The coupe, responding to The Shadow's urge, hurtled toward the whitish mass ahead.
Then its hood tilted upward to a level. The raising lights hurled a vivid glare upon the blackness of the waveless Sound. A quick foot pressed the brake. The coupe skidded sharply upon the dampened surface of a swimming wharf. The car swung to the right. Its rear wheels skimmed along the edge of the pier, almost dropping over the side.
Jammed to a stop, the thick tires glided sidewise until the car halted on the very edge of the deep water at the end of the pier.
A wild finish to a desperate ride. But the thrill of this amazing episode was yet to come.
Mere seconds after the coupe had halted, the bright lights of another car plunged down the slope.
The driver of the touring car could see the danger as he spotted the plight of the nearly wrecked coupe. He jammed his brakes before he reached the wharf. His skid was shorter; his stoppage was more abrupt.
The lights of the sedan were now in view. The second of the mob-manned cars was coming up with its horde of desperate killers. Wild shouts were heard from the gunmen.
Coldly, calmly, The Shadow slipped through the door beside the driver's seat. The jolted form of Glade Tremont crumpled completely, along the floor of the car. The door closed.
Tremont, helpless, was trapped within. The Shadow gave no thought to him. There was other work to do. Flight had ended. Fight was to begin!
Poised on the step of the car, his black form clinging to the farther side, The Shadow was standing almost above the watery depths at the end of the pier. First one hand rose; then the other. Each thin black glove was tight about an automatic.
An opening shot came from the body of the touring car. It crashed against the side of the coupe. The Shadow gave no sign of a reply. Another shot splintered a side window. Still, The Shadow was silent. Now, emboldened men were dashing forward. With gleaming revolvers, two gangsters leaped from the touring car. Five more, headed by Jake Bosch scrambled off the running boards of the sedan. Across the docks they raced, protected by the men in the cars behind,
They were anxious to seize their quarry. They knew that they were dealing with The Shadow. Where was he? Hiding in the car? Stunned at the wheel? Or had he leaped into the Sound?
Wherever he might be, these men were out to get him by force of numbers. A widespread, grimly snarling tribe, they were wedging in like the spokes of a fan.
Then came the report of The Shadow's right-hand gun. The same deadly aim that had shattered Biff Towley's spotlight proved its merit again; but this time its target was a human body. A dashing gangster screamed and leaped upward, hands clawing in air. His body flattened and sprawled upon the dock sliding into a huddled shape. His revolver, skimming onward, slipped from the side of the wharf and splashed into the water.
No one heard that splash. The Shadow's gun was delivering its second bark. Another man fell. He sprawled like a starfish, his revolver still in his grasp.
The others were dropping to the wharf, lying low and spread, their revolvers returning the attack. Biff Towley, alert in the sedan, spotted the exact place from which the shots had come.
He saw the dim top of a black hat above the rear of the coupe.
His yell gave the signal as he fired. The men in the touring car blazed away. Had The Shadow remained to risk another press of the trigger, Biff's bullet would have clipped him. But the hat was dropping to safety as the gang leader fired. The leaden missile skimmed the crown of the disappearing headpiece.
The men on the dock were crawling forward. Biff and the others who covered were alert.
They saw The Shadow's chosen spot. Another move on his part, and death would be his lot. But The Shadow had made a sudden change. Crouching, he flung himself flat upon the outer running board. With incredible swiftness, he wriggled his tall form between the front fender and the hood. His left arm paused by the edge of the radiator. His sharp eyes peered forth unseen. Two men were crawling forward from that direction. One was Jake Bosch. With low, perfect aim, The Shadow fired. Jake dropped without a sound.
Before the other startled gunman could turn his revolver, a second shot occurred. Jake's companion fell, writhing.
Now guns blazed in fury. Hard bullets crashed through the side of the hood. They never found their mark. Between The Shadow and his enemies lay the protecting motor. It was a solid barrier that bullets could not penetrate.
Four men had fallen. Four of nearly a dozen. The others on the pier, realizing the fact, surged forward in a mass. The first of the attackers reached the hood of the car. Like a soldier going over the top, he flung himself across the hood, his gun arm forward, aiming for the hidden foe. The Shadow, twisted on his back, his left arm by the hood, his right against his body, saw the gleaming revolver as it shot above him. He heard the brutal curse from the gangster's lips as the man tried to stop his plunge and bring his weapon downward.
The Shadow's gun spat upward. The gangster's efforts failed as the bullet cleaved his chest. His body hurtled forward into the water beyond.
In that well-timed, precise action, The Shadow had lost a precious second. Another foe had profited by the delay. Sneaking by the rear of the car, this man was clinging to the back fender, on the very edge of the pier.
He could see the spatter of The Shadow's gun. Hanging backward, holding by his left hand, this gangster thrust his right arm across his body and fired.
He lost his aim in the effort. From his cramped position, his shot was high. Another chance was all he needed; but he did not get it.
The Shadow, serenely resting between the fender and the hood, deliberately leveled his right hand. His finger pressed the trigger of the automatic. His shot was toward the one portion of the gangster's body that could not move — the white left hand that gripped the fender of the car.
The Shadow's aim did not fail.
With a hideous cry, the man's hold broke as the bullet crunched his gripping hand. His arms flung up above his head as he seemed to leap backward. His body smacked against the water with a resounding splash.
A new enemy menaced. He was more cautious than the others. Prowling forward, he had opened the door of the coupe. He was reaching through the window, by the wheel — for he had found it open. He was stumbling over the form of Glade Tremont. The Shadow swung up to meet this gunman. A hand and a head came into view. A pointing revolver shimmered. Before it was The Shadow's rising figure, with its blackened automatic.
It was a split second race between hair triggers, and The Shadow won. His shot echoed like a cannon's roar. The gangster's head disappeared. His hand lay limply on the opening of the window, the trigger guard of the revolver dangling from a nerveless finger.
The Shadow laughed as he gripped his right automatic in the bend of his left elbow. He extended his long arm and the black-gloved hand plucked the revolver from the dying hoodlum's unresisting clutch. Scowling, at the wheel of his sedan, Biff Towley spat low curses. Seven men had advanced to take The Shadow. Seven bullets had ended their attack. The man was a demon!
His work had been at close range, but never once had he faltered.
Biff nudged the man who sat beside him — the only other occupant of the sedan. Together, they clambered from the car and found protection beside the touring car. There were two men there.
"We've got to get him!" snarled Biff. "It's The Shadow!" In the badlands of Manhattan, that name would have inspired its hearers with terror. Here, with the echoes of gunshots still ringing in their ears, the utterance inspired Biff's henchmen with a new and grim incentive.
They had The Shadow within their grasp, if they could but take him. Their companions had tasted his death-dealing bullets. It was a game of vengeance, now!