“If it suits Alicia,” replied Exeter.
“I’m agreed,” declared the girl.
HALF an hour later, the crowd arrived at the Club Caprice. Alicia favored dancing; she and Reginald Exeter went into the nightclub side of the establishment. Luke Gaudrin headed the others into the gaming room.
Obtaining a moderate supply of chips, Luke began to play a roulette wheel Marr and Cranston joined in the game, while Danforth Gaudrin looked on. Luke copied Cranston’s combinations. All play was conservative, and the elder Gaudrin nodded approvingly as he watched the care with which his son hazarded his chips.
Tony, one of the gaming-room bodyguards, was standing near the roulette wheel. Luke had a chance to speak to him. Only The Shadow overheard the young man’s words, as Luke whispered:
“Ask Royal to drop out, will you, Tony?”
Tony nodded and disappeared. Shortly afterward, Royal Medbrook strolled from the office. Luke, watching, saw him. Ending the play, he beckoned to the others. They walked over toward the faro table, where Luke introduced his father and the two millionaires to Medbrook.
The meeting seemed a chance one to Danforth Gaudrin. The Shadow, however, knew that Luke’s purpose was to impress Royal Medbrook; to make the gambler believe that Luke had squared matters with his father. Marr’s presence, too, was a guarantee that Luke had talked straight on the night before.
Medbrook strolled a way past the faro table. As he did, The Shadow left the group; in leisurely fashion he neared the door of the card room and paused there. Rafferty was at his accustomed spot; watching for Royal, he did not see The Shadow close at hand.
Nor did Medbrook, as Rafferty approached him. Chameleonlike, The Shadow, motionless in the guise of Cranston, was half obscured beside the drapery of a wall. Listening, he caught a buzzed conversation.
“You called New Orleans?”
The question came from Medbrook. Rafferty nodded.
“Told them there was no sign of the bird that the New York dick was after,” informed Rafferty. “Said you’d made a final check-up tonight. The chief said that they’re going to take a stab at Frenchtown.”
“I don’t think they’ll find the fellow there, either,” commented Medbrook. “They’ve got to cooperate, though. That’s the way the police work.”
Medbrook strolled to the office. Stopping part way, he glanced about. He saw the tall figure of Lamont Cranston moving toward the faro table. Medbrook’s eyes narrowed as he continued to the office.
Ten minutes later, Rafferty came in to speak to the gambler. Royal was sitting at the desk; his hand was beside the telephone. Royal beckoned.
“This man Cranston,” he remarked. “Was he listening to us when we talked?”
“Didn’t notice him,” returned Rafferty. “He’s still outside, Royal. The others are leaving; but he isn’t going in with them. Want me to keep an eye on him?”
“No,” returned the gambler, with a slight smile. “I just called a friend of mine. He’s looking up the hotel where Cranston’s stopping. If he isn’t O.K. - well, never mind Rafferty. I’ll attend to it.”
ONE hour later, The Shadow left the Club Caprice. He entered a taxicab and the driver pulled away from the entrance. As the cab swung toward the fronting highway, The Shadow’s keen eyes spotted a figure sliding to a car that had stopped a hundred feet beyond the entrance to the Club Caprice. Its lights were dim; evidently the machine had just arrived.
“Where to, boss?” queried the taxi driver, shoving his face to the open window. “Whereabouts in the city are you—”
The driver gasped. He was staring into the muzzle of a leveled automatic. The Shadow had drawn the gun just after the swing to the highway. Above the barrel of the .45 were eyes that flashed terror to the taxi driver’s thumping heart.
CHAPTER XIII
BALKED KILLERS
“STEP on it!” came The Shadow’s firm command. “Speed to the city limits. Then pull to the side of the road.”
The frightened taxi driver needed no further urge. Though quivering, he obeyed as his terror magnified. Tramping accelerator to the floor he shot his machine forward at full speed, anxious only to do the bidding of this being who would brook no dallying.
As the cab whirled forward, the car near the Club Caprice shot out with immediate speed. Hoarse cries came from its occupants. They knew that their quarry had spotted their presence. Madly they took up the chase of the lurching cab. But they could not equal the pace of the maddened driver up ahead.
“Over” — The Shadow’s command came from the rear of the cab as his automatic pressed the driver’s neck. “Pull over and stop. Stop hard.”
Cold steel of the gun’s muzzle spurred the driver to prompt response. He had doubled the distance between his cab and the car behind. The halt that he made was terrific. He jammed the brake and banked the cab upon a mound of dirt at the side of the road.
“Out,” ordered The Shadow. “Run for cover!”
The driver dived from the wheel and scrambled over the low bank at the side of the road, never glancing behind him. At the same instant, The Shadow yanked open the door and leaped against the bank.
His left hand clutched the lapels of his full-dress coat, pressing them so they hid the whiteness of collar, shirt and tie. As his right shoulder struck the bank, The Shadow spun about. Half rolling, half leaping, he whirled back, away from the stalled taxi.
He was a mass of spinning blackness in the shroud of night. The Shadow was unseen despite the glare of approaching lights. The attire of Lamont Cranston was serving him as well as any cloak. In four swift seconds, he had hurled himself from a spot of pressing danger.
FROM the pursuing automobile came flashes of flame, accompanied by the roar of revolvers. Bullets ripped the rear of the halted cab. Slugs crashed windows as the big machine approached. An open touring car, its sides offered opportunity for the marksman in it.
Opportunity lay elsewhere, also. Ending his spin against the banked side of the road, The Shadow stopped with automatic levelled. He pressed the trigger as the touring car arrived. Not once; but often.
The kicking automatic sent fierce jabs of flame. With every spurt, The Shadow’s arm was swinging, following the car that had come to deluge the cab with leaden hail. Screamed oaths shrieked through the air as the driver applied the brakes. The touring car spun roundabout, a dozen yards beyond the cab.
Rising, The Shadow swung himself up the embankment; the action took no more than one swift leap. Dropping flat, he aimed to deal with desperadoes should they require more. The touring car was straight across the road. Lights from an approaching automobile showed toppled figures dangling above its doors.
One unscathed marksman had seen The Shadow’s shots. Leaning from beside the driver’s seat, he loosed a volley for the center of the bank where The Shadow had been. Whirling bullets thudded the dirt, the air crackling as it closed behind them.
A single shot answered from atop the embankment. A last burst from the automatic, it proved a perfect stroke. The crook beside the driver jounced upward; then slumped down in the car. The man at the wheel stepped on the gas.
Jolting from the road, he drove hard through a chance opening between trees. Cutting wildly across a field, he reached a dirt road that led to another highway. The touring car jounced from side to side; then sped away in flight, its driver carrying a cargo of dead and crippled pals.
Cars had stopped all about. Lights were glaring on the road. Those headlamps, however, did not show the right side of the taxicab. Nor did they reveal The Shadow as he crawled quickly along the embankment, then dropped beside the taxi.