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“I get it, Randon. So you’re the guy I want. You’ve got the dough, not Blouchet. Or maybe it is Blouchet, and you’re just in with him—”

“Maybe it’s someone else,” smirked Randon. “Come, come Stortzel. You are making a great fool of yourself!”

“YEAH?”

Ring Stortzel’s eyes narrowed viciously as he inched closer toward Carl Randon. The big-shot had his finger on the trigger; his gun was aimed straight for Randon’s chest.

“You’re stalling, Randon” growled Ring, stopping after a slight shortening of the range. “Stalling because it’s your only out. Well, bozo, it don’t go! I know you for what you are. You’re wise to the whole lay. Deep in it. With you out, we’ll be past first base.

“If you’re the guy who’s rooked me, I won’t have nothing to worry about. If you’re not the guy, he’ll be minus his right bower, with you gone. I’ll take care of Blouchet when I find him. After that, I’ll—”

“One moment, Stortzel.”

Ring stopped as he heard Randon’s harsh interruption. Steady with his gun, the big-shot listened.

Randon’s lips formed an ugly leer; his tone became as contemptuous as Ring’s.

“You’re licked, Stortzel,” jeered Randon. “You haven’t got a chance! I’m going to croak you, where you stand. I stacked the deck against you, before I played my hand. I was in your room at the Bontezan before you arrived there.

“I found that smoke-wagon of yours. The cannon that you’re holding right now. I yanked the cartridges out of it and dropped in some dummies of my own. Had them in all sizes, every caliber. It was a cinch. When I took that stubby gat you handed me, I pulled your fangs, you rattler!

“Go on! Look dumb! It’s curtains for you, in a hurry! This is your finish, Stortzel. Fire away all you like and hear the hammer click without a single pop coming from that oversize gat of yours. You said it was funny, Stortzel. It is funny. For me — not for you.”

Carl Randon drove his fists deep into his pockets. His hands emerged with speed, each flashing a glimmer from a ready gun. Ring Stortzel’s stubby revolver was in Randon’s right; a similar weapon flourished from his left. Viciously, the sleek-haired double-crosser was swinging into double aim.

As Randon’s hands snapped into view, Ring Stortzel delivered a fierce oath. With quick tugs he pressed the trigger of his smoke-wagon. Flame spat from the muzzle with swift successive roars. From the gun which Carl Randon had derided as useless, Ring Stortzel was pumping bullets into the body of his foe!

A GARGLING cry from Randon. Guns coming up, the fellow staggered backward. His fingers opened; his body collapsed. This threat maker had hoped to slay Andrew Blouchet along with Ring Stortzel. He had compromised by taking on the big-shot only. Instead, he had come to grief. Both guns gone from his grasp, Carl Randon lay dying on the floor.

Ring Stortzel approached with smoking revolver. Stooping above the body of his victim, the killer jeered in tones which The Shadow could plainly hear. The cloaked arrival had stood motionless at the door, to let these two boastful killers settle their own affairs before he acted.

“Your bluff flivved, Randon,” uttered Ring. “I wised up when you said you’d seen me getting my key downstairs. I didn’t stop at the desk. The key was in my pocket. You weren’t in the lobby when I came in. I figured maybe you’d been in my room.”

“Anyway. I took no chances. It sounded screwy when you wanted me to pass you a gun. You picked the one that I’d had on me. It was a giveaway. I looked at those cartridges in this gat. They didn’t look so bad; but they weren’t the McCoy. So I put in some extra slugs that I knew were my own.

Ring Stortzel paused. Carl Randon’s lips were moving; he was coughing inarticulate words. Leaning close, Ring snarled:

“Come on. Squawk! Blab what you know about Blouchet. Where’s the dough? All of it! If he hasn’t got it, then tell me who has.”

No reply was coming. Ring snarled.

“He let you down, didn’t he?” queried the big-shot. “This guy that thought he was so hot? Unless you’re him — is that it? Yeah — that’s the answer—”

Ring’s face was lighting, though still doubtful. He was hoping for his answer. The Shadow, waiting, was letting the big-shot push his questions. But Carl Randon’s gasps were inarticulate.

Savagely, Ring shoved the dying man’s head against the floor. Ring was rising, about to turn. In a few more seconds, he was due to face The Shadow. That cloaked avenger was waiting for this killer who had dealt with one of his own ilk.

Then chance intervened. From his position in the doorway, The Shadow wheeled suddenly out into the hall. He was just in time to face a newcomer, springing in from the balcony landing.

It was the poncho-clad policeman. He had heard the shots and had entered.

Revolver in hand, the officer was aiming for The Shadow as he saw the shrouded figure spin into the gloom of the hall. Quick shots came from the patrolman’s gun as he fired at a fading, forward-diving form. Still surging toward The Shadow, the bluecoat lowered his aim to fire again.

He was hoisted upward as he tugged the trigger. His bullet smashed plaster from the ceiling as powerful arms caught him in a rigid grip. The policeman spun about in mid-air, whirling wildly in the clutch of the fighting form beneath him.

Ring Stortzel, dashing to the door of the apartment, saw the strange phenomenon of a levitated patrolman, wrestling at nothingness with down-stretched arms.

Then the bluecoat crashed the door of the opposite apartment. It gave. The Shadow beneath, the officer above — both rolled headlong into the darkness of the quarters that had once been occupied by Monsieur Duvale.

RING paused in the center of the hall; then aimed to fire toward the blackened apartment. Before he could pull his trigger, he saw shots rip from the floor within. Bullets whistled past the killer’s ear. With a run, Ring made for the balcony. He cursed the good aim of the cop. The fellow was lucky, Ring thought.

Actually, Ring was lucky. Those speedy bullets had been dispatched by The Shadow; but his aim had traveled inches wide, for he was still struggling to wrest free from the patrolman. As Ring dashed down into the courtyard, it was still the intervening officer who saved the big-shot from new disaster.

The policeman was fighting valiantly to capture the only person whom he had seen. He had gained a grip upon The Shadow. The shots from the automatic had served to spur the bluecoat to a fiercer fray. He thought that the bullets had been meant for him. He was out to get The Shadow’s gun.

Two figures writhed upon the darkened floor. The flappy poncho twisted about The Shadow’s face. The officer shot his hands for a hidden throat.

Then came the buckling of a long, lithe body. Gloved hands caught the policeman’s shoulder. The patrolman sprawled headlong, taking Duvale’s old easel when he reached it. The easel clattered upon the bluecoat’s head. For the time, he lay bewildered.

The Shadow was springing from the room — too late to cut off Ring Stortzel from the window. Down the stairs; out through the arch. At the street, The Shadow stopped amid the rain. He heard the shouts of officers. He saw spurts of revolvers stab the drizzly night.

Huddled figures delivered answering shots; guns roared from a car that was swinging the corner beyond.

Whistles shrilled the night. The Shadow fired quick shots toward the scurrying men; he sent bullets winging after the departing car. The fighters had fled. Footsteps were pounding from the opposite direction. A new whistle was blaring from upstairs.

Police were coming; the patrolman whom The Shadow had eluded was back on his feet again. Two small bands of crooks had ended a quick skirmish as an aftermath to Ring Stortzel’s flight. Neither the big-shot nor Carl Randon had trusted himself entirely. Each had kept a few reserves in the offing, none near enough to attract notice. Those bands had exchanged shots. Both groups had sped for cover.