Then came the bad break. A waiter, jogging along with a tray above his head, came blundering squarely into Hawkeye’s path. Hawkeye’s head bulleted the menial’s shoulder. Both went sprawling into the passage. Loaded dishes and filled glasses crashed in deluge.
As Harry and Cliff came bounding through the corridor, two husky waiters dashed up from the opposite direction. They saw Hawkeye and the first waiter rolling on the floor. They heard Rook Hollister’s cry; they saw their boss point toward the corridor.
“Stop them!” roared Prexy. “Those two — coming in from the roof!”
PREXY had recognized Harry. It would have been too late for the proprietor if the waiters had not been dashing in. The Shadow’s agents had already gained the passage. Prexy could not have made the stairs.
But the husky menials caught Prexy’s order in time. As Harry and Cliff surged by, the two men dived for The Shadow’s agents and began to grapple. Fists swung as both Harry and Cliff drove back their opponents. Then came a surge of reserves.
Big bouncers from the roof had followed the dashing agents. As Harry and Cliff downed the waiters, these new huskies piled upon them. Only Hawkeye was clear. He came to his feet, took a punch at the fallen waiter who was rising to stop him, and made a frantic dive for Prexy.
On the stairway, Prexy grabbed the door frame and shot a long leg outward. His height, his higher position, gave him the break. Prexy’s kicking foot reached Hawkeye’s chest. The drive sent the little man spilling back against the wall on the other side of the passage.
Cliff Marsland was a battler. Harry Vincent was inspired by wild hope of rescuing Clyde Burke. Both agents were swinging fists that struck like bludgeons. They were clipping the chins of Prexy’s huskies, sprawling waiters on the floor as fast as they arrived.
Driving back these cohorts, Harry and Cliff were leaving Prexy to Hawkeye. But before the little agent could recover from his second spill; before he could yank a gun in a wild attempt to stop the proprietor’s flight, Prexy dashed up the stairs, slamming the door behind him.
The barrier had latched automatically. Hawkeye clawed at it in vain. Harry and Cliff came staggering back, temporarily outnumbered. Pursuit of Prexy was hopeless; Hawkeye surged into the brawl.
Rallying, The Shadow’s agents drove half a dozen waiters out into the corridor.
More of the white-coated huskies were piling in; but the unequal fight was soon to end. Patrons of the Roof Cafe were all for the three guests who had apparently done nothing to warrant the attack of so many waiters.
Men in tuxedos sprang forward to ward off the hired help. Bartenders dropped bottles and dashed in to aid the waiters. Glasses were hurled; tables overturned. More guests saw red; while elevator men, bell hops and house detectives joined ranks with waiters and barkeeps.
Corridor, lobby and roof became one seething battleground, where fists and furnishings were the only weapons. In the fray, The Shadow’s agents were swept away from the passage that they sought. That vital point lay clear of fighters. Shattered plates and glasses alone marked the fact that the fray had begun in this path to the entrance of the service elevator.
UP in the big living room of the penthouse hideout, Rook Hollister and Bart Koplin had caught muffled sounds that told the outbreak of the fray. Hearing pounding steps upon the stairs, Bart leaped to the door and opened it.
Prexy arrived, excited.
“The jig’s up, Rook!” exclaimed the proprietor. “Just got a phone call, a tip to what’s happened! The Shadow slipped that trap they had for him! Took that stoolie of his with him!”
“What!” roared Rook. “You mean that guy that said his name was Loman? He got clear — with The Shadow?”
“Yes! What’s more, he’s here at the Roof Cafe. He and some other mugs started a brawl. Tried to stop me on my way up. You’ve got to scram, Rook!”
Prexy paused for breath. Then he spoke again.
“We’ve all got to travel,” he asserted. “The cops got a tip-off. They barged down into Chinatown, headed by Joe Cardona. Buzz Dongarth took the bump, along with Blitz Schumbert in the chink joint — and Lingo Queed took it on the lam.”
“What’s that got to do with here?” demanded Rook. “If Buzz is dead, all we’ve got to do is snatch those mugs downstairs.”
“Joe Cardona’s heading here, though,” insisted Prexy. “Some of his dicks nabbed Bugs Glook, that guy I had deliver the crate to the chink this afternoon. Bugs turned yellow and squealed. Cardona got word of it when he put in a call to headquarters from the Hotel Santiago, down near the Bowery.
“A friend of mine runs the place. He overheard Cardona’s call. Bugs must have mentioned the service elevator, even though he don’t know you sent the box. What’s more, there was something about a new tip-off for Cardona, at headquarters.”
Rook Hollister wheeled to Bart Koplin.
“Get Burke,” ordered the big shot. “We’ve got to get rid of him before we beat it.” Bart sprang to the door of an inner room. He came back, dragging Clyde, who looked weary. His hands were tied behind him. Rook produced a knife and cut the rope. He shoved Clyde into the arms of Bart and Prexy.
“That brawl’s working right for us,” snarled the big shot, with an evil grin. “Anything that looks funny will be laid to the fight, after the bulls got here. Bring Burke along” — Rook paused to stride to the bolted doors at the south end of the room — “and we’ll pitch him over the rail. It will look like he went over from the Roof Cafe, during the fight.”
As Clyde struggled against the rogues who shoved him forward, Rook uttered a fierce snort and pulled back the heavy bolt of the door. He swung one half of the barrier inward, to show the dull surface of the outer promenade.
“It’s curtains for you, Burke,” gloated the big shot. “One wise guy too many. Well, there’ll be one less when—”
Rook stopped abruptly. Bart and Prexy had released their victim. Trembling, the henchmen were raising hands above their shoulders as they stared toward the door. Rook saw terror in their bulging eyes. He wheeled, then became rigid also.
Weird against the glow reflected from the white walls of the hotel across the street stood a blackened shape that the big shot recognized. Mammoth automatics projected from gloved fists. Burning eyes surveyed the villains from beneath the brim of a slouch hat.
“The Shadow!” blurted Rook.
A HOARSE cry from Prexy. Insanely the cafe proprietor made a maddened leap upon the avenging figure. The Shadow swished sidewise; as Prexy’s hands clutched for his throat, he brought his left fist upward.
The rising muzzle of an automatic cupped Prexy’s jaw. The tall man slumped to the floor, his fingers slipping as they scratched the cloth of the black cloak.
The Shadow’s laugh came in a weird ripple. One foe had subsided; the muzzle of his automatics had kept where they belonged: one toward Rook; the other toward Bart.
In the side tilt of his head, The Shadow had almost lost his slouch hat. Instead of trying to regain it, he gave a shake that sent the head-piece dropping to the floor.
Clyde Burke gulped with astonishment as he saw the features that were revealed by the light. So did Bart Koplin.
Neither the agent nor the crooked private dick had expected to see a face that looked like this one. The Shadow’s countenance — even though it must be a made-up one — was an odd choice for disguise. An ugly visage, with overlarge nose flattened like a mushroom. Sour lips above an out-thrust lower jaw.
“Lingo Queed!”
Rook Hollister gasped the name. He had met Lingo in the past. As Clyde Burke heard Rook’s cry of astonishment — a weird truth dawned upon him. A truth that confounded Rook and Bart as well.
The secret of The Shadow’s amazing campaign was revealed. How big shot after big shot had vainly endeavored to build up the empire which Rook Hollister had tried to rule.