Blindly, the wounded thug crashed the iron rail above the courtyard. Loose posts broke from supports of crumpling bricks. With a wail, the crook pitched outward, downward to the flagstones beneath. His writhing body rolled over; then lay still.
The Shadow had leaped out into the hall. With one gun, he knocked a light switch upward. Darkness blotted the passage, save for the space where a patch of glow came from Andrew Blouchet’s apartment.
Crooks, darting in from the steps, saw a white mass that sped sidewise, upward, like a fake ghost from a spirit medium’s trick cabinet.
They aimed for the whitened shape. Their bullets found nothing but the cloth of an artist’s smock, that plopped to the floor and flattened. The Shadow was through with the role of Duvale. He had pulled away the smock and flung it to one side. His black cloak was beneath. His right hand, with its nearly emptied gun, had carried folds upward, to hide his pallid make-up. Only his eyes were uncovered, while his left hand, just beneath them, loosed new shots from its deadly automatic.
Tricked crooks dived back to the steps. One thug, staggering, almost stumbled through the space in the rail. Then, by luck, he found the steps, lost his footing and went tumbling downward after those who had fled. The Shadow’s last shots echoed from the hallway. Swinging about, he made for the darkened apartment that he had occupied as Duvale.
Snatching up a slouch hat from beside the easel, The Shadow sprang through to a bedroom window and opened it. Peering out, he saw that the last reserves had surged through to the courtyard. The Shadow swung from the window. Hanging by one arm, he dropped to a muddy passage at the side of the building.
UPSTAIRS, in Andrew Blouchet’s apartment, a reeling man was snarling as he staggered toward the door. It was Needler Urbin, his gun gone from his hand, both fists now doubled to his chest. Out through the hall he staggered, while Harry Vincent and Andrew Blouchet, guns in their grasp, stared with amazement.
“Come!”
Harry gave the order to Andrew. Together, they followed to see Needler reach the balcony. Instinctively, the wounded crook took to the steps. They heard him sprawl and clatter to the bottom. Harry realized that The Shadow had departed; leaving a task to him and Andrew. Harry drew Andrew forward.
Below, Needler had sprawled into the arms of huddled henchmen. Harry, peering from the door, could hear the leader’s harsh gasp. Vicious to the end, Needler was trying to force a further fray on the part of these henchmen who did not know that The Shadow was their adversary.
“Blouchet — upstairs” — Needler’s gasp was faltering — “he’s got no swag — he’s not the guy! Rub him out, though — rub him out — then get back — get back to the hide-out. Wait to hear from — from a guy who will call up and—”
A venomous gargle came from Needler’s throat. The leader of the evil squad was dead.
With oaths, his followers turned toward the steps, ready for a mass attack. Harry Vincent opened quick fire. Crooks dropped back momentarily. Then, from the archway through which thugs had entered came new bursts of gunfire. The Shadow, with reloaded automatics, had blocked the path. The crooks were within a snare.
Andrew was beside Harry, both leaning outward, ready to stop an invasion of the stairs. Their shots told crooks that an upward drive would be futile. The Shadow’s barrage left no chance for exit. Wildly, the thugs scattered all about the courtyard. One smashed the window of an old storeroom and shouted for the others to seek the same shelter.
The Shadow’s shots had ended. Another thug cried out that the way was clear. While Harry and Andrew held their fire, the remnants of Needler’s crew dashed through the archway. Shrill whistles blared as they arrived. Flashlights focused gleams upon the entrance. Stub-nosed revolvers spat from two directions.
The police had arrived. The Shadow had left the round-up to the law.
Yet he had not departed. He had gained a tiny passage between buildings across the street — one of the spots where Needler’s covering crew had lurked. His automatics blazed a final hail of lead. Dropping their guns, crooks fled back into the courtyard, while police came dashing in to bag them.
The rogue who had found the storeroom was the only one that the bluecoats did not capture. He had dived into his hiding place. He had found a back window. Slipping out to the safety of a rear street, that one lone thug gained his escape. He was overlooked in the rush.
A hail from the balcony greeted the four policemen who were clicking handcuffs to the wrists of unwounded thugs. Andrew Blouchet was welcoming the law. Beside him stood Harry Vincent, smiling his confidence of the future.
For Harry knew that Andrew had accepted him as a friend. Together they had fought; and Andrew would give The Shadow’s agent credit, along with his tale of the mysterious Monsieur Duvale. It would be Harry’s part to support his new friend’s testimony.
There would be no link to The Shadow. Andrew thought of him as Duvale. Crooks who might have gasped the dread name were dead. Those captured below did not know with whom they had fought.
The Shadow, having dealt with crooks in their own snare, had departed into the night.
Cloaked in black, the master fighter was gone; and even his identity remained enshrouded.
CHAPTER X. THE NEXT MORNING
IT was long after daylight when Harry Vincent awoke to puzzle momentarily about his surroundings. He smiled as he realized that he was in the rear bedroom of Andrew Blouchet’s apartment. Looking out into the battered courtyard, Harry saw a pacing policeman. He remembered that another officer had gone on duty out front.
Some one was rapping at the main door of the apartment. Harry donned slippers and dressing gown that Andrew Blouchet had provided for him. He started out to answer the knock. On the way, he encountered Andrew, coming from the front bedroom. Harry let Andrew admit the visitors.
A tall, square-shouldered man of military bearing stepped into the room. He nodded to Andrew and shook hands. Andrew introduced him to Harry. The newcomer was Lieutenant Wayson of the New Orleans police force. Under his arm he was carrying two morning newspapers.
“Seen these?” questioned Wayson.
Headshakes from Andrew and Harry. Wayson handed them the newspapers. Avidly, they began to read the front page reports, of the battle that had taken place last night.
“The chief of detectives asked me to drop in,” remarked Wayson to Andrew. “I told him that you were a friend of mine. He showed me the statements that you and Vincent had made. He thought that maybe if we chatted a bit, some new clues would turn up.”
“I doubt it,” returned Andrew. “I gave a pretty complete statement last night. So did Vincent.”
“I know,” nodded Wayson. “The chief was pleased. Said it was lucky that two of you were here. Told me that Vincent was an old friend of yours.”
“We’re not exactly old friends,” put in Harry. He was remembering a statement that Andrew had neatly inserted when talking to detectives after the fray. “We met a couple of years ago, when Andy was in New York. Of course, we corresponded occasionally.”
“And I told Harry to make a trip to New Orleans,” added Andrew. “He arrived a couple of days ago and was dumb enough to go to the Hotel Bontezan, instead of coming here. Well, Harry, this is where you’re going to stay for the rest of your visit.”
Harry nodded his agreement. Wayson’s attitude showed that the story had been accepted without question. One reason for that was the fact that the police were concerned with the mystery of another participant in last night’s episode.