Two hours before, Ransdale had left his house in the Catskills. His last act had been to make sure that Lamont Cranston was a hopeless prisoner. As The Black Falcon, the fiend had traveled hither in his fast plane.
It was impossible, The Black Falcon knew, that Lamont Cranston could have reached this spot in pursuit, even if he had escaped. The presence of The Shadow, therefore, seemed miraculous.
The Black Falcon was trapped. He dared not fire at Joe Cardona. Such a shot would mean his instant doom. The Shadow’s mighty automatic was covering the crook.
Luck had served The Black Falcon before. It was to avail him now. Joe Cardona, facing The Black Falcon’s revolver, was waiting unflinchingly for the shot of death. Cardona could not see The Shadow.
Nor did Commissioner Weston observe the eerie personage who had brought this strange denouement to the strained situation. Weston, staring toward The Black Falcon, saw only that for some reason the fierce crook had faltered. He could note the palsied tremor of Rowland Ransdale’s hand. He saw the trigger finger waver in the trigger guard.
With a tiger-like spring, Ralph Weston leaped from the chair behind the desk and hurled his bulky form upon The Black Falcon. A man of courage, Weston had launched this attack to save Cardona’s life, not caring what had caused The Black Falcon’s momentary failure.
Up went The Black Falcon’s arm. The crook staggered backward and fell beneath Commissioner Weston’s powerful frame. It was then that his luck availed him. As he collapsed hopelessly, the criminal was saved from The Shadow’s aim, for his body was automatically shielded by the bulk of the police commissioner.
As a second stroke of fortune, the revolver remained in Rowland Ransdale’s clutch. Though his arm was flung sidewise, the cornered crook managed to press the trigger. The bullet struck the wall; but the frantic purpose of the shot was gained. The Black Falcon had sent his signal!
JOE CARDONA was on his feet, yanking his revolver. Instinctively, the detective turned toward the door. He gasped as he saw The Shadow.
Joe Cardona understood, as he observed The Shadow’s free hand pointing toward the floor. Nodding, Cardona leaped forward to aid Commissioner Weston in the capture of The Black Falcon.
The Shadow’s pointing left hand moved inward. The black cloak swished as the left hand snatched forth a second automatic to match the one in the right. With the same motion, The Shadow whirled and faced out into the passage that led to Weston’s living room.
The maneuver was well timed. Just as The Shadow aimed his automatics toward the dimly lighted living room, Pinkey Sardon appeared, armed at the head of his squad. The toughest gorilla in Manhattan was coming in response to The Black Falcon’s signal.
Pinkey stopped short as he saw The Shadow. The gorilla’s revolver was pointed. Reputed to be the swiftest shooter that the bad lands had produced, Pinkey had his opportunity. Before him was The Shadow! The enemy of all crooks; the avenger who had dealt death to Rowdy Kirshing!
Pinkey and The Shadow were gun to gun. The gorilla, as he pressed finger to trigger, steadied his aim with almost instantaneous action. The movement, however, required the tiniest fraction of a second. It was the slightest sort of gesture, yet one which The Shadow did without.
A roar sounded through the passage. By a hair-breadth of time, The Shadow had beaten Pinkey Sardon to the shot. The terrific report came from the automatic that loomed from the avenger’s right hand.
So close was the timing that The Shadow could not prevent Pinkey’s shot. The mob leader’s faltering finger twitched convulsively as Pinkey crumpled to the floor. The gorilla’s drooping wrist, however, had not retained the aim. The bullet which Pinkey delivered in the throes of death, whistled past The Shadow’s form.
Instantly, the black-garbed master sprang forward. His automatics boomed in quick succession as his keen eyes caught the glare of leveling revolvers, held by the mobsters who had stopped short to watch their leader collapse.
Roaring shots echoed in quick tattoo. Zimming bullets scorched through flesh and bone as The Shadow’s metal found its mark in human targets. Screaming gangsters dived for shelter; others, dropping grimly, tried to fire at the weaving mass of blackness which surged upon them.
The Shadow’s long arms were sweeping wide. The barks of his dread guns were timely. His keen eyes guided the aim to those mobsters who had sought to fight. Cursing men withered and useless revolvers dropped from loosening hands.
One mobster, alone, fired a shot that clipped a gap in the side brim of The Shadow’s slouch hat. He was the last to meet The Shadow. A burst of flame almost in his face settled the venomous gunman. He sprawled headlong.
The others — they had fled for cover in the anteroom — had stopped in hopes of delivering a counter-attack. But before they could plan an onslaught, The Shadow was upon them. Bursting flashes from the automatics sent the rogues scurrying through the corridor. As they fled in wild confusion, a terrifying burst of mockery overtook them.
The Shadow had reached the outer door. In tune with new bursts of the automatics, The Shadow delivered a weird, sinister laugh of triumph. The sardonic taunt rose to a crescendo; then broke. Shuddering echoes followed the din of gunfire. Gangsters, staggering down the stairway, kept on in their mad flight.
BACK in Weston’s office, Joe Cardona was ready with his revolver. The police commissioner had yanked the gun from The Black Falcon’s grasp. He had thrown it across the room. The crook seemed helpless in his clutch; and Cardona risked no fire.
Then came a swift turn. With a sidewise lunge, The Black Falcon hurled Weston backward. As the commissioner clutched for his enemy’s throat, a swift fist swung in answer. The blow reached Weston’s chin. The commissioner sank to the floor. The Black Falcon, rising, leaned against the wall.
His eyes, blurred by the twisted mask, spotted Joe Cardona. The tables were turned. The detective, grimly aiming his revolver, held the crook beneath control. Firing had died from without. Cardona was holding The Black Falcon alive.
The crook, weakly raising his arms as Cardona growled an order, seemed pitifully fagged. Joe yanked a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. He moved forward to thrust his revolver into the stomach of the man before him.
It was then that The Black Falcon made his break. With a frenzied leap to the right, he swung his left hand backward, in an attempt to block Cardona’s aiming hand. The move was a lucky one. The Black Falcon’s fist encountered the barrel of the revolver and knocked Cardona’s aim astray.
As the detective swung to fire, The Black Falcon’s right fist swung to action. The punch met Cardona’s face. The detective flopped back against the desk and rolled to the floor.
While Cardona was groggily coming to his knees, The Black Falcon, weaponless, leaped for the side door of the room. He yanked the portal open and plunged into a hallway beyond.
Cardona fired. His quick shots shattered plaster from the walls of the passage through which The Black Falcon had fled. The bullets, hastily aimed, went wide. Cardona, stumbling to his feet, caught himself against the desk.
As the detective faltered, unable to take up the chase, a tall figure appeared at the front door of the office. The Shadow had returned. His keen eyes saw the chaos.
Commissioner Weston was slouched on the floor, his hand pressed to his chin. Joe Cardona was leaning back against the desk, trying to regain his sense of balance.
The opened door at the side of the room told its story. The Black Falcon had fled. Vital seconds had given him an opportunity to put good space between himself and any pursuers.