Perry Wallace heard The Shadow’s hiss. In answer to that call, he sprang upward and gripped the edge of the trap. He clung there and managed to draw himself up to his elbows. His hold was weakening; but strong arms came to his rescue. The Shadow brought the rescued man to the roof.
By unexpected action, The Shadow had split the double forces of the attackers. He had struck where least awaited — against those on the roof. The horde below had advanced with the surety that their comrades were ready to attack from above.
THE SHADOW replaced the trapdoor. Pushing Perry flat against the roof, he waited. There was no sign from the edge where the men had gone. There had been four originally. Two were wounded and helpless. A third had gone down the waiting ladder.
There was still a fourth — Pete Ballou — but he was no longer over the edge. The crafty leader of the defeated horde had come back. Yet he had been afraid to shoot from long range — afraid of that vicious automatic which The Shadow wielded. He was lying prone, now, behind a chimney, awaiting The Shadow’s approach.
Both men were coming toward Pete Ballou — The Shadow and Perry Wallace. They were on the other side of the chimney. Pete was watching the side toward the rear edge of the roof, his gun in readiness.
It was not until the men stood close beside him that he realized The Shadow was headed for the side and not the rear of the house. The folds of a cloak swished by his ear. Pete sprung up to fire at the black figure that he saw beside him.
The Shadow sensed the ambush. As Pete’s hand came up, The Shadow dropped. His arms shot forward and the metal of his automatic struck the wrist of his foe. Pete Ballou’s bullet whistled through the folds of the cloak beneath The Shadow’s arm.
Realizing that he had missed, Pete grappled with the man before him.
Perry Wallace was unable to come to the assistance of The Shadow. All that he could see was two rolling forms, writhing by the chimney. As ever, luck was with Pete Ballou. His arm was momentarily free. He managed to deal a sideswiping blow.
The Shadow’s arm, caught in the folds of the cloak, failed to stop it. Only the brim of the slouch hat dulled the force of the powerful stroke.
The Shadow clung to Pete’s right wrist; but his efforts were weakened by the stunning crash. Strong as a bull, Ballou swung The Shadow’s struggling form sidewise. The two rolled over twice.
Then Perry saw the purpose. Swinging from beneath, Pete Ballou hurled The Shadow’s form to the very edge of the roof. Breaking free and rising to his knees, Ballou caught The Shadow’s body to lunge it from the parapet!
Leaping forward, Perry fired twice. In his excitement, his aim was wild. His third shot failed. The hammer of his revolver clicked upon an empty chamber.
Pete Ballou, forgetful of all but his terrible revenge, was gripping The Shadow’s shoulders. Perry, stumbling forward in the dark, tripped and fell flat.
THEN, twelve feet away, unable to effect a rescue of the man who saved him, he saw an amazing sight. Against the dull glow of the sky, two black arms shot upward and gripped the form of Pete Ballou.
The Shadow, reserving his strength, had met his adversary. The arms twisted and turned. By a firm jujutsu hold, The Shadow broke the grasp of Pete Ballou.
The crook’s form was precipitated upward, feet first. His body turned a somersault in a long, sweeping arc. Ballou’s body straightened and his back landed squarely upon the roof, his feet extending over the edge.
With feet kicking wildly in the air, with arms beating in a vain, furious effort to save himself, Pete Ballou slid feet foremost over the edge of the roof!
A long, hideous scream seemed to follow him downward, dying away into space below. There was a dull crash beneath. Pete Ballou had gone to the fate which he had planned for another.
Slowly, The Shadow arose. As he reached his feet, he stopped at the sound of a police whistle from behind the house. Revolver shots resounded from below. Cardona and his men had arrived.
Quickly, The Shadow reached over the edge of the roof and drew up the short ladder which the gangsters had hoisted from a small bay window on the second floor. Moving to the side of the house, he set the ladder over to the roof of the building next door.
While Perry Wallace crawled to safety, The Shadow’s tiny flashlight beamed as he found the automatics which he had dropped in his struggle with Pete Ballou. Then The Shadow followed. Perry heard him drop the ladder into the space between the houses.
A TERRIBLE conflict had broken out between Cardona’s men and the remnants of the gangster horde. The pandemonium became dim as The Shadow urged Perry through a trapdoor in the roof of the house next door to Legira’s. They reached a small, dimly lighted room on the second floor. Here, Perry slumped into a large chair.
“Wait here!” Perry barely heard The Shadow’s warning. “You will be told when you can leave in safety. My man is here.”
Perry nodded, his eyes half closed. It seemed to him that no more than a second had passed before he looked about him. Yet The Shadow was gone!
The sounds of the fight diminished. Soon the battle was over. The police had conquered and rounded up the disorganized mobsters. The Shadow had routed the enemy for them.
The Shadow had struck. The Shadow had vanished. Unnoticed, he had passed from this house and found his way from the vicinity. While Perry Wallace still wondered how The Shadow had disappeared so quickly, the man in black was on his way to a new activity.
A speedy coupe whirling eastward on Long Island. At the wheel was The Shadow, seeking to regain the time that he had been delayed.
The car shot across a bridge, swerved swiftly around a corner and sped with bulletlike power along the highroad.
As the roar of the heavy motor burst through the night air, another sound was manifested. The man at the wheel was laughing. Peals of taunting mirth came from his shrouded lips.
The triumph laugh of The Shadow!
The laugh of the man who had won!
CHAPTER XXIV
A TRAITOR’S TRIUMPH
AN old touring car was parked off the side of a secluded road. Its lights were dim. The two men who occupied the vehicle were waiting and watching, their eyes peering through the darkness toward a covelike portion of the Long Island beach.
One man was Alvarez Legira, consul from Santander; the other was his servant, Francisco. They were awaiting the arrival of the boat from the yacht Cordova.
The rippling breeze swished whisperingly about the car. Both men listened intently, fancying that they heard vague sounds in the night. Then, Francisco pressed Legira’s arm and uttered low words in Spanish. A light was bobbing in the cove. It blinked four times — two long blinks and two short.
Legira extinguished the dim lights. He turned them on again and repeated the action. Another signal came from the cove. The consul uttered a cry of elation.
This was the boat from the Cordova.
Until now, pitch-blackness had ruled the cloudy night. But while Legira was speaking to Francisco, the rays of the moon emerged through a rift in the breaking clouds. The feeble light gained in its intensity. The ghostly illumination revealed two men moving slowly along the beach, carrying a box between them.
Legira and Francisco were heading for the little boat, which was now clearly visible. Drawn to the edge of the cove, the boat showed the huddled figures of the men who manned it.
There were whispers near the car which Legira had left. A low voice spoke. The tones were those of Harry Vincent, trusted operative of The Shadow. He and his comrades, Cliff Marsland and Clyde Burke, had followed Legira in another car.
“Running on schedule,” was Harry’s comment. “That’s the boat from the Cordova, right enough.”