As the street cleared of scummy foe, The Shadow wheeled again. His tall form merged swiftly with the darkness beside the closed store. The place was nothing but an old furniture shop, one that needed little protection against burglary.
The Shadow found a grated window. He used an automatic as a lever to pry the grating loose on its hinge. He pried at the window; it came open. The Shadow entered, closing grating and sash behind him.
New mobsters had come into the street. They saw no signs of The Shadow. They thought that he had performed another swift departure. They passed the blackened store, without attempt to enter it.
INSIDE, The Shadow had discovered a little windowless office. He pressed the light switch; his cloaked figure made an ominous shape as The Shadow bent above a telephone. He was putting in a call to Burbank.
A ticking clock showed three minutes before nine. No time remained for The Shadow to reach the Swithin Apartments before that hour. He could not count upon his agents; they might still be loose, unable to report.
One chance alone remained: A tipoff to the police. The Shadow whispered instructions as Burbank answered. The contact man acknowledged the orders. Burbank was to make a prompt call to headquarters, keeping his identity unknown.
The Shadow hung up the receiver. He rested a short while, then made his way back through the store and out the window. He reached the street to find that mobsters had departed. Police had not yet arrived.
With a low, weird laugh, The Shadow began a new course from this district. Luckless would be the mobsters who might meet him now. For The Shadow, though heading toward the Swithin Apartments, was too late to beat Beak Latzo there.
Should he encounter underworld denizens, he would no longer avoid them now that his set task was thwarted. He was ready for any fray, prepared to deal fury like that which he had loosed when he saw the opportune store from which a phone call could be made.
The way had cleared, however. Mobsters had scattered to search elsewhere and to escape the advent of the police. Yet The Shadow, though steady in his gait, showed no haste.
He had left the matter of Theobald Luftus in the hands of the law. Delayed through misadventure, he had been forced to trust the mission of rescue to others.
CHAPTER VIII. CROOKS MOVE
A CLOCK was chiming nine from the mantelpiece of an oddly furnished room. A sour-faced old man was seated in a Morris chair, reading a newspaper. This was Theobald Luftus, in his penthouse atop the Swithin Apartments.
Though it was evening, Luftus was still engaged in perusing a morning journal. He was behind time so far as the day was concerned; his establishment showed that he was years backward in his environment.
For the furnishings of this penthouse were old pieces that Luftus had brought from an antiquated house.
They were evidences — even to the soiled, dingy curtains — that Theobald Luftus preferred not to spend money whenever expense could be avoided.
Beyond an old sideboard stood a battered safe, another relic of the past. As a strong box, that steel container was no more than a piece of junk. Yet Luftus apparently considered it good enough to protect his belongings. For the old man’s face registered full signs of security.
Some one knocked at the door of this piecemeal living room. Luftus croaked an order to enter. His bald head shone in the light as he looked upward through his glasses. Then an expression of alarm came upon his withered countenance. Luftus had expected a servant to enter through the door. Instead, two masked men stepped into view.
“What — what is the meaning of this?” blurted Luftus. “Who — who are you? What have you done with Barry?”
“You mean the flunky?” came a growl. The voice was Beak Latzo’s. “Don’t worry about him. We’re bringing him along. Here he is.”
As Beak and his companion stepped aside, two more masked men entered. Between them they had a haggard prisoner. The fellow was the servant who had admitted them. The one whom Luftus had called Barry.
Rough hands sent Barry spinning into a corner. The servant, a corpulent, middle-aged man, cringed as he stared hopelessly toward his master.
Theobald Luftus, quivering with indignation, tried to speak. Beak flourished a revolver under the old man’s chin. Luftus backed against the wall.
“What’s the combination to that box?” growled Beak, nudging a thumb toward the safe.
“I won’t give it,” challenged Luftus, in a quavering tone.
“You won’t?” began Beak. “Well, we’ll see—”
“Hold it!” The interruption came from another raider. This masked man was Lucky Ortz. “I can crack that piece of junk with a hammer and a cold chisel. Watch me.”
He produced the tools and stepped to the corner. The first strokes indicated that he could make good his boast. Chunks chipped from the edge of the door as Lucky began his efficient work.
“Like cutting cheese,” scoffed Lucky. “All I need is a start; then I’ll jimmy the box. Let the old dub hang on to his secret. This is a laugh.”
Luftus, his hands half raised, was clenching his fists excitedly. He recognized that the task was an easy one for Lucky. He began to blab half incoherently. Beak caught his words and snorted.
“Lay off, Lucky,” ordered Beak. “The old boy don’t want his trick box ruined. Saving it to amuse his grandchildren. Here — let me at it; he’s spilled the combo.”
LUFTUS gasped in horror-stricken fashion. Almost unwittingly, the old man had passed this news. He watched Beak step up and turn the dial, while Lucky stood by with hammer and chisel. The door of the safe came open.
Inside were stacks of envelopes, bound with rubber bands. Most of them appeared to contain documents of importance; but with the bundles were loosely arranged sheaves of correspondence.
Beak produced a soft cloth bag. Without ceremony, he and Lucky began to dump the stacks into the bag.
A hoarse cry from Luftus. The old man faltered forward, his eyes ablaze with fury. One of the gorillas blocked him, shoving a revolver muzzle against the old man’s chin. Luftus subsided, backing close to Barry.
“Ropes,” ordered Beak, as he and Lucky completed the rifling of the safe.
“We’re going to tie those two geezers and let them cool a while—”
He stopped short and held up a hand as he was interrupted by the ringing of a phone bell. He pointed to the table where the telephone was resting.
“You’d better answer it, Lucky,” he said, cautiously. “It might be one of these gorillas you left down at the hideout.
“Chances are it ain’t,” protested Lucky. “Let ‘em ring. They’ll think the old mug here is out.”
“Yeah? They’ll figure something’s wrong. This bird Luftus looks like he never goes out. Answer it.”
“But what about my voice?”
“Fake it. Tell them you’re Barry.”
Lucky nodded. He picked up the telephone and spoke in a tone that was a thin disguise for the servant’s.
He heard a gasping tone across the wire. His own voice changed. Lucky spoke in his usual tone.
“Yes,” he said, quickly. “This is Lucky… Yes… What? He got Hunk? Whew…”
Lucky turned quickly to Beak.
“It’s Goofy,” he informed. “He’s in his own hangout. Had to scram. The Shadow blew in on your hideout.”
“And he got Hunk?” demanded Beak.
Lucky nodded.
“Find out where he went from there,” ordered Beak, in a tense growl.
Lucky talked over the wire. This time he had trouble in getting Goofy’s reply. His tone was troubled when he turned to Beak a second time.
“He may be on his way here,” explained Lucky. “So Goofy says. He figures The Shadow could be anywhere.”