Slaughter was not his forte. He was a crime master of a different type. He seemed to realize that he was responsible for the massacre, inasmuch as these fiends had come to his aid.
Triumph gleamed upon every face among that crew of evil raiders. These mobsmen knew the lust for blood. They liked to see men die. They showed a sordid satisfaction over their heinous work.
Now, with one accord, they looked to Herbert Carpenter for further orders.
STUNNED by the quickness of the attack, the blackmail king was unable to make a move. He knew that killers had been loosed to wreak frightful vengeance. He had caused deaths indirectly in the past; but never before had he loosed thunderbolts like these.
Dimly, the blackmailer realized that police were on their way. Action must be prompt. Should he order Borglund’s gorillas to flee and take to flight with them? Or were these living men — Morton and Gorman — a menace that should not remain?
Carpenter’s decision turned to money. He had come here to demand Gifford Morton’s wealth. Now was his chance to get it! He was about to order the gangsters to desist, and merely hold their helpless prey, when an unexpected incident turned the whole situation.
Gorman, wild with fright, leaped suddenly to his feet and tried to run toward the inner room. Three revolvers harked. One — a split second ahead of the others — clipped the fleeing secretary. He sprawled headlong across the body of a dead detective, his uncontrollable fall carrying him clear of the other shots.
A raucous laugh came from the gangster who had fired the first bullet. The man followed the laugh with an order — his privilege, evidently, since he had acted in Carpenter’s place.
“Come on,” he snarled. “Plug Four Eyes” — he indicated the bespectacled secretary — “until he’s full of lead. Bump off Old Beefy in the corner. Clean out the place and scram!”
“Hold it!” interrupted Carpenter, striding toward the corner. “I’m running things here!”
He turned to Gifford Morton, who had risen to his feet and was standing, defiant, in the corner.
“We’re letting you off, Morton,” said Carpenter. “Keep mum — you understand? Come across — hand over the cash! That will make it quits!”
The gangsters stood in sullen waiting while Carpenter was speaking. Their evil expressions were not lost upon Gifford Morton.
The multimillionaire was a fighter. With his back to the wall, Morton could see only the same fate that had befallen others. He made no reply, and Carpenter calmly reached into his pockets and extracted the money that he wanted.
“Keep him covered,” ordered the blackmailer, suddenly regaining his confidence. “I’ll go in the other room and make a quick clean-out. Then we can scatter.”
As Carpenter turned away, a sudden fury came over Morton. A bottle was resting on the table beside him. With a quick move, he seized it and swung a vicious blow. Herbert Carpenter went down like a log as the bottle struck the side of his head.
Morton dropped the bottle and stood panting, looking toward the man who had fallen. Even the gangsters were taken aback by the unexpected attack. Then the man who had shot Gorman spoke again.
“Lay off, gang!” he ordered in a harsh voice. “I’ve got him. Fill him with lead after I plug him. Then we’ll scram before the bulls get here. Speed it up — we’ve got to drag that cold guy with us—”
The gangster leveled his gun. The others watched while Morton stood with the resignation of a prisoner facing a firing squad. One gangster, alone, was outside the door of the room, guarding the corridor. His gaze turned to view the killing.
The guardian slumped to the floor of the hall as a heavy automatic struck the back of his head. No one saw the blow. All were watching the man who was preparing to murder Gifford Morton in cold blood.
“One squawker is one more than we want” — the gangster’s words were directed to Morton. “That’s why we’re bumping you off, Fatty. Here’s where you get yours.”
The killer’s finger was on the trigger. It never fired the fatal shot. An automatic cracked from the doorway. The would-be assassin staggered. His revolver fell from his loosened grasp as he hit the floor.
WITH one accord, seven thugs turned snarling, toward the door. Wild consternation flickered over hardened faces.
There, framed in the doorway, stood a figure that denoted doom and vengeance. A tall, sinister being, clad totally in black, was the form that the ruffians saw.
“The Shadow!”
These words of recognition came from terror-stricken lips.
Well did these mobsters know the power of The Shadow — that mighty being who was the scourge of the underworld. They had now seen his prowess. Arrived in their midst like a phantom from the dark, he had struck down the guard and disarmed a vicious slayer almost before their wondering eyes!
Successful against two persons, these mobsters now had but one with whom to deal. But the odds were useless. The Shadow, by his surprise attack, was using the gangsters’ own methods against them.
Before a man could move to stop him, the black-garbed avenger was in the room. His eyes flashed from beneath his hat brim. Then his figure was blotted into nothingness as his black-gloved hand pressed the light switch.
There was a dim glow from the corridor; there was a broad shaft of light from the inner room. But neither of these showed The Shadow.
With wild, excited cries, the gangsters sprang into action, shooting at the spot where they had seen The Shadow press the light.
The swift-moving phantom was too rapid for them. His answering shots came from a spot near the corner of the room. With uncanny precision, The Shadow picked out the places where guns had flashed.
A gangster fired; a moment later he screamed as a bullet from the dark felled him. Cursing men dropped with oaths half formed upon their lips. The Shadow was weaving his way across the room. Bullets meant for him found spots where he had been, but was no more.
At last came silence. Realizing that their companions had fallen, the remaining gangsters, with one accord, adopted a waiting plan. Crouched in the dark, they made no move, hoping only to spot the flash of the enemy’s gun.
Had The Shadow suddenly relighted that gloomy room, he might have conquered his scattered foemen with a forceful attack. But The Shadow was playing a craftier game. He knew that minutes were precious to these huddled mobsmen.
Sooner or later, they must make a dash for safety, when police arrived. Then they would betray themselves to the avenger, who would show no mercy for such fiends as these.
The tension showed that the gangsters knew the situation. Yet they feared to move. Each second was bringing them closer to the fate which they deserved.
Only one man in that room of death failed to understand the silence. That was Gifford Morton.
AS long seconds crept by, enlivened only by the plaintive moans of wounded fighters, the multimillionaire decided that all his enemies must have been completely subdued. This, he fancied, was his opportunity for escape.
Rising stealthily from the corner where he had dropped to safety, the unscathed plutocrat crept toward the door of the inner room. The first sign of his action came when he entered the shaft of light.
A gun barked as Morton scrambled into view. The multimillionaire staggered forward, clutching his shoulder. Another shot resounded, and a mobster’s bullet whistled by the falling fugitive.
The maddened gangsters could not see this man escape. Their urge to slay was their betrayal.
Two shots roared as The Shadow spotted the men who had fired. Aiming for the flashes of flame, The Shadow’s marksmanship was true. The offending gunmen fired no more. Gifford Morton plunged through the door to safety.