But the connection of two sullen-faced gangsters with a rendezvous in a deserted alley between the Windsor Theater and the next-door apartment was a definite clue that pointed to unusual crime.
The men had spoken of one whom they called Ping. The Shadow knew of Ping Slatterly — a gang leader who had recently dropped out of sight. The fact that these rowdies were connected with so formidable an evildoer was important. Whether or not Ping Slatterly was Goldy Tancred’s unidentified associate, it was in keeping with The Shadow’s policy to impede the progress of impending crime.
Such opportunity was here. The Shadow had gained a definite mission. With other possibilities exhausted, the investigation had tapered down to a point where almost any definite warning of crime could be regarded as a clue to Goldy Tancred’s enterprise.
The Shadow knew their destination; he had knowledge of their possible goal. Nevertheless, he could accomplish most by following them. Often, in the past, The Shadow had thwarted the schemes of malefactors by suddenly appearing in the midst of their trusted cohorts.
Once these men were clear of this dive, The Shadow could trail them with ease.
The pair had left through the door by the time The Shadow was standing on the floor. With the leisurely shamble of a purposeless mobster, The Shadow moved slowly toward the exit.
His perfect disguise now served him well. Many eyes were upon him, but none suspected him to be other than an unimportant toady of some lesser mob.
There were two stone steps up to the door. On one side was the wall; on the other, an iron rail. The Shadow reached this point. With bowed head and sullen lips, he grasped the rail.
His departure was timed to perfection. But for the intervention of chance, he would have been outside of the dive within the next few seconds.
AN unexpected occurrence stopped The Shadow’s plan. As his forward foot reached the first of the stone steps, the door of the speakeasy was flung open. A huge, broad-shouldered, beefy-faced man stood glowering into the underground dive. His bulky form blocked The Shadow’s path.
A buzz swept through the room. The newcomer was known to the assembled crowd. He was a hard-boiled gangster who went under the name of Smash Harlow; directly behind him was the stocky figure of his pal, Bozo Guckert.
Glancing downward, Smash Harlow saw the disguised figure of The Shadow. He observed a face that was tough and grimy.
In bullying fashion, Smash expressed an immediate dislike toward the person who blocked his path.
“Out of the way, dopey,” he growled. “Whatcha trying to do — hog the whole doorway?”
Guffaws came from mobsters within the dive.
“Poke him one, Smash,” came an urging cry. “He doesn’t belong in this joint, anyway.”
Smash continued to glower. When he saw that the figure before him did not move away, the bullying mobster did more than try a punch. With a quick jerk, he pulled a large revolver from his pocket, and thrust the muzzle directly toward the hawk-like nose that was before him.
Finger on the trigger, Smash was ready to shoot down this small-fry mobster who had no friends.
Then came swift action. The stoop-shouldered figure seemed to lengthen. The Shadow’s long left arm shot directly upward, and caught Smash Harlow’s wrist. As the beefy man fired, the bullet took an upward course, and crashed against the stone ceiling.
Smash Harlow had no opportunity for another voluntary action. The Shadow’s right arm had caught him now. Raised by the crouching form that wore the sweater, Smash was lifted clear from the steps.
With a terrific upward snap, his assailant threw him headlong. The big man’s body whirled as it swept over the cap which The Shadow wore. Smash Harlow’s revolver sailed from his grasp and clattered against the wall; a moment later, his bulky form landed prone upon the floor.
Bozo Guckert was drawing his revolver. He never had a chance to use it. Straightening forward with incredible swiftness, The Shadow made a sideswipe with his left fist. The blow knocked the revolver from Bozo’s hand; then with a continued motion, The Shadow’s right arm swung.
A fist like a trip hammer caught Bozo Guckert on the chin. The powerful punch lifted the mobster over the rail beside the steps. Bozo Guckert landed back downward upon a table where two gangsters were sitting. The flimsy piece of furniture crashed beneath his weight.
In the midst of the confusion, the unknown gangster who had so ably defended himself made a swift departure. Guns flashed into view. Shots were fired at the spot where The Shadow had been. The bullets of the excited mobsmen found no target other than the closing door.
Nevertheless, the chase was on. Smash Harlow and Bozo Guckert were popular in this dive. Half a dozen gangsters leaped to their feet, ready to avenge the downfall of their friends. The snarling mobsters swarmed to the exit. They reached the alley and fired pot shots in the dark as they spread out in different directions.
They could not find their man. Somehow — somewhere — he had slipped from view.
WHILE the mobsmen were hustling along the alley, the stoop-shouldered figure which The Shadow had chosen as his disguise appeared from between two buildings on another street.
Swift, stealthy and spectacular, The Shadow would readily have met his pursuers in hand-to-hand combat. But, on this occasion, he could not afford the time. The encounter with Smash Harlow and Bozo Guckert had consumed valuable minutes. The two gunmen whom The Shadow was following had gained too great a headway. There was only one course now: to make for the destination which they had named.
This offered obstacles. The Shadow, still using the pose of a shambling gangster, was forced to choose a circuitous course in order to avoid the mobsmen who were prowling in search of him. He could not afford to waste precious moments in purposeless combat.
At last, his scurrying figure appeared upon a street which bore the appearance of a respectable neighborhood. Away from the borders of the underworld, The Shadow was free to make all speed.
Stooped and hurrying, he approached a powerful coupe that was parked beside the curb.
It was then that new eyes saw the huddled figure. A challenge came from across the street, as a policeman hurried up to find out what this sweatered individual was doing beside the expensive automobile.
Quickly, The Shadow slipped within the car. His cap dropped to the floor beside him. The sweater seemed to peel itself from his body. It fell, also; and from the back of the seat came a crushed opera hat, which popped open and reached The Shadow’s head just as the officer arrived.
White hands came up and pressed against the grimy visage. They seemed to be wiping away the traces of dirt; and with it, they were forming a molding process. The action continued as the officer circled the coupe. Just as the policeman thrust a flashlight into the open window, the white hands dropped to the steering wheel of the car.
“Hey, you!” came the policeman’s growl. “What are you doing in this car—”
The officer’s challenge ended with the sight of a surprised man attired in full-dress clothes and wearing an opera hat. Questioning eyes were staring at the open-mouthed policeman.
“What is it, officer?” came a calm voice.
“Guess I made a mistake, sir,” returned the policeman. “Thought I saw a tough-looking rowdy fooling around this car. There wasn’t anybody trying to get in, was there?”
“I saw no one,” responded the gentleman at the wheel. “Perhaps if you look around a bit, you might find the man you observed.”
LAMONT CRANSTON’S lips wore a smile as his hands turned the wheel and the car pulled away. The Shadow had worn a double disguise tonight. Beneath his sweater and baggy trousers was a closely tailored full-dress suit. He was kicking off the trousers now. The officer had not seen them in the dark.