
Unlocking his door, Goofy stumbled over Hunk’s body. Catching himself, he blundered across the hall; there he produced a key and laboriously unlocked the door of Beak’s room. With one hand clasped tightly to his body, Goofy looked about.
He saw no sign that the room had been entered. He opened the closet door. There he saw an open suitcase beneath the hanging garments. With one hand, the gorilla snatched down suit and dressing-gown.
He stowed them in the bag.
Moving to the bureau, he managed to open the drawers and pluck out the rest of Beaks clothing. He dropped these items into the suitcase, bent to clasp the bag shut; then staggered from the room, carrying the suitcase with him.
Goofy stumbled badly as he descended the stairway to the lower hall. Again he caught himself and managed to make the outer door. Fresh air revived him. Though his pace was faltering, the gorilla made steady progress as he traveled on to the deserted street.
MEANWHILE, police were spreading out through an area that began two blocks away. They had picked up wounded mobsters; they had gathered in a few hiding prisoners. But the law had moved no further into the underworld. Silence proclaimed that the fighting was ended. The police were waiting for reserves.
Within the police lines, mobsters and other riff-raff still roamed at large. Had the police spread out, these ruffians would have returned to the region that they had left. As it was, they were lurking, sullen, awaiting a new opportunity to search for The Shadow.
At one spot, two mobsters were talking in gruff voices. They were close beside an old brick house, where broken windows gave gaping reflections to a street lamp. They were discussing the fact that fully two-score denizens of the bad lands were out to get The Shadow.
One mobster turned to look down the street. When he swung about to speak to his companion, the fellow was gone. Instead of his companion, the mobster faced a being in black.
Burning eyes surveyed him from beneath a slouch hat. The mobster was staring into the mouth of an automatic.
“The Shadow!”
With that hoarse outcry, the thug hurled himself forward blindly.
Up came a gloved fist. Hand, weighted with automatic, caught the crook’s chin. The mobster went spinning to the sidewalk.
Up the street was the front of a darkened store, with a narrow open space at the side. Wheeling, The Shadow headed there, crossing the street as he did so. Then came a cry from a corner just beyond the store. Half a dozen lurkers sprang into view. Revolvers tongued flame.
The Shadow stopped short. Then he became a weaving, swaying shape that blasted long decisive flashes from the muzzles of unlimbered automatics. Bullets sizzled toward the foemen. Slugs ricocheted from sidewalks.
Mobsters wavered before the withering cannonade. One sagged; another staggered; the rest went yelping, diving for safety past the corner. The Shadow had given these rats a taste of metal. They dared not face his swift barrage.