This crowd was coming toward the alley. They were running forward, with Pasty in the lead. As the little gangster cried his warning, he made a dive for cover. His shrewd eyes had sighted the form beneath the lamplight.
One hasty revolver shot sounded the hostilities. It was the only burst that preceded The Shadow’s reply; and it failed to clip the black-cloaked fighter.
The Shadow’s automatics roared their answer. Mobsters staggered back. One fell as he fired a futile shot. Another sprawled, kicking at the paving of the street. The others scattered in wild retreat.
Pasty, crouching by the wall, was holding a revolver in his nervous clutch. He was aiming toward The Shadow, waiting for a chance to fire accurately. Then, as he saw the others take for cover, the little gangster lost his nerve. He fired wildly; once, twice, his aim wavering through fear. He pressed the trigger for the third time; but the shot that was heard did not come from his revolver.
The Shadow, spotting the revolver flashes, had responded. It was the roar of his automatic that sounded the final shot in this hectic struggle. A whistling bullet found its mark in the body of Pasty, the cringing gangster who had sought to thwart The Shadow. The last of the Marcus mob had fallen.
Complete silence followed the throbbing echoes of that last report. The tall black shape glided from the sphere of lamplight. A long, triumphant peal of laughter echoed along the narrow street. Blackened windows crackled back the gibing cry.
The Shadow had merged with the night. He had wiped out one of Manhattan’s toughest mobs of human wolves. Justice had gained a triumph. Yet this achievement was but a step toward The Shadow’s distant goal.
He was after bigger crime, seeking to thwart the schemes of men who worked by master methods. Tonight, The Shadow had made new progress. He had learned the identity of the man who had planned for perfect crime.
Boots Marcus, the key to the superplotter, was dead. And so was Pasty, the one underling who might have held an inkling to the dealings with Kistelle. None remained to block The Shadow’s course!
CHAPTER XIII
THE RESEARCH
THE SHADOW’S sanctum was alight. A mellow bluish glow spread throughout the entire room. The pale, mysterious hue ended abruptly as it reached the unreflecting walls, which were jet-black in color.
Even the floor was black. The Shadow, as he stood in the center of this mysterious chamber, had the appearance of a living silhouette — a projection of black that extended from the darkness that surrounded him.
Less than an hour had elapsed since the man of the night had battled with desperate denizens of the underworld. Phantomlike, he had disappeared into gloom, to pursue a path which was untraceable. Now, in this spot whose existence was known to him alone, The Shadow was returning to the task that lay ahead.
The weird figure moved across the room. A motion of one arm beside the wall caused a parting of enshrouding curtains. A row of massive volumes were displayed, niched in a portion of the opened wall.
These were the archives of The Shadow — those complete and detailed records that listed every event in The Shadow’s ceaseless war on crime; from minor skirmish to extended battle.
The blackclad figure shrank almost to nothingness as it stopped to consult one of the heavy bound books. The black-brimmed hat was raised. Not only the gleaming eyes, but the face beneath them appeared visible. In this sanctuary, there was none to see the hidden features of The Shadow.
His study ended, The Shadow replaced the volume that he had consulted. Another curtain opened and displayed a cabinet. From a drawer, The Shadow removed a folder. He carried it across the room to the polished table above which hung the work light.
Hidden switches clicked. The room was in darkness save for that single corner where only a shining tabletop received illumination.
From a single tome among his archives, The Shadow had gained the records that he wanted. The folder which now appeared in the light contained the details. Its contents — carefully prepared reports — slid into view. Before the eyes of The Shadow lay the facts that concerned the checkered career of Charles Kistelle.
Among the crooks whose schemes had been thwarted by The Shadow, Charles Kistelle was unique. His course of crime — so the records showed — had been limited, yet smooth.
Kistelle had come within The Shadow’s sphere of action, due to his connection with other criminals. He was a man who had chosen to remain in the background until opportunities for evildoing came his way.
WHEN The Shadow had met and demolished Kistelle’s associates, this lurking criminal had seen the writing on the wall. Through pure coincidence that had worked in his favor, Kistelle had been saved from destruction with the others.
A minor figure in a gigantic scheme that had failed, Kistelle had taken advantage of opportunity. He had fled, leaving the field to The Shadow.
Others had done this before; but invariably they made the mistake of believing that The Shadow would forget them. Kistelle had been too wise for that. He had not only stayed away from his old associations; he had been clever enough to avoid New York entirely. In an effort to bury himself completely, he had enlisted in the United States army under an assumed name.
Yet the hand of The Shadow, reaching everywhere, had plucked forth data that showed the course Kistelle had taken. This information had been gained too late. Records showed that Charles Kistelle, alias Charles Kitchener, had deserted along with others, when stationed near the Mexican border.
A photograph came into view upon The Shadow’s table. It was a picture of Charles Kistelle as he had been. It bore no resemblance to the three men who looked alike: Earl Northrup, Harold Thurber, and Thomas Rodan. As Boots Marcus had stated, Charles Kistelle had returned to New York a completely different person.
Since Kistelle had changed; since he had adopted the new name of Craig Kimble, there was one important inference. This was, namely, that the other three were new men also.
The Shadow’s laugh was evidence that this fact impressed him as intriguing. In all the mad orgies of crime that The Shadow had encountered in the past, none reached the fantastic heights of this one.
Four men who looked alike! Each an individual with an odd, but distinctive physiognomy that made him conspicuous to those who knew him. The situation seemed unbelievable; but to The Shadow it brought only further thoughts. Nights before, here in this very sanctum, The Shadow had foreseen a further possibility.
With two, three, four men whose strange facial characteristics were identical, what could prevent the possibility of more? Why not five — or six? Why not a dozen? Until the answer to the perplexing riddle could be gained, The Shadow must hold that assumption.
Behind this very thought lay the explanation of The Shadow’s extraordinary encounter with Thomas Rodan, in Daltona, Georgia. Three crimes had been perpetrated. How many more were to follow? The only course was to travel ahead of crime — not to be behind it.
The hand of The Shadow began to write. It was inscribing the thoughts of The Shadow’s brain. Short words shone on paper. As each sentence faded, another replaced it. Step by step, The Shadow was developing the course of crime as Charles Kistelle had planned it.
KISTELLE was the crime-maker. Through some amazing circumstance, he was plotting and perpetrating mighty schemes with the aid of men who looked exactly like him. In Tilson; in Barmouth; in Daltona — each place a crime protected by a perfect alibi. Such men as Northrup, Thurber, and Rodan were mere instruments in the hands of this daring crook.
Now, The Shadow knew Kistelle’s identity; knew where he could be reached. Kistelle was in New Orleans, waiting for word from some unknown source, biding his time until a new crime would be ready for its culmination.