Then came a sound that made both Luke and Squeezer turn in alarm.
A HAND had plucked the bottom of the window shade. With a snap, the blind went springing upward.
At the same instant, blackness seemed to surge in from the night. As the two crooks wheeled, they saw that blackness take the shape of a living form — a being cloaked in black. Burning eyes peered from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. Looming automatics held the startled crooks at bay.
The Shadow had heard the plans to slay Judge Claris. He had learned that the plot lay only between these two men. He had resolved to forestall crime at its beginning — before Squeezer could assemble his band of mobsmen.
“The Shadow!”
The gasp came from Squeezer’s pale lips. A whispered laugh was The Shadow’s answer. Stark terror seized Squeezer Dyson as he stared into the muzzles of the automatics. The rat-faced crook saw that Luke Zoman was standing sullen; but he could not copy his companion’s example. Luke — six years in stir — had not learned of The Shadow’s prowess as had Squeezer.
Death. Squeezer feared it. The Shadow was a relentless foe to crime. He gave no quarter to murderers.
Squeezer knew that The Shadow had heard mention of killing Judge Claris. To The Shadow, those who planned murder were the same as murderers. At heart, Squeezer Dyson was yellow. Like a rat, he thought that squealing could save his skin.
“Don’t shoot!” pleaded Squeezer, as he faced the menace of those burning eyes. “I’ll tell — I’ll tell everything. It — it means a million bucks if you don’t kill me—”
A vicious snarl came from Luke Zoman. His secret on the point of betrayal, the man became a fiend.
Like a flash, he pulled the unexpected — the one course that could stop Squeezer Dyson’s plea. With a sudden leap, Luke hurled himself upon The Shadow.
The black-garbed master did not fire. He wanted to hear Squeezer talk. He knew that a shot would bring the yellow mobleader’s crew. Ready for Luke’s attack, despite its unexpectedness, The Shadow delivered a terrific swing with his left-hand automatic. The blow was aimed for Luke Zoman’s skull.
Blind luck saved the ex-convict. Luke thrust a hand upward. Pure chance enabled him to grip The Shadow’s wrist. With amazing strength, Luke stopped the downward swing and shot his free hand toward The Shadow’s throat. His surge sent the cloaked fighter up against the window.
For an instant, it appeared as though Luke was going to precipitate his foeman through the opening. Only by a quick twist did The Shadow avert that catastrophe. Dropping his left automatic, he wrenched free of Luke’s grasp and went sprawling into a corner of the room.
Luke pounced upon the gun. Quick as a cat, he gained the weapon and brought it up to aim. Seeing Luke’s action, Squeezer Dyson came to life and shot a hand to his pocket to pull a revolver. He thought that he and Luke had The Shadow on the spot. But neither reckoned with The Shadow’s skill at quick recovery.
THE SHADOW had dropped one automatic that he might use his hand to stay his fall. With that free hand, he caught the pipes of a radiator in the corner. With a powerful twist, he pulled his body up from the floor; his right hand, swinging into view, brought the muzzle of its automatic squarely toward Luke Zoman.
A burst of flame spat from The Shadow’s gun before Luke could press the trigger of the weapon which he had seized from the floor. With the roar from The Shadow’s automatic, Luke crumpled. The Shadow did not pause to fire a second shot. Still twisting, he swung his aim toward Squeezer Dyson.
The rat-faced mobleader had completed the draw. He fired a first quick shot. The bullet clanged against the radiator, inches from The Shadow’s shoulder. Then came a second burst from the automatic.
Squeezer, like Luke, slumped to the floor.
Again, The Shadow gave no heed to the man whom he had dropped. Rising, he sprang to the door of the room. He yanked the barrier open. Automatic in hand, he was face to face with a mobsman who had hastened to the hall at the sound of gunfire. The dim light of the dingy corridor showed revolvers flashing as these gorillas recognized the arch-enemy of gangdom.
Searing bullets whistled from The Shadow’s automatic. One gangster dropped. Another staggered.
Others dropped to cover, firing as they sought to avoid The Shadow’s shots. Bullets chipped wood from the doorway where The Shadow, framed in spectral outline, was standing his ground.
Footsteps on the stairs. New shots, fired from the gloom, were directed not at The Shadow but at the snarling mobsmen. Another crook fell. Cliff Marsland had found opportunity to slide in through the back passage of the old hotel. He had come to aid The Shadow.
Squeezer’s gorillas had retreated, leaving their trio of fallen comrades in the hall. They had slammed doors to serve as barricades. With a hissed command for Cliff to stand guard, The Shadow stepped back into the room where he had felled Luke Zoman and Squeezer Dyson.
Gasping on the floor, Squeezer stared upward. He still feared death. He tried to cough out words that he thought would bring him mercy. With an effort, he pointed to the table in the corner. The gesture was his last. Squeezer Dyson collapsed, dead.
The Shadow turned to the table. He plucked up the photograph that lay there. He fixed his burning eyes on Luke Zoman. The ex-convict was on hands and knees. His wavering fingers were clutching at the automatic that lay beside him.
“Speak.” The Shadow’s voice came in a sinister tone. “Tell of the crime that you have plotted.”
THE threat of death lay in that weird whisper; yet Luke Zoman remained defiant. His fingers had gripped the solid steel of the automatic handle. With hatred glaring on his face, the ex-convict sank to his left elbow. His bloated lips spat an oath as his right hand tried to aim the automatic.
Like a figure of adamant, The Shadow stood motionless. His keen eyes sensed what was coming. Luke Zoman’s last defiant effort was too much. Before he could raise the weapon that he held, the ex-convict delivered a choking cough. He fell face forward on the floor. Like Squeezer Dyson, Luke Zoman was dead.
Footsteps pounded on the stairs. Cliff Marsland’s automatic barked a flashing challenge. Arriving mobsters scurried back to cover. In the room, The Shadow stooped and plucked the automatic from Luke Zoman’s nerveless fingers. Hidden lips hissed a command.
Cliff sprang into the room and turned out the light. He groped through the darkness toward the window, where he heard the sounds of metal clamping against the woodwork. An object was thrust into Cliff’s hand. The Shadow’s agent gripped a handle that was shaped like a stirrup. Holding firmly, Cliff swung himself from the window.
Stout wire, strong as cable, hummed from a reel as Cliff slid downward into the blackness of the alleyway. When Cliff released the handle, the wire sizzed upward. Then came squidgy sounds from the wall.
Police whistles. They were close at hand. Then came a whisper from the darkness. The Shadow had arrived. Sirens were whining as new whistles shrilled. Prompted by a whispered voice, Cliff plunged into darkness, following The Shadow’s lead. Doorways in deserted buildings; passages between old houses — all seemed to appear in spots where they were needed.
Blocks from the old hotel, The Shadow hissed a final command. Cliff Marsland stepped into a parked coupe. The motor responded. The Shadow’s agent drove off to safety. He was unaccompanied. The Shadow had chosen to go his own route, through the covering darkness that was his habitat.
LATER, a light clicked in a darkened room. The Shadow had reached his sanctum. The photograph of Thaddeus Culeth’s old mansion appeared beneath the glow of a bluish lamp. Keen eyes studied the picture that bore no statement regarding the location of the house.