POLICE whistles and sirens did not perturb The Shadow. The invisible being at the wheel of the coupe seemed to avoid the police who were coming to the scene of the fray. Cliff sensed the quiet whisper of the personage beside him:
“Report.”
In response to that single word, Cliff quickly told what had occurred. Bumps Jaffrey and his mob were off on a job. That was all Cliff knew. The car drew up beside the curb.
Cliff Marsland rubbed his forehead and felt his wounded leg. He waited for The Shadow to speak again. No word came. Cliff stared suddenly at the seat where the driver sat. There was no one there!
The Shadow had gone, leaving Cliff in possession of the car. Cliff knew the answer. He was to use the car himself. Looking about to locate the vicinity where they had stopped, Cliff saw a sign in front of a near-by building, which read:
DEXTER HOTEL
Had The Shadow gone there? Perhaps. Wherever The Shadow had gone, it was not Cliff Marsland’s duty to follow. The Shadow had his own missions. Cliff had done his best tonight. His work was ended.
In the driver’s seat, Cliff found that he could run the car without great difficulty. The hotel where he was stopping was about thirty blocks away; it was a quiet place where he could enter without his limp being too conspicuous. He could order the car taken to the garage.
But as Cliff rode along, he could not help wondering, in spite of himself, whether or not The Shadow had gone to the Dexter Hotel.
Were new adventures brewing there; adventures which The Shadow would meet alone?
Only The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER XII
ON THE WALL
HENRY ARNAUD was back in his room at the Dexter Hotel. Seated calmly at his writing desk, he seemed a placid, lethargic individual. No one would have supposed that this man had just returned from a quick expedition in which he had overpowered a gang of desperate mobsmen.
Not only had Henry Arnaud — otherwise The Shadow — accomplished that superhuman feat, he had also managed to leave the hotel and return without exciting the suspicion of the men whom Bumps Jaffrey had stationed to watch him.
The point of observation which interested Henry Arnaud was the room on the adjacent side of the court, where Victor Venturi resided. Slight murmurs could be heard from the hall outside of Arnaud’s room; but they were not disturbing. His main problem was that of paying another visit to Venturi’s room, and Arnaud had purposely delayed the action, awaiting the psychological moment.
The battle in which Cliff Marsland had been wounded was the indication that important events lay just ahead. There was no time to be lost. Bumps Jaffrey had started on the expedition with a picked crew of gangsters. Cliff Marsland had failed to learn the destination. Clews might be obtainable at the spot where Bumps had started; but the same destination could be learned more effectively if Victor Venturi received the message that he expected.
Henry Arnaud arose from the desk and extinguished the light. In the darkness beside the bed, he performed the transformation of the night before, garbing himself in the somber raiment of The Shadow. His silent, gliding form emerged through the window, and made its hazardous way along the wall. The danger of a twelve-story fall was no deterrent to this phantomlike creeper.
The window sash raised at Venturi’s room. Tonight, the shade was more closely drawn; but a black-gloved hand lifted it with consummate care until there was space for the peering eyes. The scene within showed Venturi seated in a chair beside the table, nervously drumming with his fist. Angelo, sober and impassive, was watching his master.
The Shadow had arrived too soon. The expected cablegram had not arrived. To Venturi, these dragging minutes were endless. To The Shadow, who knew that danger was already in the making, they must have been even more trying; yet the black-garbed watcher waited with the utmost patience.
ALMOST as though it had been a signal, a rap occurred at the outside door of Venturi’s room. The Italian sprang to his feet; then sent Angelo in his place.
The servant returned with an envelope. Venturi’s fingers faltered as they tore open the envelope. Out came the message and Venturi, in his excitement, read it aloud in a low, tense voice.
“Ah! The name!” Venturi read slowly and carefully. “Sturgis Bosworth in Montclair, New Jersey. We must go there at once, Angelo! Ah! We are fortunate. Montclair is not far from New York. But time is short, Angelo. It is tonight — that meeting. Come! Summon a taxicab. We are leaving immediately.”
The window sash descended. The Shadow was on his return journey. There was method in the action. A new danger had arisen, and only by promptitude could The Shadow ward it off. When Victor Venturi and Angelo left their room in haste, they would be well covered by watching mobsters, unless -
There was one solution. Those same mobsmen were concerned with Henry Arnaud. They could not perform a double duty. If unexpected developments occurred in Arnaud’s room before Venturi and Angelo departed, the Italians could go their way unmolested!
The task that lay before The Shadow was a most critical one. By suddenly creating a disturbance, he could draw the mob in his direction and, by a swift escape, head for the destination in Montclair in time to reach there before Venturi and his servant!
The Shadow’s hands were gripping the window ledge of Henry Arnaud’s room. A minute more, and the excitement would begin. Suddenly, those hands became motionless. Something had happened to block The Shadow’s plan. A man was standing beside the window, peering into the darkness of the court.
As The Shadow waited, the man spoke in a low, gruff whisper, addressing other persons in the room. His voice revealed that he was one of the ruffians whose purpose at the hotel was to keep tabs on Henry Arnaud as well as Victor Venturi.
“I can’t see nothin’ out here,” the observer growled. “They’s a light over in Venturi’s room; but I can’t figure where this guy Arnaud went—”
As he spoke, the man stared downward. The gangster’s gaze encountered the only spots of light that lay below him — the burning eyes of The Shadow!
In the space of less than a second, the staring gangster recognized the form below. He knew that he was face to face with The Shadow, the archenemy of crime.
To the most daring minions of the underworld, the name of The Shadow meant reality. The sight of a figure suspended on a sheer wall told this mobsman that he had met the one menace dreaded by all gangdom.
Hosts of gangsters had quailed when faced by The Shadow. This mobster was different. Not only one of Bumps Jaffrey’s toughest gorillas, he was shrewd and quick of wits. He realized that he had gained the greatest advantage that any one could possibly hold in a meeting with The Shadow. Backed by others, all was in his favor. With a cry of triumph, the mobster broke the news and acted as he raised the shout.
“The Shadow!”
The mobster was leaning forward as he spoke, and a heavy revolver gleamed in his hand. With a ferocious swing, he brought the weapon straight downward, aiming a vicious blow at the head below him.
He was striking for the eyes — striking with all the venom that lay in his evil heart. His swing was made with fell purpose. When it landed, The Shadow would lose his hold and plunge to death below!
BUT as the gangster’s arm descended, the hand of The Shadow shot upward. While one fist clutched the ledge of the window, the other caught the gangster’s wrist and diverted the powerful stroke.
Despite the fury of the gangster’s swing, The Shadow’s clutch did not fail. The gloved hand gripped the wrist in viselike fashion, and the gangster, half through the window, found his bulging eyes staring squarely into the blazing optics that lay beneath the black slouch hat.