THE servant returned to inform Neswick that Mox was ready to interview him. It was not until the two had left the room that The Shadow moved. Slowly, his black hands raised the sash. His keen eyes peered about the room. His tall, lithe form came over the sill.
The coach dog raised its head. A low growl came from its throat. The burning eyes of The Shadow shone toward the dog. The Dalmatian settled its head between its paws, and blinked. The Shadow lowered the sash without noise.
Stealing to the door of the room, The Shadow peered along the hall. He saw the servant standing at a spot some distance from the room, with Neswick beside him. The hall was gloomy. It held opportunity for The Shadow.
Like a specter, the tall visitant eased toward the hallway. Momentarily motionless, his form was a blackened statue. Across the floor lay The Shadow’s shadow; its silhouetted profile wavered with the flickering of the lighted fire.
While The Shadow prepared to advance along the hall, a silent action took place within the room. The door of a cupboard — in a corner which had not been visible from the window — opened. From it came the hunched creature with the spidery legs, the dwarf whom Mox had called Sulu.
The cupboard was the hiding place of this evil wretch. Through a tiny peek-hole, Sulu had seen The Shadow enter. Reaching the floor, Sulu glared with venom. His spidery arms raised from his baggy blouse.
Despite the noiselessness of Sulu’s appearance, The Shadow sensed the creature’s presence. As the dwarf’s thin arms came up, The Shadow turned his head. His eyes, blazing over his right shoulder, glimpsed the evil monster.
The black cloak swished as The Shadow whirled; not toward the room, but out into the hall. Simultaneously, a long, thin knife blade whizzed through the air.
Aimed for The Shadow’s back, it missed its mark by the scant fraction of a second. The Shadow, turning back toward the wall, was saved from death.
The point of the swift blade penetrated the flesh of The Shadow’s left arm, just beneath the shoulder. A sharp stroke, but one which missed the bone, it pinned The Shadow to the wall.
The master fighter never faltered. The wound, though sudden, was no more than superficial. His right arm swung into action; an automatic blazed its reply to Sulu.
Chance saved the dwarf. The frame of the door intervened. The Shadow’s bullet, directed with only a narrow margin, missed the dwarf by inches. Sulu made a dive for safety.
The second shot from The Shadow’s gun clipped splinters from the woodwork, but, like the first, it could not get the hideous creature who was just outside its range.
Sulu had fled; The Shadow, still flat against the wall, turned his head along the hall. The servant was drawing a gun.
Neswick, looking vainly for the shots, and not observing The Shadow, happened to glance at the servant’s face.
In an instant, the keen-minded inventor knew that danger lay not with the one who had fired, but with the servant. He saw the hideous, brutal features of the man. He sprang to wrest away the underling’s gun.
The servant fired wildly, his bullet whizzed past The Shadow’s head. The Shadow’s finger was on the trigger of the automatic. It rested there. The Shadow could not fire, for Neswick had come between him and the servant.
A hand swung in the air. It held a revolver. The servant was swinging a blow for Neswick’s head.
The Shadow fired. A scream echoed through the hall as his bullet caught the descending wrist. The barrel of the revolver glanced from Neswick’s head. The servant, plunging to the floor with the inventor, scrambled wildly to pick up his dropped gun with his left hand.
The Shadow coolly used the interim. His automatic dipped into the folds of his cloak. With his free right hand, he gripped the handle of the knife which had pinned his left arm so mercilessly. He plucked the weapon from his flesh and threw it to the floor of the living room.
The servant had gained his gun. He raised it and fired with his unsteady left hand. The Shadow, his left arm at his side, was whirling as the shot went wide. His automatic came forth in his right. The evil servant sprawled as The Shadow’s next shot found a vital spot in his body.
THE roar of the automatic still persisted as The Shadow backed into the living room. His quick eyes turned in the direction which Sulu had taken. The dwarf had scampered to an adjoining room. The door was closed.
Blood, dripping from The Shadow’s wounded arm, formed a crimson splotch upon the carpet. The Shadow did not heed the wound. His quick glance saw the Dalmatian moving in the corner. The dog seemed restless, but it did not advance.
There was no danger here; the new attack would come from below. Pounding footsteps on the stairs told that fact. With swift stride, The Shadow advanced to met the foe. He reached the center of the hall as a servant thrust his head from the top of the stairs.
A revolver flashed in the foeman’s hand. Before the arrival could fire at The Shadow’s figure, he was met by the burst of the powerful automatic. The servant fired as he staggered. Half kneeling, he continued to shoot.
The Shadow had no alternative. His second bullet, directed with cool precision, found the man’s evil heart.
With his right arm, The Shadow encircled Neswick’s body. The inventor though not short of stature, was light. The Shadow stooped as he carried the man across his back, like a sack. With his unwounded arm encircling Neswick’s legs, The Shadow started for the stairs.
It was an amazing sight, this spectral, wounded fighter, carrying a half-stunned man to safety. Yet this deed was but part of The Shadow’s task. As he stalked through the hall, he whirled, to see that no enemy had appeared from behind. He reached the head of the stairs just as new footsteps announced the arrival of more minions of Mox.
Two henchmen came in sight as The Shadow turned in their direction. One was the driver of the sedan, returned from the garage; the other was another servant who had evidently been below. There was no chance for The Shadow to evade their gaze, nor to use the fading tactics at which he was so successful. His one advantage lay in his apparent helplessness.
It was this factor that made his enemies pause to aim their guns as evil curses came from their snarling lips. They saw the automatic in The Shadow’s hand, alongside Neswick’s knees; they did not think that the fighter in black could use it.
That was their mistake. The muzzle of The Shadow’s gun moved as of its own volition. Shooting almost from the hip, The Shadow blazed his challenge to these minions of Mox.
There was no vacillation in The Shadow’s response. Burdened, wounded, he had but one course to safety. His first shot downed the nearer of Mox’s men before the villain could fire his pointed gun. The second burst of the automatic sent the second plunging.
The first man, caught by a perfect shot, was dying. The second, dropped by more rapid aim, managed to fire as he staggered down the stairs, but his shots were high. Then his own plight made him forget The Shadow. Dropping his gun, he clutched at the banister and missed.
Screaming, he whirled headlong down the steps, until his body crashed against the wall at the bottom. The man lay still. The Shadow did not watch his fall. With a final twist, the black-clad victor made his last glance along the corridor. Seeing no one, The Shadow started down the stairs.
Blobs of dripping blood marked The Shadow’s trail. Unfaltering, The Shadow kept on, as he carried Neswick to the safety that lay below. At the foot of the winding staircase, The Shadow paused beside the body of the last ruffian whom he had conquered. He let Neswick’s form glide to the floor. The inventor, regaining consciousness, managed to rise and cross the hallway.
The Shadow watched him from the foot of the stairs. Then came the shouts of men outside. As The Shadow listened to this sound, he suddenly sensed another noise from above. Whirling toward the stairs, he spied a stooped-shouldered man who had come to view the havoc below.