Parker, the detective, followed with the surge. Playing a double game, he could well afford to join with the attackers. The whole onslaught had the appearance of a justifiable raid.
The gangsters reached the head of the stairs, hoping to find their intended victim dead from shots directed through the door.
It had all been a matter of seconds. The door broke as powerful bodies were flung against it. For an instant, the attackers saw their enemy. Lamont Cranston was across the anteroom, standing by the other door.
Coolly, he fired at the men who were surging inward. His well-directed shots stopped those who were about to fire.
Then, seeing that the way was hopeless, the hawk-faced master took good advantage of a lull in the midst of the fray. He dropped his automatics in his coat pockets. His left hand turned the knob of the inner door.
One gangster, buried beneath two who had fallen, saw this action. He raised his hand to fire. But Cranston beat him to the shot. The right hand which had dropped the useless automatic drew forth Big Tom Bagshawe’s revolver. The finger pressed the trigger as the gun shone. The aiming gangster groaned.
The door closed behind Lamont Cranston as he entered the gambling rooms. There, alert as before, the millionaire faced a throng of grim-faced attendants. They had drawn up to await the arrival of the attackers. The sound of gunfire had convinced them that Cranston must be dead.
Now, his appearance among them brought consternation. Armed though they were, these men were caught unawares. Two started to fire, and Cranston stopped them short with well-directed bullets. The others scattered for cover.
One gun hand appeared from the doorway of an adjoining room. Cranston placed a deliberate shot that shattered the visible wrist. Another of his bullets clipped a man who was trying to snipe him from behind a table. The frightened attendants fled to the farthest room. After them came a final shot; then the weird sound of a triumphant laugh. That mockery, uttered by firm lips, was the token of The Shadow!
The door was breaking from an onslaught in the anteroom. This inner barrier was stouter than the first. It had locked automatically when Cranston had closed it; now it was yielding. With a quick action, Cranston pressed the light switches and plunged the rooms into darkness.
In that gloom, he moved with the swift stealth of The Shadow. The dim shafts of light that trickled from the breaking door did not reveal the tall figure that stood before the door of Big Tom Bagshawe’s office.
The door opened. Out of the dark stepped the form of Lamont Cranston, to encounter the huge bulk of Big Tom. The gambler was waiting. He had seen the turning of the knob. Now, with a roaring shout, he flung himself upon his enemy.
He was a perfect target for Cranston’s revolver, but no shot was fired. The gun was empty. Big Tom cried in triumph as he saw the weapon drop to the floor. He lunged forward, and his face became distorted as he felt himself caught in a powerful, twisting grasp.
Upward went the heavy body of Big Tom, lifted by the strength of a superman. The huge gambler pitched forward, hands outstretched. His body somersaulted, and he struck upon his back, knocked senseless by the force of the blow.
The attacking gangsters were crashing through. The lights came on, and armed men scattered though the rooms, seeking traces of their prey. Barred windows and stupefied attendants were all they saw, until they discovered the prostrate form of Big Tom Bagshawe. Beyond the gambling king was the closed office door.
“Smash it!”
The weighted base of a heavy metal ash stand crashed a jagged hole in the office door. Again its wielder drove it with the terrific stroke of a battle-ax.
A hand caught the inner latch and opened the door. Men with revolvers piled into the small room.
The office was empty. Not a sign of a living being could be seen. Gangsters raced from the little room, and scattered everywhere in a wild, mad search. Back to the stairs — around through the rooms — rushing everywhere, they made their hunt.
Amid this confusion came the strident sound of a police siren. Men of the law had been summoned to this place. Puzzled mobsmen, enmeshed in their own trap, faced each other in consternation.
A score in number, these underlings of Big Tom Bagshawe had sought to slay one lone opponent. He had not only thwarted them, he had left them amazed.
Lamont Cranston — otherwise The Shadow — had completely disappeared!
CHAPTER VIII
CARPENTER TALKS TERMS
FAR from the chaos of the Club Catalina, two men were seated in the living room of a suite in the Hotel Pavilion. Herbert Carpenter and Gifford Morton had not tarried long in the crowded night club. They had left there before the shooting had begun.
On the side of the hotel most distant from the club, these men did not hear the outburst of remote gunshots. They were quietly engaged in conversation, while they sipped mixed drinks from tall glasses.
“An excellent evening, Herbert,” observed Morton.
“Ten thousand dollars is a tidy sum. You were lucky, too, were you not?”
“About fifteen hundred to the good,” returned Carpenter, as he idly lighted a cigarette. “Yes, I agree with you — ten thousand dollars is a good sum of money.”
Gifford Morton shot a quizzical stare at his companion. He changed his expression as Carpenter looked in his direction.
“By the way, Herbert,” said Morton, in an offhand manner, “it was your suggestion that we come here. I prepared for your visit by having the refreshments sent up in advance. Now that we are away from the crowd, I suppose that you have something that you would like to discuss with me?”
“I have,” responded Carpenter.
“Does it involve money?” asked Morton suddenly.
“It does,” said Carpenter coolly.
Morton studied his companion in a speculative manner. He watched Carpenter blow languid puffs of smoke. He waited to hear the news.
“Ten thousand dollars,” remarked Carpenter. “That’s a tidy sum, Gifford. You have been fortunate. However, I go in for larger amounts — away from the roulette table. My game, tonight, is one hundred thousand.”
“One hundred thousand dollars? Where do you expect to get it?”
“From you.”
The friendly look disappeared from Gifford Morton’s countenance. Anger reflected itself. Carpenter saw the change, and smiled in a manner that indicated self-assurance.
“From me, eh?” Morton’s tone was challenging. “You want one hundred thousand dollars? How are you going to get it?”
“You are going to give it to me,” responded Carpenter. “Willingly and with very little fuss. I like people to pay nicely. That applies to you, tonight.”
Gifford Morton was on his feet, fuming. He pointed toward the door, and launched a deluge of furious words at his guest.
“Get out of here, you rat!” he cried. “I don’t know what your game is, and I don’t want to know. Get out!”
“Gladly,” returned Carpenter, rising.
He stood in the center of the room, a smile upon his face. Then he walked quietly toward the door, and stopped with one hand upon the knob.
“You want me to leave?” he quizzed calmly. “Shall I go — before we talk?”
Something in the man’s suave expression made Gifford Morton hesitate. He sensed that Carpenter was playing a game that might have serious consequences. He realized that it would be wise to hear the man out.
“Sit down,” he said gruffly. “Maybe this is a joke. Let’s hear the rest of it.”
“The rest of it,” declared Carpenter, “will cost you ten thousand in addition — the amount of your winnings tonight. That is a penalty — for referring to me as a rat.”