The Shadow’s wrist moved in a powerful twist. The gangster clutched the window ledge with his free hand; then, as his grasp failed, he uttered an agonized cry as he felt his body turning.
His right hand lost its strength. The revolver dropped from nerveless fingers. The weapon shot downward into the court; and a half second later, the mobsman, making a last vicious effort to grapple with The Shadow, toppled in the same direction.
An agonized shriek sounded just as the revolver clattered on the paving. The shriek died like the passing whistle of a locomotive as the mobster plunged head foremost into the depths. He had fought The Shadow from a place of safety; the tables had turned, and he was crashing to his doom!
Oaths came from the room. The other gangsters had heard the cry of recognition; they had seen the brief, dramatic struggle at the window; they knew that their crony had been conquered by a superman.
With one accord, they leaped forward with drawn weapons, hoping, by a rain of bullets, to accomplish the deed which their companion had failed to execute. Before a single gangster could find a target at which to aim, the free hand of The Shadow moved beneath the folds of the shrouding cloak. It appeared upon the ledge, and simultaneously the black-hatted head came into view. The eyes of The Shadow, piercing the darkness of the room, seemed to focus themselves upon the approaching gangsters.
One gunman fired. His haste destroyed his aim. A second, less hurried, laid finger upon trigger. A cannonlike shot resounded at the window. The aiming gangster fell. The Shadow’s sweeping hand turned to the man who had fired first.
The Shadow’s head dropped as his hand was aiming. Two shots seemed to leap at each other, one from the gangster’s revolver, the other from The Shadow’s automatic. The revolver bullet whistled through the top of the black slouch hat. The automatic’s missile found its destination in the mobsman’s evil heart.
“The Shadow!”
The cry was uttered at the door of the room. It was another shout of recognition from a gangster, and the answer to it left no doubt regarding the identity of the powerful adversary. That reply was a peal of mocking laughter: the sinister laugh of The Shadow. A strident, gibing burst of merriment, the pealing tones reechoed through the courtyard, a pean of victory that brought awe to those who heard it.
The conquering cry quelled the men at the door. The Shadow’s laugh was as effective as a revolver shot. Hardened mobsmen who had invaded Henry Arnaud’s room now scattered to the safety of the hall. There, in the outer light, they rallied as other men came running to their aid.
“The Shadow!”
With confidence in numbers, the gangsters burst into the room. Revolvers flashed and shots reechoed as the first of the invaders fired toward the window. A gangster switched on the light by the door.
A peal of laughter seemed to come from the wall itself. Standing midway in the room, his sinister form towering like the embodiment of doom, The Shadow was in the midst of his enemies!
THE black-gloved hands were speedy and systematic. Their fingers pressed the triggers of the death-dealing weapons. The powerful .45s moved in a sweeping course, and before their wrath the mobsmen crumpled.
Only those who dived for safety, not daring to fire in return, managed to escape the leaden hail. Those of the dozen odd mobsmen who tried to shoot The Shadow were balked by stern disaster.
Gun arms fell. Writhing bodies toppled to the floor. Answering shots were futile. One gunman, falling, pressed the trigger of his revolver before it slipped from his grasp. The bullet shattered a picture two feet from The Shadow’s head.
Others met with the same barren result. Timing his shots split seconds ahead of his opponents, The Shadow rendered them helpless before they could do him harm.
The brief battle left half of the mob within the room. The others had dashed to the hall. There, they were fortifying themselves in doorways, still bold enough to remain, too frightened to attack. The last of the waiting mob had come to this spot. The six who remained were determined that The Shadow should not leave this room alive.
A low laugh came from the beleaguered room as the light went out. The Shadow had pressed the switch. His tall form was beside the window. Across the courtyard he could see that Venturi’s room was dark. The two Italians had left just as the fight was beginning. The shots had drawn the entire mob in this direction, as The Shadow had intended.
Yet The Shadow’s laugh was grim. Although his might had prevailed over that of the attacking mobsmen, the disadvantage at the beginning had rendered his original plan impossible. He had intended to carry the fight to the gangsters; not to await their attack. He had fought from the defensive. To step into that hallway would mean uncertainty. The Shadow must risk it; but he had met with serious delay.
Like a creature of invisibility, The Shadow moved across the room with feline stealth. His tall form stood beside the door. Out there, six gunmen were ready. Only a clever ruse could best them. The Shadow had faced situations like this before; but invariably, he tricked his adversaries by making them bide their time. Tonight, time was short.
The eyes of The Shadow looked upward. They gleamed as they spied the transom above the door. Another second; the tall form was perched atop the head of the bed. The transom, guided by a cautious hand, was slowly opening.
An eye peered through the crevice. The muzzle of an automatic appeared beneath it. The waiting mobsters had not noticed this occurrence. The Shadow spied one gangster edged behind a corner of the hall.
The automatic roared. A cry came from the gangster’s lips. The Shadow had clipped him. Again, the automatic blazed, and its reports brought hands into view.
The mobsters had seen the source of the shot. With one accord, they flourished their revolvers in reply. All had the same objective — the transom. As the revolvers barked, shattering bullets smashed the barrier above the door.
These were killing bullets, had they reached their mark. But again, The Shadow was working on split-second schedule. With his first shots delivered, he had dropped to the floor before the rain of lead commenced.
An instant later, his eye and hand appeared at the door, through a narrow crack. Low, almost to the floor, The Shadow opened fire. Gunmen had come into view. With wild eyes upward, they were still hurling their barrage at the transom. The new shots, delivered from a spot six feet beneath, caught them totally unaware.
Cursing mobsmen fell before they could change their aim. Of the six, only two managed to elude The Shadow’s wrath. They saw their comrades fall before they knew where the shots were coming from; instead of firing, they headed for a convenient stairway, just before The Shadow turned his gun in their direction.
The way was clear for the black-clad avenger. The Shadow stepped into the hallway. Shouts stopped him from further progress. A fusillade of shots came from the stairway. The fleeing mobsters had been met by new invaders. A second later, uniformed policemen entered the hallway from the stairs.
HERE was a new and unexpected barrier to The Shadow. The delay had turned against him with a vengeance. The Shadow, avenger of crime, had no quarrel with the law. His purpose was to frustrate men of evil. Still, time was precious. He must gain his way unmolested.
Only one course offered. Back into the room. The door of 1108 slammed shut, and elated cries of the police bore witness to the fact that they had seen the action. The officers believed that they had encountered the ending of a fight between two mobs. They were determined to capture all the participants.