One hour after dark, The Shadow went to the ear phones. Hidden in the complete blackness of the corner, he listened. The faint call of a wireless sending station clicked through the receivers. A black-gloved hand reached from the gloom and brought the shaded lamp to the spot where The Shadow crouched. The lamp, placed upon the wireless set, rested among the automatics.
An ungloved hand appeared. The sound of a faint laugh whispered itself from The Shadow’s lips. The hand began to inscribe the code that was coming through the air!
The Shadow’s burning eyes deciphered the swift message that his hand was writing. Brief statements, these, but ones for which The Shadow had been waiting.
“Escape. Unfollowed. Marsland report. Shefflin. Blakey. Possible murderers of Cowry. Vincent report. Ruggles Preston. Lawyer. Visit regarding Varden.”
A pause; then came the final word, a signature which The Shadow uncoded. It was the name of The Shadow’s contact man. The Shadow inscribed it:
“Burbank.”
TO The Shadow, this message told all that he desired to know. The word “escape” meant that Burbank, though surprised at his relay place in Manhattan, had managed to elude invaders who had tried to capture him; The Shadow had expected that. Wherever posted, Burbank was ready for emergencies.
The second word, “unfollowed,” meant that Burbank had acted in accordance with a prearranged plan. The contact man had hurried from Manhattan. He had reached a place that he had used before — a secluded cottage on the far end of Long Island, where a special sending station had long since been installed.
To-night, at an appointed time, Burbank had flashed his terse message. His mention of Marsland’s report gave The Shadow the names of the gangsters whom Cliff had been following. His statement of Vincent’s report told where Harry had been when Burbank had last heard of him.
Unless either Cliff or Harry had managed to send word to Rutledge Mann, by letter, this call from Burbank represented the last report from either of them. The Shadow knew, from Gray Fist’s note, that at least two prisoners must be in the power of the fiend. Only Cliff and Harry could be the captives, now that Burbank had sent through his call.
Cliff Marsland’s word was almost useless now. Last night, it would have indicated two gangsters whom The Shadow could have sought as definite enemies. To-night, however, all the underworld was ready for The Shadow! The names of Ruff Shefflin and Snakes Blakey were ones that The Shadow could only reserve for a time when the cry for his life had been given up as hopeless.
The report from Harry Vincent, however, was one which meant much to The Shadow. Harry had been dispatched to look into the affairs of men who had known Worth Varden. Harry had found one — a lawyer named Ruggles Preston — and had visited the man. It was probable that Harry’s capture had followed shortly after the time of the visit.
Hence Ruggles Preston represented the possible beginning of a trail. Either the lawyer was a henchman of Gray Fist, or else a man whom Gray Fist was watching. The Shadow saw these possibilities plainly.
The light clicked out within the little room. The swish of a cloak sounded softly as The Shadow headed toward the loopholes. Back through the darkness, The Shadow reached the wireless set. The automatics clattered slightly as his gloved hands inserted them beneath the crimson lining of the black-hued cloak.
There was a muffled sound as The Shadow pressed the end wall of the room. The barrier opened. The Shadow stepped into the closet. From there, his phantom shape sidled to the door that led into the darkened front room of the house.
The Shadow stopped short. He sensed that ears were listening. His hand glided beneath his cloak. It came forth as The Shadow crept through darkness. Some one was at the door of the darkened room. That man had heard the click from the closet. As The Shadow edged forward, a flashlight switched on. A glare of brilliant light revealed The Shadow’s spectral form.
THE SHADOW was in motion as the flashlight clicked. His tall form was a rising, plunging shape that came in an amazing leap. A long black arm was swinging toward the man who had reached the door of the room. A sharp cry blurted from a mobster’s lips. It ended as an automatic cracked against a human skull.
A moaning man lay at The Shadow’s feet. His flashlight had dropped from his grasp. The Shadow picked it up and turned the glare downward upon a bloated face. This fellow had come to make a new search of these premises. He had paid for his rashness in seeking The Shadow without others of his ilk behind him.
The flashlight clicked out as The Shadow laid it on the floor. Swiftly the black-clad victor hurried into the hallway. He paused there in total darkness, ready to return and hide the body of his victim. It was then that The Shadow heard calls from below.
Other mobsters were shouting to the one who had gone above. The Shadow knew what this would mean. Whether or not the other men found their companion missing, they would give a swift alarm. In fact, the discovery of the body on the floor would do more to delay them than would the absence of their friend.
Moments were precious to The Shadow. He was starting on a quest, outside the realm of gang land. There was no time to lose. The Shadow’s tall form reached upward. Long fingers clutched the sides of a trapdoor opening in the ceiling.
Wedging the trapdoor upward, The Shadow gained a powerful hold. His head and shoulders pushed the trapdoor free. Twisting sidewise as he emerged, The Shadow lay flat upon the roof. Rising, he crouched and replaced the barricade.
At the edge of the roof, The Shadow quickly removed flat, pliable objects from beneath his cloak. He pressed two concave disks to his feet; he gripped two others with his gloved hands.
The tall shape flattened itself against the parapet. Over the side it went; a squdgy sound announced the application of the rubber suction cups to the brick wall at the side of the building. Down a blackened surface descended The Shadow. Like a mammoth fly, he moved with consummate ease.
Each twist of hand or foot released a suction cup. Each heavy direct pressure made a new attachment. With rhythmically timed motion, The Shadow moved downward toward the shelter of an open space between two blackened buildings.
Cries were coming from the front street as The Shadow reached the ground. Gangsters had found the man whom The Shadow had struck down. They were summoning all evil-doers who might be within hearing range.
The Shadow had left his hide-out. Whether or not its actual location would be discovered, the house itself would surely resound to the tramp of mobsters. The last place of security in the underworld was lost to The Shadow.
Yet in his own ability to merge with night, The Shadow had a present safety that sufficed. He was a block away before the mobsters in the neighborhood had answered to the cry. Hosts were converging toward the building where The Shadow had been. Scattered gangsters were forming a living network toward that one definite spot.
Meanwhile, The Shadow had reached the outer portions of the mesh. Swift enough to pass the inner section before it tightened, he was speeding through wider portions of the web. Seeking alleyways and bypaths; dropping into convenient niches against crumpling walls, The Shadow was letting frantic mobsters pass him by.
In turn, with open spaces at his intuitive disposal, The Shadow was heading for the outskirts of the bad lands. His path was clearing while enemies hurried to the vortex where he no longer lingered.
By swift strategy; by an amazing descent through darkness, The Shadow had freed himself from waiting toils. He was starting toward a new destination — the apartment where Ruggles Preston lived.