Only a few scattered shots followed Lingo as the big shot fled headlong for a side street near the heart of Chinatown.
A battle was on; and as mobleaders spattered the shop front with their bullets, new forces came dashing into the fray. Police revolvers barked from near-by streets. Joe Cardona had responded to a new tip-off.
He and his men were carving in to shatter mobland’s outburst.
The attack on the Silver Dragon faded. Koy Dow and his Chinamen were in charge, with none but dead enemies within their portals. Outside, rats were scurrying to the shelter of bad land dives. The police, coming with concentrated force, were driving them in all directions save one.
None of the fleeing mobsters had chosen to take the direction that Lingo Queed had followed. One fugitive might risk the lights of Chinatown; but not a score, with the police in pursuit. The law had scored a victory; and with it the rule of Lingo Queed had automatically ended.
Lingo Queed was king no more; and in his abdication, The Shadow had profited. Lingo, in that final fray, had eliminated Buzz Dongarth; the one man who might have carried prompt warning back to Rook Hollister who still held Clyde Burke captive.
That was the one stroke which The Shadow needed. But the master fighter had known that he could not again show his black-cloaked figure within the mob surrounded shop of Koy Dow.
Buzz Dongarth, through circumstance, had been saved from death at the point of an automatic wielded by The Shadow; but the work that might well have been done by a .45 had been accomplished by a bullet from a .38.
While mobland’s seething hordes fled for cover, too scattered even to take up the trail of Lingo Queed, The Shadow was on his way from Chinatown. He had left massed battle to the law. He, himself, was bound upon a more urgent mission.
CHAPTER XXII. THE SWIFT BLOCKADE
WHILE battle surged about the borders of Chinatown, all lay quiet further north, along the avenue where the Hotel Moselle was located. Police had ripped loose into the hordes of the underworld, but their sharp attack had confined the warring forces to the underworld itself.
The conflict was like a maelstrom, drawing all factions into its vortex. Hence, other portions of Manhattan were oddly free from characters who looked like desperadoes. Not until later would absent denizens of scumland learn of the great struggle that had marked the overthrow of Lingo Queed.
Harry Vincent stepped from a taxicab outside the Hotel Moselle. As he crossed the pavement, two other men sauntered up to join him. One was Cliff Marsland, firm-faced and of good appearance. The other was Hawkeye, less stooped of shoulders and lacking of furtive air.
The trio formed a reputable group as they entered the Moselle lobby. To all appearances, they were chance guests paying a visit to the Roof Cafe. They joined a throng of entering customers and formed a cluster as they boarded a crowded elevator.
The Shadow had ordered his agents to converge at the Roof Cafe. One obstacle alone existed: Harry Vincent must manage to pass Prexy Storlick without being recognized. That, however, was a simple matter during this hour when throngs were present.
When the elevator reached the twentieth floor, Harry strolled off in the direction of a smoking room. Cliff and Hawkeye were the ones who took the corridor to the roof. They found a vacant table in an obscure spot of the open-air garden. It was on the side of the roof away from the Hotel Framton; and one of the two chairs was well behind a potted cedar.
Cliff took the outer chair, while Hawkeye remained standing. Looking about, they spied Prexy coming from the corridor, conducting a large party to a reserved table. Cliff nudged Hawkeye; the spotter hastened back to get Harry.
While Prexy was still seating the guests, Harry arrived on the roof and sidled into the obscure seat opposite Cliff Marsland. Hawkeye, reappearing, did not take a table at all. Instead, he found a folding chair and placed it in an inconspicuous spot just outside the corridor. Lighting a cigarette, the little man sat down. To all appearances, he was waiting for a friend’s arrival.
The roof was noisy. Waiters were swinging back and forth with loaded chairs. Prexy had business inside; for there were inner dining rooms and bars that also demanded his attention. Hence, Hawkeye was unnoticed in the shuffle, while Harry and Cliff, giving no signals to waiters, remained unapproached.
Harry was totally obscured by the little cedar tree. He was relying upon Cliff to tell him what went on.
Their conversation was conducted in low tones that could not be heard at near-by tables.
“HAWKEYE’S sitting pretty,” remarked Cliff. “Right where he can spot that telephone at the middle of the corridor. He ought to be able to see the door to the stairway too.”
“Good,” rejoined Harry. “That’s the connection point, Cliff. There’s no phone in the apartment up above. Either Prexy will get some word and go up; or Bart Koplin will come down here—”
Cliff raised a warning hand. A cue from Hawkeye. Harry watched Cliff intently for further news.
“Somebody’s come down,” stated Cliff. “Yes, there’s Hawkeye tipping me. A big fellow with saggy jaws. Going over to the south side of the roof.”
“Bart,” informed Harry. “Watch him, Cliff. What is he doing?”
“Picking an empty table,” resumed Cliff. “Looking up, over toward the Hotel Framton.”
“Any lights two stories up?” That’s where Buzz would be. “In the corner room at the front.”
“No lights in any of the corner rooms.”
“Good! Buzz isn’t back.”
Minutes passed while Cliff watched Bart. While they waited. Harry added remarks.
“Burbank called Jericho,” said Harry. “That is, he probably has by this time. Telling him to get out of Lingo’s place. Moe has gone to pick up Jericho.”
“Good,” commented Cliff, scarcely moving his lips. “Lingo’s due to be rubbed out tonight, if they get a chance at him. His only bet was to trap The Shadow — and he’s failed.” A pause. More minutes passed. Then Cliff whispered:
“Bart’s getting up. Looks sort of sore; impatient. He’s going back up to the hideout. Guess he’s wondering what’s keeping Buzz.”
CLIFF was not the only observer who had seen Bart Koplin arise to make his return upstairs. Another witness had arrived at a vantage spot from which he could spy the private dick’s actions. This new observer, however, was not in the Roof Cafe. In fact, he was not even on the premises of the Hotel Moselle.
Across the street, the roofed recesses of the Hotel Framton formed shaded segments shrouded from the city’s glow. Like mammoth steps, these unnoticed portions of the huge hotel were perfect lurking spots for any who might use them.
At the east end of the Hotel Framton, such a step ran from north to south along the twentieth floor — on an exact level with the Roof Cafe of the Hotel Moselle. It was there that a figure had arrived; a blended shape that the sharpest eyes would fail to detect.
The Shadow had reached a chosen goal. While his agents had been meeting; while they had been posting themselves and waiting, the cloaked warrior had come posthaste from the vicinity of Chinatown.
He had left the tumult that raged amid the barks of guns. Speeding up-town in a hired taxi, he entered the Hotel Framton in ordinary attire. Riding to the twentieth floor, he had unwrapped cloak and hat, together with the contents of a package that he had picked up during a short stop at the sanctum.
A corridor window had given him access to his present post. Looking at an angle, The Shadow had seen Bart Koplin leaving the parapet of the Roof Cafe. A soft laugh whispered in the darkness. The Shadow was not surprised that Bart had received no wigwag from Buzz Dongarth.