“The Shadow’s power has been ended. The myth has been exploded. Those who feared The Shadow are now the keenest to take up his trail. Death to The Shadow! That is the cry upon the lips of every mobster in the underworld. Soon it will be more than a shout. It will become a cold reality.”
Cliff was rising from the wall. He thought that he could see Gray Fist’s features; then the long arm raised again, and the face was hidden by the open, gray-gloved hand that the master crook extended.
“The Shadow!” Gloating venom sounded in Gray Fist’s voice. “The Shadow cannot escape my clutch. My gray fist is closing about him. It will squeeze him in a grasp from which no one can escape. The Shadow is doomed. Doomed by Gray Fist!”
As he spat these words, the man in gray clenched his hand with significant gesture. The gray fist looked to Cliff like a hand of burnished steel. The forward thrust that Gray Fist gave caused the tightened hand to loom with evil threat.
A wild, hilarious cry came from the man in gray. Gray Fist was a monster conjured from the realms of nightmare, an evil creature whose fiendish threats seemed real. Cliff could not repress the convulsive shudder that came over him.
The door was opening. Gray Fist had thrust his left hand behind him to turn the knob. The muffled fiend was backing out of sight. His shaking fist still projected into the room. Its clutch tightened; then, with a sweeping gesture, the clenched hand followed its owner through the doorway.
The door closed. Locks clanked. Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent remained as prisoners. To The Shadow’s agents, this visit from their captor had been a fantastic dream. It fitted into the daze which held them, but its spell persisted to the point where they knew that it could not have been unreality.
Gray Fist had come to tell The Shadow’s agents of their plight. Gray Fist had departed, leaving the echoes of his spoken threat. Where Gray Fist had gone, neither Cliff nor Harry could conjecture.
The fiend’s purpose, however, was a certainty. While The Shadow lived, Gray Fist could have but one plan. He — the superfiend — had fared forth to loose new minions on a common quest.
Death to The Shadow! Merciless death to the only being who could block his plans for crime!
That was the purpose of Gray Fist!
CHAPTER XIII
THE SHADOW’S CALL
EVENING had arrived again. Darkness had settled over Manhattan; with it, an invisible change was taking place throughout the bad lands.
All day, hordes of gangsters had been patrolling the district where they knew The Shadow must be hiding. They had moved in packs, these wolves of the underworld. To all appearances, they were loiterers or strolling groups. Actually, they were armed men ready to flash their weapons at an instant’s notice.
Faces had been scanned. No unknown mobster could have passed these roving watchers. The vigil by day had continued without interruption. There was no display of intended violence; indeed, the scumland of Manhattan had seemed more peaceful than it had for many weeks. This was because all feuds had been forgotten. One purpose dominated all men of crime.
“Get The Shadow!”
That was the ceaseless message from the big shots. Many had cause to fear The Shadow; others had reason to believe that some day his hand would spoil their projects. Gangdom had needed nothing more than a hand to touch the fuse and explode the pent-up desire to end the career of mobland’s greatest enemy. Snakes Blakey, apparently, had supplied that touch. Actually, Gray Fist, a supercrook who did not inhabit the underworld, was the one who had applied the match.
Dives had been scoured. Hop joints had been searched. The quest for The Shadow’s hide-out had continued. Now that dusk was falling, the vigil would increase. Skulking gangsters were finding new spots which they could approach without attracting the attention of the police who controlled this district.
All the while, the search had been a whispered campaign. Stool pigeons who would ordinarily have carried news to the police were automatically joined with the common cause. This was gang land’s own secret. None dared betray it.
Every man who had ever dealt in crime knew well that The Shadow was a menace. He, the lone avenger, had never offered protection to any one concerned with crime. Squealers, like close-mouthed crooks, dreaded the name of The Shadow.
More heady gangsters held the view that nightfall would be the time when The Shadow would reappear. Hence the vigil was doubling after dark. A bitter fight might lay ahead; one as desperate as the night before. Yet all were determined that this time The Shadow would not escape.
Snakes Blakey had disappeared during the day. Dusk, however, found him at the Black Ship, in conference with Ruff Shefflin. Snakes had been to see Gray Fist. The results of his conference with the supercrook were apparent in the consultation. Snakes had a mission for to-night. He was ready in case The Shadow should attempt the unexpected — a counterstroke.
WHERE was The Shadow hiding? None knew; yet all were out to find the hide-out. The blasting of The Shadow’s stronghold had been one step toward limiting The Shadow’s power. The finding of his hide-out would cap the deal. For if The Shadow again fled through the bad lands, but this time with no spot to which he could return, the hordes of evil would have the opportunity they wanted to deal death to The Shadow!
Not far from the Black Ship was a short row of antiquated buildings. Tramping gangsters had marched through empty rooms and hallways in this house. Groups of them were constantly on the street in front of the row. At intervals throughout the day, occasionally now that night had fallen, they were under the surveillance of unseen eyes.
From a tiny corner on the third floor of the end house in the row, The Shadow was watching through loopholes chiseled in the bricks. This was the spot that he had chosen for his hide-out. The place was suited to his method of concealment.
The room where The Shadow lay was a narrow rectangle, no more than eight feet in length. Its width was half of that. Searchers had prowled through this house. They had followed a corridor to an empty room at the front. But they had not discovered the opening in the wall of a four-foot closet. The Shadow’s hide-out was the extension of that compartment.
A tiny electric light was gleaming in The Shadow’s hiding place. Its beams were focused downward by a shade. Here, in narrow confinement, The Shadow was a specter that stirred mysteriously in the gloom. The few furnishings of his room were all that he required for a prolonged stay.
One object that seemed unusual was an odd receiving set that rested in the corner. This and the loopholes at the front of the hide-out seemed to occupy The Shadow’s sole attention. While he watched, The Shadow neglected the ear phones of the wireless. While he listened at the set, he forgot the lookout spot.
How long The Shadow could retain this hide-out depended entirely upon chance. It was doubtful that any prowling mobster would suspect the secret of the closet. At the same time, the thorough search was not slackening. Luck might favor some prowling squad.
Automatics lay upon the receiving set. There were four — all loaded. When the emergency demanded, The Shadow could shoot his way from this hide-out. If he did, he would still be in the center of the underworld, in a perfect maelstrom of furious villains who would fight en masse to bring him to his doom.
Night had come. The Shadow waited. His delaying action indicated that he intended to remain in hiding. On the contrary, there was one factor that seemed to indicate a possible change of The Shadow’s plan. That factor was the wireless receiving set in the corner of the windowless room.