Two husky cutthroats were leaping forward with flashing knives; behind them were others armed with revolvers. Against such odds, only flight seemed feasible; but had The Shadow turned his back to flee, he would have become a target for six deadly weapons.
Instead, he did the unexpected. Barely a dozen feet lay between him and the surging crew. Two automatics were in The Shadow's hands. The pistols roared into the teeth of the attackers!
A knife slashed the side of the black cloak; the man who held the blade pitched headlong.
A revolver shot clipped the slouch hat; the man who fired fell before he could deliver another shot. The Shadow was among the Apaches now. All but one were sprawled along the corridor.
The one fellow had flattened himself against the wall. He had escaped the raking fire, and now his hand swung upward with its automatic.
The Shadow's aim was quicker. His final bullet struck the Apache's wrist. As the arm fell, The Shadow, with a burst of derisive mirth, reached out and plucked the gun away from its owner. The Shadow's empty automatic dropped at the man's feet.
Sweeping along the corridor, The Shadow reached the front room of the Poisson d'Or.
There, a crowd of grinning Apaches were awaiting the return of the killing squad. They were used to these affairs. Always, a gang of cut-throats would rush away and come back with a victim's bullet-riddled body as their trophy.
Into this scene came The Shadow! Before the Apaches realized that the impossible had happened, the cloaked man's automatic was again at work.
As one rising Apache fell wounded, the other mobsters dived for cover. With sweeping strides, The Shadow gained the door, and his sardonic laugh was loud with mockery and menace.
As The Shadow's hand pressed the knob, the door crashed inward, and a squad of gendarmes burst into the place. Coming to rescue a helpless American, they had heard the gunfire. The Shadow stepped back as the door burst. The gendarmes were hurtling upon him. His right arm swung with terrific force as The Shadow leaped among the officers.
Two gendarmes staggered. Their hands slipped from the black cloak. Diving forward, The Shadow broke loose and sprang to the street.
The Apaches had been quick to meet the double emergency. Their guns were barking as The Shadow swung his way through the gendarmes. They sought to slay the man in black, and to withstand the attack of the law.
Their first purpose failed. The hail of bullets was too late to thwart The Shadow's escape.
Gendarmes were falling; but others, dropping to the floor, blazed away at the mobsters. The Apaches were outnumbered. Those who were able, scurried to the corridor and fled.
With the mob subdued, gendarmes rushed to the street and scattered everywhere in search of the man who had baffled them. But in the darkness that reigned over that quarter of Paris, a man in black could make himself invisible.
Darkness shrouded the form of The Shadow. He was nowhere to be found.
While the gendarmes still persisted in their search, the dignified American reappeared in Suite 15 of the Hotel Barzonne.
His face retained its calmness; there was no hurry in his action as he opened the drawer of the steamer trunk and removed the clippings and the typed sheets that referred to Herbert Brockley. In a blank space, the quiet man wrote the name of Louis Bargelle. The last of Brockley's slayers was gone. Methodically, the American tore the sheets and clippings. He laughed — and his laugh was an echo of those taunting jibes that had sounded within the walls of the Poisson d'Or. The next morning, two Parisian detectives were going over a report of the battle at the Apache dive. They were discussing the deaths of certain criminals — among them Louis Bargelle — when an attendant entered. He was carrying a tightly wrapped paper.
A detective opened it and gasped in surprise as he saw the contents — a mass of paper money. He counted it. Twenty thousand francs!
The only clue to the sender was an oddly shaped card among the bills; but the card was blank. The detective held the card to the light. It showed no markings whatever.
But upon the wall — unnoticed by the detective — the card cast a strange shadow that bore a grotesque resemblance to the profile of a human being!
Chapter II — The Storm of Death
Stuart Bruxton brought his automobile to a sudden stop in front of a dilapidated building beside the road. The place had been a filling station once — the rusted gasoline standard told that.
Now, the house was nothing but a deserted shack — yet it was the only human habitation that Stuart had seen for the past few miles.
Peering through the gloom of the gathering dusk, Stuart Bruxton tried to distinguish objects on the small porch of the battered building. He fancied that he had seen the figure of a man standing beneath that small and rickety roof.
It was impossible to observe anything now; but as Stuart stared toward the house, the whole building was suddenly revealed, in the temporary glare of a distant lightning flash. During that short, photographic scene, Stuart's first impression was justified. There actually was a man on the porch. He seemed to be hiding behind a battered pillar.
Stuart lowered the window of the coupe. He called out, but his voice was drowned by the long rumble of the thunder. When silence came, he called again; then waited while big drops of rain spattered through the window.
Stuart watched to see if the man would respond, waiting patiently for another flash of lightning. Before it came, someone spoke in reply.
The man had come from the porch through the darkness. He was standing beside the car.
Stuart could distinguish his face through the gloom.
"I'm heading for a town called Herkimer," explained Stuart. "How do I get there?"
"I'm going that way," came the reply. "Want to give me a lift? Guess I can show you the road."
"Sure thing," responded Stuart.
The man clambered into the car. Now, at close range, Stuart saw that he was evidently a man from the city. He was well dressed, even though his overcoat bore signs of long wear. He was about thirty-five years of age, and his face, while pale and drooping, indicated intelligence.
"Herkimer's straight ahead — for a while," the man remarked. "Glad you came along. I was kinda stranded there, on that porch. Waiting for the storm to pass over."
They were entering the storm zone as the man spoke. Stuart could feel the effects of the driving wind as he managed the powerful coupe. Rain was battering against the windshield, and the glare of the bright lights shone into an oncoming torrent.
Stuart pictured the porch where the man had been. It was hardly an enviable spot during a deluge, but it was better than the open.
"Hiking my way," explained the man. "Cut across this road because it was shorter, and figured I could pick up a hitch. But the people seem to be kinda leery of hikers. That's why I was watching, when you came along."
"You know this road?" questioned Stuart.
"Yeah," the man answered. "It's a good road, but it isn't on the map. Lot of them like that, down here in Maryland. They told me all about it, back in the last town. When we get a few miles farther on, I'll show you a short cut."
They drove along in silence for a few minutes; then the man at Stuart's side began a brief and disjointed explanation of his circumstances.
His name, it appeared, was Jefferson — he did not mention his surname. He had gone broke in a town outside of Baltimore and had decided to foot it for New York.
The man said nothing of his business; merely mentioned that he had friends in Manhattan, and was anxious to get there. Stuart asked no questions, so the man's talk ended. The fury of the storm had increased. The road, although narrow, was well paved, and Stuart handled the car in expert fashion. They were traveling nearly forty miles an hour — a high speed under the conditions. Stuart's eyes were glued to the road. He wanted to make Herkimer, where he could cut over to a main road, and reach Philadelphia within a few hours. The companionship of the hitch-hiker was not disagreeable, so he intended to take the man all the way.