Then came the unexpected break. While Tinker crouched helpless, a beam of light broke suddenly from the door of the room. Meeting the glare of Tinker’s shaking torch, it placed The Shadow between two paths of illumination.
Tinker saw The Shadow wheel to meet some new enemy. As the cloaked figure turned, a sharp cry came from the door. It was Cliff Marsland’s voice. Cliff’s light went out on the instant. Tinker, alone, saw all that followed.
The Shadow’s automatic barked as Cliff dived into the room. A bullet whistled through the outer door. An instant later, Cliff, with automatic of his own, delivered a point-blank answer toward the shape that Tinker’s light revealed.
The Shadow staggered. Tinker, amazed, came up to his feet and pulled his revolver. He saw The Shadow slumping to the floor; but before his gun was drawn, the automatic blazed again. Wounded, The Shadow was keeping up the fire.
A bullet zimmed past Tinker’s ear. In response to a cry from Cliff, Tinker sprang toward the outer door. A second shot missed him by inches only. Tinker’s light was no longer on The Shadow. Cliff, firing as he backed from the inner room, was following.
As they reached the storeroom, Cliff turned boldly and steadied his light back into the office. Tinker caught a glimpse of The Shadow rising. He saw the black form swing behind the open door of the safe. Then came a fierce, gibing laugh. An automatic boomed; its slug sizzled hot past Cliff Marsland’s ear.
Quickly, Cliff extinguished his light and grabbed Tinker. He dragged the crook toward the hall. They were on the stairway before Tinker, stampeded, could object.
“The sparklers!” cried Tinker. “Say, Cliff, that swag—”
“Too late!” put in Cliff, tersely. “I clipped him; but he’s not through. Listen!”
Again the chilling laugh. Defiant as a wounded tiger in his lair, The Shadow was inviting the enemy to return. Tinker groaned.
“No chance now,” he admitted. “Back of that safe door, he’s got a bead on us. Say, Cliff, maybe if we waited—”
“What for? The bulls?”
Tinker came to his senses. Instinctively, he started up the stairs. He realized that the fusillade must have been heard. Police were probably already on their way.
Again came The Shadow’s laugh. Cliff, following Tinker up the steps; gave a pleased grunt.
“Let him hold the bag,” he said. “That’s the stunt, Tinker! The bulls, finding The Shadow at the opened safe. Catching him with the goods.”
“Oke,” agreed Tinker, with a nervous laugh. “Come on! Scram! Here’s the window.”
The two dropped to the fence and headed down an alleyway just as sounds of police whistles came to their ears. They were making a getaway, with sufficient time to escape the law.
BACK in Cobleton’s little office, a soft laugh made an eerie whisper. With tiny flashlight glimmering, The Shadow stepped from behind the opened door of the safe. There was reason for his mirth. Aided by Cliff Marsland, The Shadow had played a deceptive game.
Cliff had come equipped with an automatic that contained blank cartridges. His point-blank shot had brought a faked stagger from The Shadow. Tinker Furris had been fooled. The crook had given Cliff full credit for clipping The Shadow.
In return, The Shadow had utilized real slugs. He had relied upon master marksmanship, purposely missing his human targets by inches only. Unscathed by Cliff’s phony shots, he was ready for the next stage of the game.
The flashlight showed the suitcase that Cliff had dropped by the door. Stooping above it, The Shadow drew the folds of his cloak over his head. Cloak and slouch hat dropped into the suitcase. Extinguishing his flashlight, The Shadow stepped to the wall and pressed a switch.
The office light came on. It revealed a remarkable transformation. Instead of a figure garbed in black, The Shadow had taken on the guise of a thug. He seemed to have lost in stature. Almost chunky, he was attired in dark trousers, jerseylike sweater, and bandanna handkerchief which served as a mask.
The black garments had gone into the suitcase. The Shadow moved swiftly to the safe; there he picked up jewel cases and placed them in the bag. Closing the suitcase, he moved toward the storeroom.
The shrills of whistles had penetrated here. A distant siren came faintly to The Shadow’s ears. Men were pounding at the doors of the hock shop, front and back. The Shadow laughed.
As he advanced into the hall, The Shadow heard the rear door shatter. Harsh voices called; then two officers came pounding in from the rear. The Shadow stepped back into the darkened storeroom. The policemen swung past as they spied the lighted office.
The cops were holding revolvers. They paused when they arrived at the opened safe. Then they turned as they heard a jeering guffaw. They stared into the muzzle of a glittering revolver, held by the sweatered gorilla. The Shadow had followed them into the office.
“Heave dem rods in here!” rasped The Shadow. “No funny stuff, coppers! I’ll drill youse guys—”
CAUGHT with revolvers lowered, the officers complied. They flung their weapons toward their captor.
The Shadow kicked the guns into the storeroom. He exhibited the bag.
“De swag’s in here,” he jeered, in crook fashion. “Tell Joe Cardona dis is where he shoulda come tonight. So long, saps. Dey’ll be lettin’ youse out soon.”
Dropping the suitcase, The Shadow reached out and slammed the door. He locked it from the storeroom side, picked up the bag of swag and headed for the hall. Voices reached his ears. Again, The Shadow paused.
“Be ready with the squad, Townley,” some one was saying. “I’ll look up the officers who entered.”
“Very well, inspector,” came the reply.
A grin appeared on The Shadow’s disguised face. Inspector Egglestone had arrived. He had passed Detective Townley, who had evidently arrived at the back door to cover after the bluecoats had entered.
Two men went past the door of the storeroom, then paused. A hall light replaced the glimmer of torches. The Shadow saw Inspector Egglestone; close behind him was Clyde Burke, reporter for the Classic.
“Maybe they went in there, inspector.”
Clyde offered the suggestion. Egglestone, tall and sour-faced, wheeled toward him.
“I don’t need any advice from you, Burke,” he announced. “Because Cardona is fool enough to give you leeway is no reason why I should. You’re lucky enough to be on this trip, without—”
Egglestone paused. Burke was staring past him, toward the door of the storeroom. Turning, the sour-faced inspector found himself confronted by the sweatered figure of The Shadow. He saw the leering lips that showed beneath the bandanna mask.
Egglestone stared at the muzzle of the revolver. Dully, he heard pounding sounds from far within the storeroom. The imprisoned officers were calling for aid.
“Hello, dere, Inspector!” came the harsh tone of The Shadow’s disguised voice. “Just youse and a news hound, hey? Dat’s soft! I don’t need dis gat.”
With a contemptuous gesture, the pretended crook thrust the revolver out of sight, beneath his sweater. He gestured with the suitcase.
“Old Cobleton will go cuckoo,” sneered The Shadow. “Say, dese sparklers I took will fence for thoity grand! Listen to dem mugs poundin’ away, inspector. Funny, ain’t it—”
EGGLESTONE’S hand was creeping to his coat pocket. With a sudden move, the inspector yanked a stub-nosed revolver and came springing forward upon the sweatered foe. Clyde Burke, staring, saw the mobster swing.
A clipping fist took the inspector cleanly on the jaw. Egglestone went backward; his opening fingers lost their hold on the gun. With a raucous laugh, The Shadow kicked the weapon into the storeroom.