“Sure,” growled Chopper. “But there’s no bulls coming. How’re they going to find this joint. Muff? Tyrell cleared out and so did Pug. They didn’t throw out no confetti while they went along, so some flatfoot could go back over the trail. Whatta you think this game is? Hares and hounds?”
“Well, if they was coming back, they’d be here now—”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Suppose we plugged these bimboes and scrammed. Suppose some flatfoot heard the shots.”
“He wouldn’t find us.”
“No. But he might be on the job when Tyrell and Pug got back. That’s why we’re waiting, Muff.”
Chopper pulled a bulky watch from beneath the folds of the grimy gray sweater that he was wearing. He tapped the dial in significant fashion.
“Two minutes more,” he announced. “After that, we know for sure that Tyrell and Pug ain’t coming back. I don’t figure they are coming back. If Tyrell got The Shadow — like he was sure he would — there’d be no reason to come back. But I ain’t going to be a mug. No use of putting him and Pug in a jam if they do head back here—”
Chopper broke off. He had heard a sound outside the room. It was that of a motor, pulling into the side entrance of the deserted garage. Chopper nudged his thumb toward the door.
“Sounds like ‘em now,” he stated. “Take a look upstairs, Muff.”
Muff unbarred the old wooden door. He moved cautiously up a short flight of stone steps, to a darkened floor six feet above. He heard the final chugs of a motor that a driver was turning off. Chopper watched his companion reach the top of the flight.
“Who’s there?” growled Muff, in challenge.
“Tyrell,” came a cautious voice from the darkness of the raised floor. “Who’s that?”
“Muff.”
As he gave his identity, Muff Motter performed an action that was foolish as well as unnecessary. He pressed a light switch at the head of the stairs to illuminate the abandoned garage room into which the car had pulled.
An oath came from Chopper Hoban in the room below. The gorilla who was guarding Harry and Cliff was about to growl to Muff to douse the glim. It was Muff’s sudden cry that stopped Chopper’s protest.
“The Shadow!”
BEFORE him, approaching from the side of a stopped sedan, Muff saw the black-cloaked figure. He had heard Tyrell’s voice; but instead of viewing the suave crook, Muff was staring at the form of The Shadow. He was confronted by the scourge of the underworld!
Muff Motter was holding a ready revolver. He had been gripping this gun in anticipation of riddling helpless prisoners. At sight of The Shadow, Muff swung his weapon upward; his revolver never gained a chance to bark.
An automatic spat flame from The Shadow’s right hand. A slug caught Muff Motter in the chest. The mobsman floundered. The Shadow gave him no further heed. As he fired, the black-garbed marksman sprang forward; his goal the steps to the room below.
Chopper Hoban acted. While the gunshot echoed, he snarled an oath. He slammed the door of the stone-walled room just as The Shadow reached the top of the steps. Chopper shot the bolt. Fuming, he swung to aim at Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland.
“You rats are going out!” rasped Chopper. “Curtains for you first. Then The Shadow!”
The scoundrel’s lips wore a vicious leer. Chopper was away from the door. He knew that quick shots would finish Cliff and Harry. After that, it would be a battle with The Shadow.
The revolver pointed toward Cliff Marsland. With a sudden effort, Cliff twisted from the wall. Bound as he was, he rolled clear of Chopper’s aim. Rasping a laugh, the executioner turned to level his gun at the spot where Cliff had flattened.
Apparently, Cliff’s action was futile. Actually, it brought the precious delay that The Shadow needed. The cloaked rescuer had reached the wooden door. His right hand was driving downward with a terrific stroke. The Shadow was gripping the barrel of an automatic. The butt of the big .45 was swinging to the panel of the door.
Crash!
The blow was equal to the stroke of a sledgehammer. The heavy weapon, swung by a long and mighty arm, came smashing through the panel. The upper center of the door was splintered. A gloved fist stopped short as it appeared through the opening.
Fingers released the automatic. The improvised hammer went clattering across the floor. Chopper Hoban, whirling at the sound, saw the hand draw quickly out of sight. He aimed to fire at the floor.
The clatter of the automatic told Chopper that The Shadow’s withdrawing hand was weaponless. That was why the gorilla acted in a frenzied fashion. His first shots, from an angle, were useless. Knowing this, Chopper sprang to the far wall, directly above Harry Vincent’s bound form, and aimed point-blank for the hole in the door.
As finger sought trigger, Chopper saw the rounded muzzle of a second automatic. Above it were two blazing eyes. Then came a burst of flame; the echoing roar of the automatic. Chopper Hoban was too late to fire. His gun arm dropped; his sweatered form twisted dizzily, then clumped to the stone floor.
A LAUGH from beyond the door. It was a peal of mocking triumph. The automatic disappeared. A fist reached through and drew the bolt. The shattered door swung open. The Shadow entered the room where his agents lay.
Swiftly, the black-garbed rescuer produced a knife and cut the thongs that bound the prisoners. The Shadow loomed like a blackened phantom from the night, amid the light of this stone-walled room. Directly beneath the single incandescent, his tall figure formed four separate shadows which stretched along the floor like the pointers of a compass. Splotched streaks of blackness made an uncanny sight that neither Harry Vincent nor Cliff Marsland noticed.
The agents, rising from the floor, were obeying The Shadow’s hissed order. A blackened arm rose and pointed toward the steps. Harry and Cliff scrambled in that direction. The Shadow reclaimed his first automatic and followed. His laugh sounded with a sardonic burst that left whispering echoes in the underground room.
As Harry and Cliff scrambled into the back of the sedan, The Shadow gained the wheel. The motor rumbled. The car swung about, swerved past Muff Motter’s outspread body and roared through the open entrance to an alleyway.
Shouts came from the street as the sedan appeared. A policeman had heard The Shadow’s shots. He was looking for the spot where they had come from. The escaping car told him it must be the old garage.
As the sedan swung screeching into the thoroughfare, the bluecoat shouted a command to stop. The Shadow did not heed it. The officer fired ineffectual bullets after the swiftly moving car. The sedan roared ahead.
A patrol car, with siren whining, drove up to take the chase. It had arrived too late. The Shadow’s car had already reached the end of the block and was swinging out of sight into the traffic of an avenue.
Harry and Cliff, crouched in the rear of the sedan, heard a whispered laugh from the shrouded driver. They took the tones to be a new expression of The Shadow’s triumph. They did not know that the hissed taunt was for the future, not the past.
New adventure lay ahead. With his freed agents to support him. The Shadow was bound on his most important quest. He was taking up the broken trail of Slug Bracken. He was out to reclaim the stolen relics that men of evil still possessed!
CHAPTER XIX
THE MASTER HAND
“DETECTIVE CARDONA, sir. Gentlemen with him.”
“Show them in, Cuthbert!” exclaimed Hubert Bexler. “Here, in the living room.”
The servant departed. He returned, followed by four men. With Joe Cardona were two whom Bexler recognized promptly: Sebastian Dutton and Rudolph Brockthorpe. The fourth visitor was a man of military bearing, whose firm, full face showed a trim, pointed mustache.