But before his finger moved, he received the greatest surprise of his career. As if from nowhere, the end of a steel rod was pressed into the small of his back.
Steve Cronin, close beside McGinnis, received the same token at that precise instant. Like McGinnis, he knew the feel of the muzzle of an automatic.
Then there came low-whispered words from the darkness of the back seat. A weird, uncanny voice spoke in sinister tones.
“If you fire, you die!”
There was no mistaking the terms. Machine-gun McGinnis, intrepid gangster that he was, felt his finger tremble. He instinctively removed it from the trigger of the weapon.
Steve Cronin was even more perturbed. He had heard that voice before. He slumped to the floor of the car, completely overcome by fear.
THE touring car rolled leisurely past the spot where Morris Clarendon awaited certain death. The machine gun remained inactive. Its black muzzle loomed ominously from the curtains, but that was all.
The car moved toward the corner. Then Brodie, amazed by the silence, turned his head.
Like the others, he heard a whispered command.
“Drive on,” ordered the voice from the back seat.
Brodie hesitated for a moment. Then he realized that it was too late to change the situation, whatever might have occurred.
His duty was to make a getaway; the handling of the machine gun belonged to the men in the back seat. The chauffeur pressed the accelerator, and the car whirled rapidly down the broad street.
The automatic was withdrawn from the back of Machine-gun McGinnis. With a cry of anger, the gangster turned to seize the man who held it.
The handle of the revolver dealt him a stunning blow against the side of the head, and he sank beside the machine gun, limp and helpless. Then the muzzle of the automatic brought cold chills to the neck of Brodie the chauffeur.
“Slow down,” ordered the whispered voice.
The chauffeur obeyed.
The revolver was gone, and at the same instant Steve Cronin realized that he, too, was freed from the ominous threat behind him. Yet neither man dared to move, and while they trembled, they heard the sound of a sinister, mocking voice — a voice that laughed amid the blackness of the car that had failed in its mission of destruction.
Brodie, still fearful, brought the car to a dead stop. Then his courage returned. He twisted his body, and flung himself over the back of the front seat, drawing an automatic.
Steve Cronin, reassured by Brodie’s action, pulled a flashlight from his pocket, and illuminated the interior of the car.
There was nothing there but a pile of robes. The men flung them aside, hurling them upon the inert form of Machine-gun McGinnis. Yet they revealed nothing.
Silently, invisibly, the mysterious man of the night had slipped from the car, and was gone.
Brodie leaped to the street. He fancied that he saw some one moving behind the car, and he leveled his automatic.Then he realized that the fancied form was nothing but a moving shadow, beneath a swinging sign.
He lowered his gun; then realized that the shadow was a living being — a tall, thin shape, that suddenly showed itself in view.
He fired then, but he was too late. The man was gone, and from the distance came a long, ringing laugh.
BRODIE and Cronin lifted up McGinnis. The machine-gun operator opened his eyes and glowered at them beneath the glare of Cronin’s flashlight.
“Did you get him?” he demanded.
“No,” replied Brodie.
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know.”
Steve Cronin offered no explanation. He knew who the man was.
Once before he had met The Shadow. That had been the only time in his life that he had known fear — before tonight. Now he was trembling in spite of himself, for once again he had been conquered by the mighty enemy of gangsters.
Brodie propped McGinnis against the back seat of the touring car, and motioned to Cronin to take care of him. Then he resumed his place at the wheel, and drove away, giving instructions and suggestions.
“You bungled this job,” he growled. “but there’s no use arguing about it now. The big shot will have plenty to say to-morrow.
“I’m going to drop you off, Cronin, just as I was told to do. I’ll take care of McGinnis. A couple of mugs; that’s all you are.”
“What about yourself?” asked Cronin sarcastically.
“What about me?” growled the chauffeur. “I was looking after the work up here. It was your job in back. Why did you let that guy in?”
“Why did you let him out?”
Brodie was too angry to reply. He pulled into an alley, and brought the car to a stop.
“Hop out,” he said to Cronin. “Look out for yourself from now on. You’ve got nothing to worry about, though.”
Steve Cronin clambered from the touring car. His legs were still weak, and he steadied himself against a lamppost. Brodie drove away immediately, leaving the thwarted gangster to his thoughts.
Cronin looked up and down the alley, as though afraid that the ominous man of the car was still present. Then he managed to regain control of himself, and he started in the direction of Sommers’ cigar store.
He entered by the back door, and found his way to the room upstairs. There he discovered Georgie Sommers and the girl whom he had expected to meet.
“This is Mr. Cronin,” said Sommers. “Steve, I want you to meet Kitty Boland.”
Cronin managed to smile as he bowed. The girl was a handsome brunette, of a type that appealed to gangsters.
Cronin realized that he must pretend that nothing worried him, and he tried to forget the episode of the car. He sat down at the table with Sommers and the girl. He accepted the drink that was offered him.
An hour went by. Then Cronin, his braggadocio restored by the drinks that he had taken, suggested that he and Kitty Boland should go somewhere together. Sommers agreed that the idea was a good one.
“You’ve been here since nine o’clock, both of you,” he said, mentioning the time at which Cronin had first appeared in the cigar store. “Why don’t you go up to Marmosa’s place, and try the roulette wheels?”
“That would be great,” replied the girl.
“Those wheels are fixed,” objected Cronin. “But we can go up there and watch the suckers drop their dough.”
HE left the place with the girl, and they rode in a taxi to Marmosa’s restaurant. Steve Cronin was familiar with the gambling den; as a man in favor with Nick Savoli, he gained immediate entrance.
Kitty Boland had never been there before. She expressed a lively interest in the establishment, but Cronin responded only with grunts. He ordered drinks at the bar. The memory of his thwarted enterprise still annoyed him.
Cronin glanced sullenly about him. His gaze was finally directed toward the door, and there he spied a young man dressed in a tuxedo. It was Harry Vincent.
A dim recollection occurred to Cronin’s besotted mind. He stared at Harry as though he remembered him. Then he happened to see two men in another corner: John Genara and Tony Anelmo.
The sullenness of their expressions brought a feeling of comradeship to Steve Cronin. He knew the Homicide Twins by sight as well as by reputation. Leaving the bar he sidled across the room, and took his place beside them.
“Hello, John. Hello, Tony.”
“Hello,” grunted Anelmo. Genara made no response.
“What’s doing tonight?”
“Nothing.”
Anelmo’s reply showed a lack of desire for conversation. Nevertheless, Cronin persisted, even though his next remark brought him to dangerous ground.
“I hear there was a fracas here last night,” he said.
“Perhaps you hear too much,” put in Genara.