“Leave it to The Falcon,” he said. “He’ll get in there and cover the guy. The door will be open for us when he gives the signal. This is a pipe.”
Grunted assent came from the listeners. One mobster stared down the dark stairway up which the group had come. He saw nothing in the gloom, nor did he hear a sound.
The gorilla’s alertness was justified. His gaze, however, was directed to the wrong spot. Watching eyes were close at hand; listening ears were near. But the being who could overhear the mumbled conversation of his mobsters was not within the confines of the fire tower.
A bat-like shape was clinging to a wall which projected at an angle from the set-in fire tower. Invisible in the darkness, this hidden creature seemed other than a human form. Above a shrouded head was a darkened, open window of Rowland Ransdale’s apartment.
Something squdged upon the wall. The mobster who had turned back to his fellows paused to listen. The sound was so elusive that he gave it no second thought. He did not hear another similar noise that followed.
The bat-like shape was moving away from the fire tower. Past the angle, it crept with sidewise, crab-like motion along the extended wall. The glow of city lights revealed the figure dimly. Like a huge vampire, The Shadow was sidling across a vertical surface!
Hands and feet were pressing against the wall. Each was equipped with a large concave disk of rubber. Each pressure of a suction cup gave its wearer purchase upon the wall. Each twist released one of the supports.
THE SHADOW had become a human fly. So familiar was he with this method of progress that his motions were timed to perfect precision. Terry Rukes and his followers might choose the corridor as the way to gain access to Ransdale’s apartment; The Shadow preferred the outer wall.
One light glowed as a beacon. The Shadow knew that the room which it indicated was probably the one in which Ransdale would be found. It was The Shadow’s goal. With remarkable ease, the creeping master reached his objective. His eyes peered through the space between a lowered shade and the window sill.
The room within was empty. Furnished with comfortable chairs, a long lounge and ornate tables, it constituted Rowland Ransdale’s den. Every window of the apartment opened on this wall; there were no other lights in view. Hence The Shadow knew that Ransdale must, for some reason, be waiting in darkness.
Had The Black Falcon already arrived? If so, action was essential at once. A gloved hand released itself from a suction cup. A long, thin strip of metal was thrust between the portions of the window sash. The lock turned noiselessly.
Up came the sash. Like a ghost from the beyond, The Shadow gained the window sill. His tall form cast a long black silhouette upon the floor. The door of the den was ajar. Wisely, The Shadow kept away from the opening. He made a circuitous tour of the lighted room and reached an alcove near the opening of the door. There, The Shadow listened.
Soft voices sounded suddenly. The Shadow caught the words that were uttered. A man was speaking in well-chosen accents. The Shadow, his keen eyes watching toward the door, sensed that Rowland Ransdale must be the speaker.
“Are they still waiting, Hazzlett?”
“Yes, sir,” came a voice that was less refined. “I just heard them talking. They seem to be a bit impatient, sir.”
“It’s time to be ready for them, then.” Ransdale’s voice broke with a slight chuckle, that showed a note of nervousness. “The police commissioner promised that a cordon would surround the place before the officers entered.”
“He was sure about The Black Falcon when you called him?”
“Absolutely. That means prompt action. I told him I would leave the den lighted, as a lure. Wait here, Hazzlett. I’m going through to listen a moment by the window toward the fire tower.”
Then silence followed. The Shadow waited. Long, tense moments; then, from somewhere came the soft note of a hissed whistle. Black gloves emerged from The Shadow’s cloak. Each fist held an automatic.
More moments of silence. A cautious whisper told that Ransdale was back with his servant, Hazzlett. Ransdale’s words concerned the sound that had reached The Shadow’s ears.
“You heard it, Hazzlett?”
“The whistle? Yes, sir.”
“Steady. Be ready for an attack. I’ll be at the door opposite.”
Footsteps creaked. Ransdale was crossing his living room. Even though he could not see beyond the door of the den, The Shadow knew how the arrangements stood. Ransdale and Hazzlett were waiting, armed, each on a different side of the living room. They expected an invasion; they knew that the den would be the objective of the invaders.
The whistle was the signal of The Black Falcon!
THE supercrook must be lurking somewhere, perhaps in the outer corridor. In this attack, it seemed, he was sending in his henchmen, under the command of Terry Rukes. Even yet, The Black Falcon might precede them. Perhaps, because of the broad layout of the apartment, he felt it best to invade with a squad in order to gain quick coverage.
So far as Ransdale and Hazzlett were concerned, the mine owner and his valet held the advantage, even against a squad of ruffians, provided only that their nerve did not fail them in the test. The Black Falcon, however, held the key to the situation. The Shadow knew the ability of this adversary.
If Ransdale and Hazzlett should let the invaders reach the lighted den, The Shadow would bear the brunt of this attack. If, however, the beleaguered men should fire too soon, it would be The Shadow’s part to stand in readiness. Peering from the opening of the den door, The Shadow kept his keen eyes fixed upon the dim spot which he knew must be the door from the corridor.
As The Shadow watched, the door moved slowly inward. A bulky form appeared against the light of the corridor.
It was Terry Rukes, at the head of his small mob.
The Shadow glided back into the den. Either The Black Falcon had sent the men ahead, or he was waiting elsewhere. The apartment was a large one; the supercrook could have hidden in some well chosen spot.
Terry’s form was near the den. The big mob leader was coming cautiously, as though expecting another signal. His men were behind him, all within the living room. Suddenly, Terry made a forward plunge. The den door shot inward as he pushed it.
Two revolvers barked. Ransdale and Hazzlett had opened fire. A bullet whistled past Terry’s shoulder and flattened itself against the doorway. Momentarily paused upon the threshold, the gang leader uttered a wild cry.
It was the sight of the being before him that gave Terry Rukes such consternation. The gang leader was staring squarely at the dreaded form of The Shadow. Blazing eyes — a looming automatic — these were the silent sights that brought his frenzied utterance.
“The Shadow!”
As Terry screamed the warning, shots came in quick rapidity from the sides of the living room. A second bullet dropped the gang leader in his tracks. The other mobsters were in confusion. They were turning in the gloom, to aim at flashes of flame that came from partly opened doorways.
Ransdale and Hazzlett were in the dark. The men whom they were shooting were midway between the streak of light that came from the den and the outer shaft of illumination from the corridor.
Terry Rukes had collapsed. Down went a second mobster. A third, cursing, staggered and gripped a wounded arm. Of the two who remained, one leaped for the den, forgetful of Terry’s warning scream. With outstretched revolver, he was ready to fire. The Shadow’s finger rested on the trigger of an automatic.
Then came a spurt from Hazzlett’s gun. The mobster, as he spied The Shadow, sprawled headlong at the feet of the dread being whom all evildoers feared. The Shadow had not been forced to fire his shot.