The next episode in the fray was forced by consequences. Hardly had the lull begun before an automobile came whirling up the street from a point ahead. The sound of battle had reached Boney, the lieutenant who blocked the path. A rakish touring car was swinging into action to aid the mobsters who crouched along the narrow street.
A searchlight swept its beams along the wall on the right. As the nearing car approached an unexpected spot, a cry rose from a dozen lips.
Boldly, a tall form had appeared within that light. One hand — the left — was holding an automatic. The other had tossed a gun aside, and was drawing forth a new weapon from the folds of the black cloak. This action, however, did not disturb the left.
The automatic spat its message. A perfectly driven bullet smashed the searchlight. The car came sweeping up with headlights glaring, but The Shadow was again in darkness!
From their spot of safety, Snakes and Ruff could see the glimmer of a machine gun. That would mean The Shadow’s doom. They waited for the typewriter rattle that would spray the walls of houses with a deluge of lead. The sound never came.
Instead, two automatics roared, an instant before the machine-gunner was ready to unlimber. A terrific volley of The Shadow’s making was hurled into the touring car. Cries, groans, and shrieks echoed with one accord. The driver whirled the touring car to the left. He lost control as a bullet clipped him at the wheel. Hurtling, the touring car smashed squarely into the parked sedan. It raised oddly on its outer wheels, and turned upon its side. Plunging forms of wounded mobsters shot from the wrecked car.
Amid a momentary lull, Ruff Shefflin cried out with all his might. His shout was a call for battle to the end. Mobsters, filled with frenzy that banished fear, came leaping from everywhere, and opened charge upon the spot where they knew The Shadow must be.
ROARING automatics answered. Forward-dashing gangsters fired as they sprawled. Bullets smashed against house walls. Shots ricocheted from the sidewalk. The Shadow was dropping his attackers with uncanny precision, but the very size of the odds against him seemed sure to seal his doom.
At the crucial moment, The Shadow changed his tactics. His tall form was visible as it swept across the street toward the smashed automobiles. Mobsters shouted as they paused to change their aims. Ruff Shefflin, snarling as he leaped from his spot of observation, fired rapid shots after the flying figure.
One bullet clipped the edge of The Shadow’s hat. Another must have dealt a minor wound, for the phantom figure swerved, changed course, and then kept on. Ruff paused and swung his hand deliberately. The Shadow passed behind the sedan just as the mob leader fired.
Against the wall on the nearer side of the street, The Shadow, catching a friendly place of darkness, paused to deliver a final volley. Firing gangsters dropped instinctively. Then they caught another glimpse of their enemy. The Shadow was making back up the street toward the entrance of an alley.
While wild shots echoed, two gangsters leaped suddenly into view. Their revolvers gleamed; they were blotted from sight as The Shadow, with a giant forward plunge, hurled himself squarely upon his pair of enemies. It was an amazing piece of strategy. The one mobster who fired, missed The Shadow by a scant inch. The other never pressed the trigger of his gun.
The Shadow’s right hand descended with a swing. His heavy automatic laid the gangster flat. The one who had missed his shot swung to fire again. The Shadow caught him with a sideswipe, and sent him sprawling along the sidewalk.
From phantom lips came the sound of a bursting taunt of mockery. The black-garbed figure precipitated itself into darkness. Despite the bullets that had swept about him, despite the scratches that he had received in the fray, The Shadow was the victor in this combat.
One factor, only, had driven him from the fray. In the course of the running fight, he had exhausted the bullets in all four automatics. He had used his empty weapons to down a pair of well-armed men who blocked his path to safety.
The Shadow was in flight — but not as a vanquished fighter. His departure was a move of strategy — a lure to bring his enemies to a new battle-ground, where he could display further deeds of prowess.
The Shadow had met Gray Fist’s challenge. He had kept his appointment. He had proven the perfidy of the fiend. He had let Gray Fist know that so long as he, The Shadow, remained alive, he would be a menace to the supercrook.
But in his seeking of a new battlefield, The Shadow had no easy task ahead. Wild shouts and roaring fire followed his swift escape. These vicious sounds were echoed from blocks around.
The Shadow was heading into the heart of the underworld. He was dashing into a gang land that had been aroused. Like wildfire, the news had traveled almost from the moment that the fray had begun.
Fierce lips everywhere in this dangerous district were fuming the one cry:
“Death to The Shadow!”
CHAPTER XI
THE SHADOW’S STRONGHOLD
AMONG the enemies who had beset The Shadow, there was one whose craftiness was more dangerous than the abandon of those who had fought against the black-clad warrior. That single foeman was Snakes Blakey, the wily lookout who served Gray Fist.
To-night, Snakes had engineered the coup that had turned out hordes of gangdom to wage war with The Shadow. Through Ruff Shefflin and the lesser gang leaders, Snakes had created a stir that was increasing to a fever pitch.
From this focal point deep in the bad lands, the cry had gone forth. Gangsters and ruffians of all types had responded to a single urge. They were out to get The Shadow, to end the career of the intrepid battler who had so persistently defeated the schemes of supercrooks.
Snakes had foreseen The Shadow’s move. From the edge of the alleyway, where he waited, the stoop-shouldered sneak had realized that The Shadow might break through the ring of mobsters that had surrounded him. Snakes could do nothing to augment the forces that were fighting in the street by the Black Ship, but he knew that his services might be required elsewhere.
When The Shadow crashed his way past the two mobsters who sought to stop him, Snakes Blakey was acting also. With frantic speed, Snakes hurried down his own alley, in a mad effort to beat The Shadow to the street beyond.
Ahead, Snakes saw men waiting. The glare of a flashlight shone into his eyes. Knowing that only mobsters could be hereabouts, Snakes shouted out an order which he knew would be heeded.
“The Shadow!” was his cry. “Get him! In the next alley. He’s coming through!”
The flashlight swung. Deep-throated voices passed along the cry. Scurrying mobsters were arriving. With one accord, they gave the signal to their fellows.
“The Shadow! Get him! Get The Shadow!”
A huge mobster leaped in the direction that Snakes had indicated. He was the first to reach the opening where The Shadow was expected. Holding a big revolver in his right hand, he used his left to turn the rays of a flashlight along the next alley.
The gleam of the torch was blackened in a trice. Like a living avalanche, a mass of darkness precipitated itself forward in solidified form. A long black arm swung downward.
The Shadow had arrived. With one swift stroke, he had met his adversary. The huge mobster was flattened by a terrific blow from an emptied automatic.
Mobsters saw their pal fall. They caught only a fleeting glimpse of the fighter who had struck down the gunman. The Shadow, with amazing agility, swung back into the darkness of the alleyway. Stooping, he plucked the mobster’s .45 from the paving where it lay.
“Death to The Shadow!”
AS the cry resounded, hurried bullets were discharged toward the wall by the alley. Shots were plastered flat against the bricks. Mobsters were converging to a spot opposite, from which they could gauge the range.