“Seems like one was from some joint out in Illinois,” he mused. “Then there was one from a hick town in Maryland. These last two — the one you got and the one I sent to Charley Kistelle — was from the same place, some town in Georgia. I ain’t even been up to the office” — now that his story was told, Boots was trying to disclaim connection with Kistelle — “because I’ve been layin’ low. I sent another guy up there to get the mail. It didn’t mean nothin’ to me.”
The Shadow stared coldly at the gang leader. He knew that Boots Marcus was as yellow a rat as the underworld could boast. Boots half-grasped The Shadow’s thoughts. He edged backward in his chair. Avoiding The Shadow’s gaze, he stared at the door beyond the form in black.
UNLESS his mob had failed to move through fear of The Shadow’s presence, they should be there by now. Ready for a surprise attack, they would be awaiting a signal from their leader. The time was ripe for it now.
Boots knew that his fate rested, at this moment, with The Shadow. He sensed that from now on he could be of no use to The Shadow’s plans.
In fact, as traitor to Charley Kistelle, Boots Marcus would be better dead than alive, so far as The Shadow was concerned. Living, Boots could double-cross The Shadow by communicating with Charley Kistelle. Dead, he could not interfere with any of The Shadow’s undertakings.
There was no time to lose. Boots must tip off the mob; or, better, take a chance that his men were outside, ready to help him. Acting shrewdly, the gang leader tried to give a signal without betraying his intention to The Shadow.
“I’ve given you all the dope,” whined Boots. “I ain’t tried to keep nothin’ from you. You got me without my mob. If the boys was here, they’d help me. I wish they was here, right now—”
The door was slowly opening. Boots Marcus could see it as he stared past The Shadow. The man in black was looking at the gang leader’s eyes. A laugh came from the lips that were hidden by the collar of the black cloak.
In his tense eagerness, Boots Marcus had betrayed the game. The Shadow’s form turned suddenly. It whirled toward the door, just as the barrier swung inward. One man, peeping in, had seen The Shadow’s back. He had waved the others forward.
The rush was a split second too late. The Shadow’s hands were moving as he swung. His automatics blazed — one from either hand — while his tall shape was still revolving. Staccato shots marked the bursts of flame.
The bodies of two gangsters sprawled headlong through the door. Revolvers clanged upon the floor. The Shadow had met the surprise attack.
Reversing his turn, The Shadow swung toward Boots Marcus. Springing from his chair, the gang leader had drawn his revolver.
The Shadow had timed the action to the instant. His right-hand automatic covered Boots as the gang leader’s finger was about to press the trigger of the revolver. The automatic spoke again. Boots Marcus, like his henchmen, had been too late to meet this marksman who dealt in split seconds.
Quick victory had been The Shadow’s; but the fight had just begun. From those lips beneath the hat brim came a burst of taunting mirth. The laugh of The Shadow rang out its defiance to the forces of the underworld.
With one swift motion, The Shadow extinguished the light. A second later he was in the hallway; there, his automatics broke forth, blazing a trail of lead along the walls. The bright splashes of light revealed the forms of lurking gangsters. Some fell from the bullets; others dived to the floor to escape the barrage.
Through the dark, The Shadow swept back into the room. He reached the window and swiftly opened it. There was a darkened courtyard beneath. There, in the dimness, men were waiting, ready to cut off this avenue of escape. Shouts echoed through the hall; they came from the stairs below. They showed that others were blocking the normal exit from this place.
The Shadow never hesitated. His tall form was totally invisible as it stood by the open window. It emerged, close to the wall of the building. Clinging batlike to the bottom of the window. The Shadow lowered his body over the edge.
A flashlight gleamed from below. Its glare revealed the outline of the form in black. Wild, eager cries arose. Then came revolver shots. The tall shape was dropping from its perch beside the window!
ONCE again, The Shadow had dealt in timed split seconds. It was the light, not the shots, that had caused him to drop to the narrow court below. The bullets came while he was falling. They were flattened against the brick wall. Not one was discharged in time to reach the body of The Shadow.
The spotlight came swinging downward. Before its gleam had reached the place where The Shadow had dropped, an automatic roared through the night. The man with the flashlight staggered. Another shot clipped one of the gunmen beside him. Desperately, other gangsters dived away. The Shadow was still in action!
Now a light gleamed from above. A gangster had dashed into the room vacated by The Shadow. Leaning from the window, he played the rays of his torch downward, hoping to reveal The Shadow to his pals below. Instead, he revealed himself.
A shot barked from near the entrance of the court. Moving swiftly, The Shadow had gone directly toward his enemies. He had answered the challenge of the light. The proof of his marksmanship came when the man with the torch toppled headlong and thudded in the court. The falling torch was shattered as it struck the paving beside him.
Then came a desperate struggle at the spot where the court started from the alley. Here were the gunmen who had ducked. Now they sprang forth desperately to prevent the escape of the man whom they could not see. Had The Shadow fired at any one of them, he would have revealed his position. Instead, he worked in silence.
Unseen in the darkness, two powerful arms swung up and down. Invisible hands wielded heavy automatics with unrelenting force. Caught in the narrow space, the bewildered gangsters fell before The Shadow’s fury. In the dim light of the alley, a tall form broke loose from futile, yielding clutches.
It was then that The Shadow chose the unexpected objective — the front door of the house where the fray had begun. Stationed there were half a dozen gangsters. At first, they had started up the stairs; now they were returning.
Had The Shadow taken to flight, pursuers would have been on his heels. But such was not The Shadow’s course. He conquered danger by meeting it.
As the reenforcing mobsters came toward the door, The Shadow encountered them face to face. His automatics broke loose with all the lead that they still contained. Charging men toppled forward. The last advancing mobster made a mighty leap and fell writhing at The Shadow’s feet.
A long burst of weird mockery sounded through the darkness. It came as the knell of doom to the ears of dying mobsters. Not a single shot answered it. The Shadow, alone, had silenced the guns of the gorillas who served Boots Marcus.
In the alleyway, the tall form appeared once more. The hands of The Shadow thrust the emptied automatics beneath the black cloak. They emerged with two new weapons. Swinging toward the street at the end of the alley, The Shadow emerged and stepped into the lamplight.
“The Shadow!”
The cry came from less than thirty yards away. The man who uttered it was the only member of the Marcus mob who had escaped. Pasty, the wizened gangster, who had brought the now-conquered horde, had reached the street during the conflict, and had run to summon new aid. He had encountered half a dozen mobsters.
To them, the news that the Marcus gang was in trouble brought no incentive toward a rescue. But the word that The Shadow was on hand was sufficient to stir all black-hearted killers to action.