But in the swift deeds that had saved Morton from certain death, The Shadow had revealed his own position. An alert gangster, seeing a flash from a corner near the window, called out the news to his fellows.
“Watch him — watch him — over past the window! Don’t let him get away!”
Men were moving through the gloom. A crafty shift of positions was taking place. Not one of the gunmen dared to fire; for to do so would make him The Shadow’s target. At the same time, all guns were in readiness. Another shot from The Shadow was all that they required!
Sullen whispers sounded as the gangsters edged their way toward the outer door, keeping from the range of light. There lay the vantage point from which they could loose a mass attack. They had trapped The Shadow — to kill him was their sole objective.
A sinister laugh sounded in the gloom. The laugh of The Shadow — gloating — mocking! Those strange, jeering tones brought fear and indecision to the stealthy gangsters. They could not locate the direction of the sound.
The meaning of the sardonic mirth was unknown. Why had The Shadow laughed?
Little did these sneaking mobsmen realize that they were playing into the hands of The Shadow! Each with the same objective — all were traveling to the one spot of retreat, that outer door.
Muffled snarls emerged from evil lips. Still retreating, these fiends felt themselves under the spell of the avenger who had outwitted them. Trappers, they were trapped. Despite their ignorance of The Shadow’s plan, they hesitated as they neared the fatal door.
Again, a change of events brought a new and startling situation. Minutes had passed since The Shadow had arrived; now came the climax for which he had been holding his enemies in abeyance. The sound of voices came from the corridor. The police had arrived!
THE hapless gangsters were driven to action. One cried a warning; another, who had reached the wall, snapped the light switch. The sudden flood of illumination revealed half a dozen gangsters facing toward that corner where they believed The Shadow stood. Revolvers blazed as the lights came on.
The shots were useless. Amid the darkness The Shadow had noiselessly left that fatal spot. The first response of an automatic showed his new position. He had reached the door that led to the inner room. Stepping from behind its protection, The Shadow formed an unexpected apparition.
Above the bursting flashes of his pistols appeared the gleam of his cold, unyielding eyes. From his unexpected vantage point, the figure in black could have slaughtered the six gunmen who were before him. Yet he restrained his fire, coolly mocking the hopeless case of his defeated enemies.
One man sought to shoot The Shadow. The gangster staggered, clutching a limp and nerveless arm as The Shadow’s aim showed its unfailing accuracy. The others, fearing The Shadow more than a squad of men, broke for the door. They encountered uniformed invaders.
A swift fight followed. The police, warned by the sound of shots, were in readiness. The two forces locked at close range. The Shadow, now standing in the open doorway to the inner room, used his weapons to aid the law.
A brutal gangster was swinging his revolver toward a policeman who had seized another gunman. The Shadow clipped the would-be killer. Another gangster, stepping back to aim, went down from a second bullet that the black avenger fired.
Arms swung and revolvers flashed as the police threw back the remnants of the mob. Beside the open door, the black-clad figure waited, watching, as he saw the new attackers triumph over the brutal slayers.
Amid that excitement, only one man’s gaze was focused on The Shadow. Herbert Carpenter, flat upon the floor, had recovered from the blow which Gifford Morton had dealt him. Above him loomed the figure in black. He could see the shining eyes; he watched the steady, slowly moving muzzles of the automatics.
Then came a low, chilling laugh which brought a shudder to Herbert Carpenter. Those glaring eyes met his, and in the glittering optics, Carpenter saw triumph. He knew that he — like those overpowered gangsters — was fated to fall into the toils of the law, to meet a punishment which he deserved.
The door of the inner room closed. One of the surging policemen saw it. He dashed in that direction, motioning to the reserves.
“Some one went in there—”
The officers leaped to the door and yanked it open. To their ears came the last echoes of a strange, weird laugh. Only one man was in the room. That was Gifford Morton, sprawled upon the floor. The leading policeman dashed to the open window.
“He must have gone through here if he—”
The officer stared downward — a sheer drop of a hundred feet to a courtyard below. Amazed, he looked upward and spied a silhouetted form, clinging bat-like to the wall above.
“He’s gone up” — the policeman’s words formed a startled gasp, as he turned back into the room — “up the wall — hanging to the cornice—”
“Get him!” came the cry.
The policeman leaned from the window. He fired upward just as the clinging form disappeared into a window above. A taunting laugh followed the futile shot.
THE captured gangsters were unresisting. All the prisoners were wounded; a few were dying; others — uncaptured — were dead. A dozen policemen, not needed here, dashed through the corridors and up the stairs, to cut off the retreat of the figure which had departed by the window. They did not know the heroic part that he had played tonight. They had mistaken The Shadow for an enemy.
The frantic search covered all the upper stories of the hotel. The police found no one. Guests were questioned; rooms were searched. There was no sign of an unknown person clad in black.
Two officers entered a room on the fourteenth floor. They found a rather surprised guest rising from a chair, laying aside a book as he stared in puzzlement at the sudden invasion.
This gentleman, quiet in demeanor, identified himself as Lamont Cranston, of New York. He told the policemen that he had seen no one enter the room. He helped them make a search. When he learned that they were seeking some one who had worn what appeared to be a black cloak, he politely insisted that his room be searched for such a garment. He even opened his large trunk, and revealed all its contents.
“Thanks, Mr. Cranston,” said one of the policemen. “Most of the people were angry because we disturbed them. You’re different. You seem to understand. There’s been murder below, and it’s our duty to look everywhere.”
When the officers were gone, Lamont Cranston stood in the center of the room, gazing at the door which had closed behind them. A thin smile wavered upon his firm, inscrutable lips. From those same lips came the low echo of a sinister laugh.
It was the laugh of one whose true identity was unknown; the laugh of a mysterious personage who fought for justice, but who used his own effective methods; the laugh of one who had gained the victory, but had left the glory for others.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XI
THE PRICE OF CRIME
CRIME was broken in Seaview City. In one eventful, action-packed night, the forces of the underworld had overshot their bolt. For some mysterious, unknown reason, the plots of evildoers had been thwarted.
The gun play at the Club Catalina had ended in a raid of Big Tom Bagshawe’s gambling joint. Police Chief Yates, summoned from a distant part of the city, had ordered a complete clean-out.
So far as Big Tom was concerned, the loss was a financial one alone. He disclaimed all connection with the men who had engaged in the gun battle. He admitted ownership of the wheels and other machines of chance, but said they had not been in operation when the raid was made. His game was killed — that was enough.