GANGSTERS START
EARLY the next evening, Cliff Marsland entered the Palace Havana and encountered Skeeter Wolfe. The cunning-faced gunman waved a greeting. Cliff took a chair beside him.
“Howdy, Cliff,” said Skeeter. “Still stickin’ around, eh?”
Cliff nodded.
“I saw Bumps Jaffrey last night,” he remarked.
“You did?” questioned Skeeter eagerly.
“Yes,” responded Cliff. “I guess he’ll remember me when he needs me.” Skeeter smiled, and Cliff noted the expression. He could easily divine what was in Skeeter’s mind. The gangster was going on a job with Bumps Jaffrey tonight. Skeeter’s next action indicated that Cliff was correct.
“Gotta mosey along, Cliff,” he said. “See you later.”
When Skeeter had left, Cliff Marsland followed. Trailing Skeeter was not difficult. The man shambled to an “L” station, and Cliff followed him up the steps.
Watching from another car, Cliff saw the station where Skeeter stepped off, and did likewise. The gangster’s shuffling steps led Cliff to a place that he knew well — the Hotel Spartan, on the lower East Side.
It was here, singularly enough, that Cliff had first met The Shadow. Caught in a tight spot, Cliff had been pulled from trouble by the mysterious being of the night. After that, he had aided The Shadow in the war that had eliminated New York’s most notorious racketeers.
Surrounded by dilapidated buildings, and located beside the roaring elevated, the Hotel Spartan now served as a meeting place for mobsmen. Here, Cliff knew, Bumps Jaffrey must be assembling his evil crew for a death-dealing thrust against an unsuspecting victim.
Cliff doubled back to the elevated station, paid a fare, and entered a secluded telephone booth. He called Burbank, and reported what he had learned. He received the instructions that he had expected; to stay on the ground and learn where Bumps and his men were going.
Returning to the vicinity of the hotel, Cliff peered into the lobby, where Skeeter Wolfe had gone. He did not see the shrewd-faced gangster; in fact, the lobby was almost deserted. There was a door at the rear, and Cliff, not wishing to be seen, circled to the back of the hotel to study the darkness of the narrow street. There, he made a discovery.
THREE automobiles were drawn up against the curb, and a group of men were preparing to enter them. Boldly, Cliff sidled through the darkness, hoping that he could learn what might be going on. He was sure that this was Bumps Jaffrey’s party; therefore, recognition was something that he desired to avoid.
Sneaking up behind the rear car, Cliff could hear the sound of Bumps Jaffrey’s voice. All but two had entered the cars. Evidently, these were reserves who were to remain.
“Won’t need you tonight, boys” — Jaffrey’s voice was explaining what Cliff expected — “so you can scram. We’re not coming back here. You know where to get hold of me.”
Motors were purring up ahead. The sound of Jaffrey’s voice was drowned. Suddenly, the gang leader’s car pulled away, leaving Cliff Marsland in the open. Quickly, Cliff ducked for the cover of the nearest wall. The two mobsters spotted him.
“Hey, you! What’re you doin’ here?” Cliff’s hand went to his pocket. His reply was to draw his automatic. He could not see the faces of the other men, nor could they see his; but the action of his arm was apparent. The gangsters reached for their own weapons.
Bumps Jaffrey’s car was gone — and Skeeter, too, had departed. They, most of all, were the ones from whom Cliff feared recognition; but he did not want these others to remember him. Quick shots and a getaway — that was the only formula.
Cliff’s gun spoke as revolver flashes came from the gangsters’ hands. A bullet whizzed past Cliff’s ear and plastered itself against the wall. One of the mobsmen dropped; the other dived behind a huge ash can near the curb. Cliff’s next shot resounded against the metal container.
The odds were even now; but only for a moment. A cry came from the gangster who had dived for safety. Glancing to the side, Cliff saw two men entering the street from the corner of the hotel.
Quick thought came to Cliff’s aid. Springing across the street, he dived for the rear door of the hotel. Revolver shots followed him; but the bullets went wide. Plunging onward, Cliff reached the lobby. There, he stopped short.
A few minutes before, the place had seemed deserted; but the sounds of gun play had brought a quick change. There were half a dozen ruffians there now, and they blocked the path to safety. Revolvers flashed, and Cliff dropped back behind the door just in time to avoid the shots of the mobsters.
Cliff Marsland was in a veritable hornet’s nest. He was between two forces of death; he instinctively chose the lesser. Three men were coming from the rear street — Cliff must fight his way through them.
Revolver shots at the Hotel Spartan meant gang war; and when one man was the sole objective, his chances were very small. As Cliff reached the back door, he saw a figure skulking across the street. A quick shot from the gun. A cry then a groan as the man went down.
That shot brought replies — revolver flashes from two other places. A bullet skimmed Cliff Marsland’s shoulder. With quick, prompt aim, Cliff delivered return shots with a vengeance. His marksmanship was rewarded. His bullets reached the living targets. Cliff leaped into the street.
A shot came from the sidewalk. One of the wounded men had fired. Cliff felt a stinging sensation in his leg. A flesh wound, but it dropped him to the ground.
Leaning on an elbow, he fired quick shots at the spot where he knew the crippled gangster must be. There was no response. Cliff’s bullets had gained their objective. The crippled gangster had met the fate he deserved.
AS Cliff Marsland rose, he sensed that his momentary safety would gain him naught. He could barely stand, and he heard the shouts of gangsters who were coming from the passage at the rear of the hotel. Backing along the street, away from the corner, Cliff tried to take the long road to safety. His progress was slow and lame. He could feel the warm blood trickling down his ankle.
A crowd of vengeful mobsters burst from the door. The brilliant rays of a powerful flashlight revealed Cliff Marsland. In desperation, Cliff fired into the crowd. His gun spoke once; then clicked. The last cartridge had been used.
It was death now, Cliff thought, as he sank upon the curb, his wounded leg weakening beneath him. Within a second, a roar of murderous shots would end him. He could not even go down fighting.
The final roar of shots came — but Cliff, staring in amazement, saw that the flash came from the entrance of the alley. And it was directed at the flashlight, which was shattered to bits.
Some new arrival had opened fire upon the mob! Cliff, prepared for his finish, saw new hope in this rescue, for now he saw more than the blinding flash of gun fire. He saw the outline of a man in black, pumping the contents of two automatics into the astonished gangsters.
The Shadow!
He had come here in response to Cliff Marsland’s report; in time to save his agent. Alone, he faced the mobsmen.
No one man could have withstood the fire of these angered scavengers. Cliff’s hardy work had been useless against them before. Now the gangsters, in their turn, found their efforts useless against the superiority of The Shadow. Cries resounded, and staggering gangsters plunged back into the Hotel Spartan to save their hides.
The Shadow was moving forward now. Up to the door he came, and his automatics roared through the passage that led to the lobby. His leaden hail was driving the foiled gangsters into precipitous flight. The echoing shots died. Through the silence of the street came a long, mocking burst of laughter.
An arm gripped Cliff Marsland’s shoulder. Cliff was drawn to his feet. Aided by The Shadow, he reached the end of the street, and felt himself pushed into the seat of a coupe. Then The Shadow was at the wheel. The car was rolling from the neighborhood of the Hotel Spartan.