Something jabbed Cliff in the back. The Shadow’s agent did not move. He knew the feel of a revolver muzzle. Then came the order, in Muggsy Wagram’s growclass="underline"
“Stick ‘em up!”
Cliff obeyed. At Muggsy’s urge, he moved into the lighted room, with hands above his head. Marty Lunk, a sneer on his ratlike face, was standing there alone.
“A tough guy, eh?” Marty leered as he recognized Cliff. “Well — what’s the racket?”
Cliff made no reply. Staring beyond Marty, he could see the door to another room. He realized how he had been tricked. Marty Lunk, after hearing the sound from the hall, had motioned Muggsy Wagram through another room. While Muggsy had left to corral Cliff, Marty had feigned a conversation with his underling. It had been a ruse well played.
“You ain’t got anything to say, eh?” quizzed Marty. “Well, I’ve seen you plenty of times, Marsland. Sort of a lone wolf, huh? Never hooked up with any mob. Just one of those eggs that muscles in on another guy’s game, eh?
“It ain’t going to do you much good this time. Maybe you haven’t heard much — but you’re not going to spill any of it. Get over there — in the corner.”
CLIFF responded slowly. He turned back to the wall to face the two crooks. Marty Lunk approached Muggsy Wagram and whispered in his minion’s ear.
“I’m leaving this to you, Muggsy,” said Marty. “There’s no time for me to fool with this guy. I’m heading for the Black Ship, to pick up the crew. Give me time to get started. Then plug him.
“Nobody’s going to know this was my hideout. Nobody’s going to hear your rod. Leave the guy here. Let the bulls find him — next week, maybe. It’s getting close to ten o’clock—”
Muggsy nodded. Steadily, he kept his gun on Cliff. Marty Lunk directed a vicious glance toward the man in the corner; then, picking up a rough package that lay by the wall, the mobleader made his exit.
Cliff had not heard Marty’s words. He knew well, however, what the mob leader had ordered. It would be a question of minutes, only, before Muggsy loosed hot lead from the looming gat.
Stolidly, Cliff calculated. Not more than a dozen minutes had passed since word had come from Burbank to stand by. The Shadow was on his way; but from where?
Cliff figured half an hour at the most. He also gave Muggsy ten minutes to allow Marty to reach the Black Ship. Twelve plus ten — twenty-two.
Eyeing Muggsy’s revolver, Cliff made new calculations. Give The Shadow twenty minutes. That would mean salvation. But would Muggsy wait the full ten? Already, the underling was showing signs of impatience. An idea occurred to Cliff.
“Well?” growled The Shadow’s agent. “Why don’t you plug me? What’s the stall? I’m ready.”
“Yeah?” Muggsy laughed. “Well, since you want it, you can wait. I’m givin’ you five minutes, if you want to know. That’s to please Marty. I wouldn’t waste no time of my own.”
Five minutes! Cliff steadied.
Twelve to begin with — three since Marty had left — five more to come — twenty in all.
Still watching the revolver, Cliff tried to time the seconds. Somehow, he had confidence that The Shadow would arrive within the twenty minutes. Cliff had faced death before — The Shadow had rescued him from more than one crisis.
Had Cliff continued to retain his calm, all would have been well. Singularly, his calculations had been exact. From the Hotel Gardley to this house was a trip which The Shadow had scheduled for precisely nineteen minutes.
Muggsy, sneering at Cliff’s impatience, was determined to wait fully five minutes before delivering the death shot. All was working in Cliff’s favor. But the prolonged sight of that ready gun muzzle — threatening as a torture of the middle ages — was more than Cliff’s strained nerves could bear.
Three minutes — Cliff had counted them as near as possible — they were all that he could stand. Cliff seemed to feel himself detached from him own body. He could picture his bullet-riddled form dropping to the floor, lifeless
INSTINCT won from reason. Almost without his own volition, Cliff Marsland leaped forward from his corner, springing in grim desperation to lock with the man who held the gun!
Muggsy Wagram fired. Like Cliff, the gangster acted instinctively. He had been holding the gun pointed toward Cliff’s heart. He pressed the trigger automatically. But in that instant of delay, he did not change his aim.
The bullet clipped Cliff’s shoulder as The Shadow’s agent launched himself into a flying tackle. The shot did not stop the drive. Headforemost, Cliff battered squarely against Muggsy and sent the gangster sprawling on the floor. Rolling, Cliff clutched at Muggsy’s wrist.
One hand — his right — was all that Cliff could use. He caught Muggsy’s right wrist. He forced it upward, then rolled sidewise, in his effort to prevent another shot. Muggsy, twisting from the wall, drove a southpaw punch to Cliff’s chin. The wounded man dropped helpless.
Muggsy arose. Panting with fury, he surveyed the prone form before him. He had fired one shot — now for another — then a getaway. Muggsy raised his gun. A sudden thought made him stare toward the door.
There stood a form in black. Hastening from below, The Shadow had arrived. Like a vengeful specter, he had come to find his trusted agent, Cliff Marsland, felled by a bullet from the gun of a would-be murderer.
GANGSTERS had quailed before The Shadow. Not so Muggsy Wagram. His mind was surging with the heat of murder. Burning in his fury, he snapped his hand straight toward The Shadow and pressed his finger to the trigger of his gun.
An automatic boomed. Muggsy Wagram faltered. He swayed. He seemed to have lost all power of action. Then he tried to raise his wavering hand. It trembled. The gun was wobbling as Muggsy, with a defiant snarl, gained strength to pull the trigger.
The bullet burrowed through the floor. The Shadow’s laugh replaced the finished snarl. Muggsy Wagram crumpled; his gun clattered; his arms shot forward as he sprawled face downward upon Cliff Marsland’s motionless body.
The Shadow stepped into the dreary light. His form cast a grotesque blotch in the illumination of the gasoline lantern. Gloved hands seized Muggsy’s shoulders and flung the dead mobster from Cliff Marsland’s form. The Shadow examined Cliff’s wound. A soft laugh came from hidden lips.
Cliff, though a husky fellow, was no burden as The Shadow raised him from floor. Hoisted above a black shoulder, Cliff seemed to poise in mid air. His drooping form disappeared through the doorway.
WHEN consciousness returned to Cliff Marsland, The Shadow’s agent found himself propped against the cushions in a limousine. Padded bandages were swathed about his stinging shoulder. The car was moving along a darkened street.
Groggily, Cliff realized that he was not alone. Then came the pressure of an unseen hand. A vial touched Cliff’s lips. The wounded man sensed the taste of a pungent, biting liquid. He swallowed.
The elixir brought new vim; but with it, a dizziness. Vaguely, Cliff repeated the first thoughts that came to his brain:
“Marty — Marty Lunk. Going — out of town. Must stop — somewhere — somewhere before ten o’clock—”
A whisper hissed for silence. The Shadow understood. Cliff’s strength was needed for later speech. The Shadow’s words came to his agent’s ears.
“We are stopping,” was the whisper. “Enter the house. Speak to Doctor Rupert Sayre. Tell him Lamont Cranston sent you.”
Cliff nodded as the car rolled to the curb. He heard a voice — it seemed very far away — speaking in quiet tones through the speaking tube that led to the front seat.