His shots were futile. The Shadow, having repelled invasion from this quarter, had again reversed his tactics.
Hard on the echo of gunfire, he had swung out into the hallway. Beak and Lucky, peering from their landings, were startled by his unexpected arrival at the stairs. Almost before they knew it, The Shadow had leaped into view.
Nor did he stop. His spring, clear from the hall, carried headlong down the short steps to the lower landing, full upon Lucky, who was caught flatfooted.
As the lieutenant made frantic aim, The Shadow plunged upon him. Lucky collapsed. His head jolted the wall. His body rolled limp, while The Shadow, coming up against the wall, delivered a fierce taunting laugh and blasted bullets up the steps as a warning to Beak Latzo.
Then, as echoes still persisted, The Shadow took to the downward flight of steps. His cloak swept wide as he sprang toward the floor below, continuing on toward the ground floor of the building.
An elevator operator, peering from the lone car that was in use, ducked back as he saw a sweeping avalanche in black. Speeding ahead, The Shadow sprang out to the sidewalk of Forty-eighth Street.
THE thoroughfare was almost deserted — for the throngs had already entered the theater across the way.
Cleared of the show-going crowd, the street had taken on that odd seclusion that grips so many byways close to more traveled avenues of Manhattan.
But there were eyes that saw The Shadow; and with them, ready hands. As the black-clad form zigzagged from the front of the old Hanna Building, mobsters leaped into view and opened fire from strategic points.
Again, there were more than Cliff had reported. Lucky Ortz had deployed a formidable array for emergency such as this.
The Shadow was equal to the battle. As the wild fray opened, he spun about straight for the front of the theater, then whirled again in a new direction.
His automatics blazed like rifles in a revolving turret. A mobster hit the asphalt. Another sank wounded to the curb.
Mike Rungel had sprung from his alleyway, with another mobster. Cliff and Hawkeye had copied the move, coming from their own station.
The Shadow’s agents were firing. But their shots were purposely wide. Backing to the wall as The Shadow swung toward them, they delivered a wild barrage that passed as an attack upon the cloaked fighter. But actually it stayed mobsters who would have otherwise closed in upon The Shadow.
Mobsters snarled as they saw The Shadow whirl clear of Cliff and Hawkeye. They might have suspected the ruse had Hawkeye not pulled a stagger. But the little agent, smart in the emergency, dropped his gun with a sharp cry and grabbed at his right shoulder.
Cliff, catching the cue, dived toward a doorway as he saw Hawkeye fake a collapse.
Timed to the second, The Shadow sprang into the deserted alleyway. Cliff, springing into view, headed after him, while Mike and other mobsters came dashing to the chase. Hawkeye, pulling himself together with a well-feigned effort, came up at the rear.
The Shadow was gone. With amazing swiftness, he had gained the Forty-seventh Street end of the alleyway. But the mobsters kept on their race. They had gained cause for flight.
Shouts were coming from along Forty-eighth Street. Men were piling out of the garage. The operator from the Hanna Building was bellowing for help.
Police whistles were blowing. Sirens followed; patrol cars were coming up. Along Forty-seventh Street, the fleeing mobsters were scattering. Cliff and Hawkeye were dashing in a direction opposite the others.
Sirens ahead, along Eighth Avenue. Cliff and Hawkeye stopped short. Their one course was to duck back, to mingle with crowds in the neighborhood of Broadway. Suddenly they spied a cab, cruising in the wake of other taxis that had passed through.
Cliff swung toward the curb and signaled. Moe Shrevnitz wheeled up, then increased speed as Cliff and Hawkeye came aboard. The Shadow’s agents were clear for a get-away.
THE fray on Forty-eighth Street had caused arriving police to take up chase of fleeing mobsmen. Even the excited cries of the elevator operator had failed to bring an immediate search of the Hanna Building.
In Dokeby’s inner office, Beak Latzo was working at the safe, mumbling low epithets while Lucky Ortz, dazed from his conflict with The Shadow, held a flashlight focused on the safe door.
The safe opened; Beak, though hasty, had managed the simple combination. The flashlight showed the bundles that looked like boodle. Green showing through the torn wrapping paper was sufficient. Beak bagged the swag.
Heading toward the shattered window, Beak hurled the bag to the roof beyond the air shaft. He made the leap to safety and whispered hoarsely for Lucky to follow. The lieutenant climbed the sill, steadied and made the jump.
The last of the dock wallopers had abandoned his wounded comrade. The man lay groaning near the edge of the air shaft. Beak and Lucky offered him no aid. Instead, they hurried along the roof, found a window in the rear building and climbed through.
Chaos had not reached Forty-ninth Street when the two crooks arrived there. Beak saw a cab by the curb; the driver was standing on the sidewalk, looking east toward Seventh Avenue, where cars had clustered to watch the passage of police cars.
Beak yanked open the door of the cab and thrust Lucky aboard. He tossed the bag in with the punch-drunk lieutenant. In casual fashion, Beak hailed the cab driver. The man trotted over and took the wheel.
As the taxi rolled from the curb, a figure emerged from a gloomy spot some thirty feet away. The Shadow had weaved a remarkable course back from two squares below. He had arrived just in time to witness the departure of the crooks.
A soft laugh hissed from The Shadow’s lips. To deal with these killers at present might bring complications, now that police were flooding the neighborhood. Better that Beak and Lucky should get away, believing themselves triumphant, though belated.
For The Shadow had bigger game. The recovery of the real swag. New evidence gained, he had won the conflict with guns in the dark. Through pretended flight, he had left the way open to a new thrust by men of crime.
And before that climax came, The Shadow’s plans would be completed. Crooks, lulled by the fact that they had managed an escape, would be ready to strive again.
Then could The Shadow meet these ruffians and the remnants of their thwarted mob; and with new conflict, he might gain a triumph over the real leader who had issued commands to these fierce hordes of crime.
CHAPTER XVIII. FROM THE SANCTUM
BLUISH light flickered in a black-walled room. White hands lay beneath the downward focused glare. A glimmering stone, The Shadow’s priceless girasol, sparkled from a moving finger. The Shadow was in his sanctum.
Clippings came between those deft fingers. These were newspaper accounts of the fray on Forty-eighth Street. For twenty hours had elapsed since The Shadow had fought his battle with Beak Latzo’s underlings.
Lesser crooks, dead and living, had fallen into the hands of the police. Wounded mobsters had been unable to escape the advent of the law. Some — such as Mike Rungel — had managed a get-away. The Shadow’s agents had ridden clear in Moe Shrevnitz’s cab.
Beak Latzo and Lucky Ortz had eluded the law. The Shadow had known that Beak must be the man on the upper stairs; he had recognized Lucky when he had slugged the lieutenant. But The Shadow had gained no traces to the hideout where the pair had fled.
The police — according to the newspaper accounts — had learned nothing from the small fry whom they had captured. They had followed back to Dokeby’s office; there they had discovered the opened safe.
Dokeby had been informed and a search was on for traces of the missing funds.
The actual amount of the loss had been minimized — probably by Dokeby. For the stolen securities were negotiable, and certain facts had been soft-pedaled in the accounts that reached the press.