“D’you hear that?” Spike questioned hoarsely. “Listen!”
This time the sound came with more audible tone. It began as a ghostly, low-voiced sneer. It rose with shuddering mirth, reached a weird crescendo; then broke with a suddenness that left only its whispered echoes quivering through the dark.
“From the house!” blurted a mobster. “That’s where it was — the empty house!”
“Gats ready,” growled Spike.
The mobleader rose to his feet. Drawing his Luger, he faced the blackened outline of Ezekiel Twinton’s empty house. His pals copied his example. Weapons ready, they awaited a recurrence of that sound.
As if in challenge to their preparation, a click sounded from the direction of the house. With it, darkness ended. The glare of a searchlight flashed from beneath the roof of the back porch. Fitted to the wiring of the porch lights, this device sent a broadening beam that rivaled the brightness of day.
It showed Spike and his blinking henchmen against the background of the spring house. Startled, the mobleader and gorillas heard a repetition of the laugh that had sounded twice before. This time, the taunt rang out unrestrained.
They knew that gibing laugh. Weirdly, it gave identifying mockery. Strident, the pealing mirth was delivered in the sardonic fierceness that only one being could match. Mobsters quavered as they recognized the terrifying laugh of The Shadow.
Then, into the searchlight’s glare stepped the figure that they feared. A cloaked form, batlike in its mammoth outline, The Shadow moved from cover of the porch. From his fists projected automatics. His weaving figure swept forward with total disregard for the men before him. Contemptuous of the others who were posted as guards, The Shadow moved into the ring of killers that Spike Balgo had formed about the spring house.
Uncanny laughter still bursting from his lips, The Shadow was advancing to claim the spoils that Spike Balgo had uncovered. Casting aside his familiar shroud of darkness, he was exhibiting a boldness that left the ruffians astounded.
Hands were petrified as eyes witnessed The Shadow’s daring. Only lips moved as startled mobsters witnessed the approach of that dreaded figure. Hoarse voices gasped the name of the foe who had turned dark into light:
“The Shadow!”
CHAPTER XX
CHANCE BULLETS
LIKE his minions, Spike Balgo stood astonished. The notorious mobleader knew the reputed power of The Shadow. He had heard that this fearless battler had terrified foemen to an unbelievable degree. But he had also been informed that The Shadow was quick on the trigger. He had never dreamed that the amazing enemy of crime would stride into the thick of an ambush before loosing a hail of lead.
It was the very unexpectedness of the situation that left Spike Balgo aghast. One hundred and fifty feet had separated The Shadow from his enemies. The weird avenger had traversed a full third of that distance before Spike Balgo acted.
Wondering, the gangleader backed away from the iron box. His henchmen withdrew with him. Again, The Shadow’s laugh burst forth. The Shadow was enjoying this recognition of his prowess. It was an experience which he had reserved for this particular occasion, with a reason which was soon to become apparent.
How long would The Shadow proceed unmolested? The answer rested with Spike Balgo. The gorillas were sheep. They were awaiting his move. The gangleader did not realize it until he felt the corner of the spring house wall behind his shoulders. At that moment, The Shadow had passed the halfway mark to the spot where the box lay in the light.
Then, suddenly, Spike snarled an order. He suited it with action. He raised his gun and fired three quick shots straight toward the advancing figure. The men with Spike copied his example. A dozen rounds delivered, the shooters stared, expecting to see the black form sink, riddled with slugs.
Instead, The Shadow laughed. Unwavering, he kept coming forward. Spike’s face turned ashen in the glare of the searchlight. His eyes bulged. Was this being a ghost, through which bullets passed unhampered? As Spike clutched the corner of the spring house, he heard shots burst from all about.
Ambushed mobsters were rising. Like Spike and the other three, they were firing at The Shadow. Yet the laugh continued. The fierce figure moved uninterrupted. Spike Balgo caught the glint of brilliant eyes that glared from beneath the hat brim. The Shadow was almost to the box.
“Get him!” bellowed Spike. “Get him! The Shadow!”
As mobsters opened a new volley, The Shadow turned. Disdainful of the four who stood within the light, he aimed for spots about where flashes told that men were ambushed. His automatics thundered answers to the reports of the Lugers. Cries and gasps sounded from the lips of human targets.
Again Spike fired. So did his men. As The Shadow turned in their direction, the four scattered like rats. Spike Balgo cleared the low roof of the spring house and fell sprawling by the opened door. His mobsmen, free of the searchlight’s glare, dropped to the ground and fired back. The Shadow — now beside the box of swag — timed his strident laughter to the staccato jabs of flame that issued from his guns.
A mobster came sprawling at Spike Balgo’s feet. This fellow had lingered too long. His emptied Luger fell to earth. A flashlight bounced on Spike’s foot. The mobleader, momentarily safe in his temporary shelter, picked up the flashlight. He stood there, listening to the final barrage of the scattered mobsmen.
A savage oath came from Spike’s lips. The mobleader turned on the flashlight and threw the rays against the old wall of the spring house. Raising his Luger, he fired point-blank at the wall. Something spattered. Spike stared. The bullet from his gun had left no mark!
ALL came to Spike Balgo in a flash. He and his henchmen had been tricked by the consignment to Grantham Breck. These Lugers had not been ordered by the dead lawyer. The Shadow had divined that the mobsmen would use such guns if they found them. It was he who had ordered the shipment of the box!
The bullets? There lay the trick. They were as harmless as pellets of wax. Spike Balgo had heard of amalgam bullets — slugs that had metallic content, but would disintegrate when discharged from the muzzle of the gun. Such was The Shadow’s game. He had come to claim the box of swag. Taunting the frenzied mobsters, he had added to his gibes with intermittent shots that had clipped half of Balgo’s band of ruffians.
Cursing, Spike hurled the Luger to the ground. Instinctively, he thrust his hand to his pocket. It encountered the cold steel of Harry Vincent’s automatic — the weapon that Spike had discovered by chance. The gangleader hesitated but an instant. Drawing Harry’s gun, he raised his hand and his eyes above the level of the spring-house roof.
The Shadow was standing by the box of swag. By some uncanny ability, he seemed to divine Spike’s action. Turning, he brought an automatic toward its enemy, timing his aim without hurry. Spike Balgo, his gun still in motion, fired two quick shots; then dropped for cover, just as The Shadow’s gun replied.
One bullet sizzled past The Shadow’s ear. The second, a few inches lower, found its mark. The Shadow’s left hand dropped as his right hand fired. The black-garbed figure wavered. The Shadow was slumping toward the ground.
Spike Balgo peered from the side of the spring house. He aimed again, just as The Shadow rose. He saw the cloaked form go weaving, wavering away from the box. Spike fired again — a wide shot — as The Shadow stumbled. With a shout of triumph, Spike leaped out to aim.
The Shadow was lying facing toward the large house. Had he tried to swing and aim toward Spike, he would have met disaster. Had he risen to take to flight, he would have been a target for the mobleader. Instead, he fired from the ground. His shot was accompanied by the crash of glass and the descent of total darkness. The Shadow, though weakened, had managed to hit the luminous bull’s-eye of his own searchlight.