The heel of a gloved hand was pressed against Pete’s chin. Staring upward with bulging eyes, the dock walloper could not see his opponent. The Shadow had pinioned the big man’s right arm. Pete’s left was swinging wildly in the air.
With an angry, snarl, Pete threw all of his brute strength into the fray. As The Shadow pressed his head against the wall, the dock walloper wrested his right arm free. Twisting, he threw a pair of paws blindly toward his foeman’s throat.
Long nails ripped the collar of The Shadow’s cloak. The Shadow’s hand dropped from Pete’s jaw.
Snarling his triumph, the dock walloper lowered his chin and fought to clutch the neck that was slipping from his big hands. Then came the turn.
The Shadow had dropped to gain a jujutsu hold. Pete’s hands lost their grip as his huge form was hoisted upward in spite of all its bulk. Braced on the floor, The Shadow snapped himself upward and backward.
His odd lunge stopped.
Pete kept on. Like a rock slung from a catapult, the big dock walloper shot straight forward over The Shadow’s head. His clawing hands clutched wildly as his arms spread in a vain effort to stop his fall. The stairway lay dead ahead. Pete’s plunge carried him halfway to the bottom before his long dive brought him head first to a projecting step.
The crash was terrific. Striking on head and hands, Pete’s big bulk described a bounding somersault that ended at the bottom of the stairway. There the dock walloper rolled in a sideways fashion and smashed into the wall.
The Shadow was gliding down the stairway. His quick pace carried him across Pete’s body. His swift hand yanked open the door. Din came to The Shadow’s ears. Running forms were arriving beneath the light at the entrance of the alley.
In this quarter all were foemen unless they announced themselves as friends. The dull light from the opened door was sufficient for mobsmen eager for a fight. A revolver barked from the entrance of the alley. A bullet splintered the door frame.
The Shadow’s hands swept from his cloak. Two automatics thundered from the doorway. The gangster who had fired his revolver went sprawling in the alley. Others dived for cover. The Shadow leaped outward, yanking the door behind him. An instant later, his automatics opened a new cannonade.
Mobsters scattered while The Shadow backed swiftly through the alley to the further street. Shouts had risen. Wild shots began. Distant whistles sounded as The Shadow reached the next street.
Scurrying gangsters were coming from another block. The Shadow did not wait for them. Swiftly and unseen, he crossed the street and gained a new passage between two buildings opposite.
Weaving his way into the underworld, The Shadow was taking a roundabout course that would lead him from the badlands. He had shown his skill tonight; but he had not sought the adventure which had been his lot.
For this delay — caused by the chance flicker of a gaslight — had ended all chance to trail Shakes Niefan.
The killer had gone his way. New death was in the making!
CHAPTER XII. MURDER AT NIGHT
SHAKES NIEFAN had unwittingly eluded The Shadow. While the gun-fray was going on about the killer’s discarded hideout, Shakes had reached a new objective. After alighting from an uptown station, he had walked two blocks to make a phone call from a booth in a cigar store.
With receiver wobbling in his unsteady hand, Shakes was talking in the fashion of the night before. Once more the slayer was reporting for grim duty.
“Hello…” Shakes was using his affected growl. “Yeah… I’m all ready… Sure… Last night was O.K. wasn’t it? All right… Tonight will be the same… No, I’m not going back to the old place… I’m going to keep away from those joints… Yeah… Some guys think they’re too wise…”
Leaving the store, Shakes walked westward to an avenue. He went one block north; then turned into a side street. He reduced his pace as he neared a lighted archway that occupied a broad space between two old-fashioned buildings. Shakes noted the inscription on the arch:
BALLANTYNE PLACE
Shakes walked beneath the archway. The space within widened out into a large courtyard. Two-story buildings— old English houses in miniature — flanked the sides of Ballantyne Place.
A secluded spot in the heart of Manhattan, this exclusive section consisted of houses built, on the cooperative plan. There were perhaps a dozen residences in Ballantyne Place; each bore a conspicuous number upon its door. Shakes Niefan strolled along until he reached Number 8.
Pausing to light his cigarette, Shakes feigned the part of a chance visitor while he glanced about to make sure that no one was in the quiet court. He noted lights in the upstairs windows of the house at which he stood. He tried the door and found it locked.
The style of the lock was its weakness. A large keyhole offered an easy task. Shakes pulled a ring of skeleton keys from his pocket. On the third trial, the lock opened.
Shakes pressed the door inward. It yielded only a few inches. Pulling the glove from his right hand, Shakes inserted his fingers. He found a chain instead of a bolt. This, again, was a factor in the crook’s favor.
The chain would not loosen, but when Shakes brought his jimmy into action, the work was simple. A dull, splintering sound occurred as the wall fastening broke loose. Shakes threw a nervous glance toward the courtyard; then entered.
Closing the door Shakes began a flashlight inspection downstairs. He found a small living room where the embers of a dying fire glowed from a grate. Desk and table drawers revealed an assortment of papers.
Shakes bundled these without further inspection; he tossed them in the fireplace and watched them burn to ashes. With a short laugh Shakes approached the stairs and sneaked upward to the darkened hall above.
THERE was a light beneath the door of a front room. A low, hoarse voice issued forth in frightened tones. Pressing close to the door, Shakes distinguished words:
“This is Hiram Engliss speaking… Number Eight, Ballantyne Place… I believe that my house has been entered… Yes… I could hear some one breaking in downstairs…”
While his lips formed a fierce, distorted grimace, Shakes Niefan pressed his jimmy into place against the edge of the frail door. He was sure that this barrier was locked. The man within was calling the police.
There was no time to lose.
Pausing, Shakes heard the clatter of the telephone receiver. He used the jimmy with full force. A startled cry came from within. Hiram Engliss knew now that danger had arrived.
Woodwork splintered from the door. Another wrench of the jimmy. As Shakes leaned to his work, he heard a window come open; he caught the shout that Hiram Engliss uttered:
“Help!” The man was frantic. “Help! Burglars—”
The door snapped open. Shakes Niefan dropped his jimmy as he plunged forward. His right hand shot to his coat pocket. He was face to face with a pale-faced, elderly man who was turning from the window.
Hiram Engliss was holding, an old-fashioned pepper-box — a four-barreled pistol that looked like a honeycomb.
The gun was wobbling in the old man’s hand. Hiram Engliss, clad in dressing gown, was ready with a frantic effort to stop this intruder. Wildly, he fired. Even at this close range, the bullet went wide.
Shakes was bringing out his revolver with a hand that shook as much as the old man’s. But the murderer lacked the nervousness that had gripped Hiram Engliss. The pepper-box spoke with a puny bark. Again, the aim was faulty.
Shakes pressed the trigger of his stub-nosed revolver. His hand had steadied for the action. His aim had its customary perfection. The old-fashioned gun fell to the floor as Hiram Engliss collapsed.