“Out o’ de way, boob!” he ordered, thrusting Clyde Burke against the wall. “Dis ain’t your lookout! Give de inspector me regards when he wakes up.”
With a contemptuous leer toward the sprawled form of Egglestone, The Shadow turned toward the stairs.
At that instant, Townley appeared from the rear of the hall. The detective yanked a gun; the fake crook was quicker. Out came the revolver from his sweater. Three rapid-fire shots went zizzing just above Townley’s head. The detective ducked to the floor.
Those shots came from above the banister as The Shadow headed toward the second floor. Wheeling at the top, he hurled back words to Clyde Burke.
“De commissioner’s a dub,” was the jeer, “yankin’ Joe Cardona off de job! Put dat in de poipers, bozo!”
Townley had reached the foot of the stairs. He was just in time to see the sweatered figure dart away from the top of the steps. Townley fired two wild shots; then drew a police whistle and blew it.
Bluecoats were already heading in from the back entrance. The front door suddenly came open. A withered-faced man — old Cobleton — entered with a flood of policemen. Inspector Egglestone was coming to his feet, half-dazed. Detective Townley took temporary command.
“Upstairs!” he bellowed. “Follow him! Outside, some of you, to cut him off!”
Cops responded. A trio dashed upstairs. They found an opened window at the rear; this was the exit that Cliff and Tinker had chosen. They shouted the news below. Arriving police formed a spreading cordon. Searchers went to work. But the procedure was too late.
The Shadow had made quick passage across the roof of the adjoining garage. He had scaled the roof of a house beyond; nearly a block away, he had dropped through a skylight to descend within an empty building.
A lone cop spied the sweatered figure as it appeared from an alleyway. The officer leveled a gun; then The Shadow, hurtling upon him, sent the weapon flying through the air. The officer sprawled as a quick wrench twisted his forearm. With this display of jujutsu, The Shadow headed away toward safety.
Two blocks away, he spied a waiting cab. Reaching his objective, The Shadow entered the vehicle. A hissed word to the driver.
Moe Shrevnitz grinned behind the wheel. He pulled away from the curb. Police whistles shrilled as officers, coming from another street, spied the moving taxi.
Another hiss from The Shadow. Inside the cab, he was removing the bandanna mask and peeling away the sweater. These garments went into the bag at his feet. His twisted smile was gone when he opened the cab window to meet the faces of officers who had brought Moe to a stop.
THE policemen saw the head and shoulders of a placid-faced man attired in evening clothes. They heard a voice that spoke in even, modulated tones as The Shadow inquired the meaning of the excitement.
“This ain’t the guy,” growled one.
“That’s just what I was going to tell you,” put in Moe, with a shrewd glance toward his passenger. “This fare’s from Brooklyn. I’m taking him up to the Waldorf.”
“An important reception, officer,” declared The Shadow, briskly. “I am already late.”
“All right,” agreed the cop. Then, to Moe. “What was the idea stopping down the block?”
“Heard a siren,” returned Moe, promptly. “Thought the patrol wagon was coming along. Drew up to the curb. That’s all.”
“Move ahead. Next time you’re coming in from Brooklyn, stick to the avenues. You’ll make, better time.”
“I’ll remember it, officer.”
The cab pulled away. Moe nodded at a new command from The Shadow. He swung around the block while The Shadow was busy with the suitcase.
Just beyond the fringe of the beleaguered area, Moe spied a patrolman on a beat. He pulled over to the curb. He saw The Shadow alight. Tall, in evening clothes, there was something pompous in his manner as he approached the officer.
Moe caught snatches of conversation. He saw the patrolman salute. Then The Shadow stepped to the cab, drew out the suitcase and tendered it to the bluecoat. Another salute; The Shadow stepped aboard and Moe drove away.
Bundling garments, The Shadow placed them on the seat beside him and indulged in a soft laugh. Moe nodded as he heard a new destination given.
BACK at the rifled hock shop, Inspector Egglestone was talking to old Cobleton. The owner of the place lived a block away. The excitement had brought him to the scene. In his little office, Cobleton lay slumped in a chair.
“Can you give us any clues?” Egglestone was demanding. “Have any suspicious characters come in here lately?”
“You ask me for clues?” questioned Cobleton. “When you found the man here and let him get away? Why ask me?”
Egglestone scowled. Clyde Burke grinned. The inspector noted the reporter’s action. He wheeled.
“Feeling smart, eh?” he questioned, sourly. “Well, it’s the last time any news hawk goes the rounds with me! Guess you’ll do some panning in that lousy sheet of yours. Just because that crook got a break—”
Egglestone stopped. A policeman had entered, carrying a suitcase. Egglestone opened the bag and stared at an assortment of boxes.
Old Cobleton, springing forward with a happy cry, pawed into the suitcase. As he opened boxes, glimmering jewelry came into the light. Cobleton was elated.
“My gems!” he shouted. “My gems! All here!”
“Where did you get them?” questioned Egglestone turning to the cop.
“From Commissioner Barth,” returned the officer. “He came up in a taxi and handed me this bag. Told me to bring it here. I moved in off my beat on account of it being the commissioner’s order.”
“Get that, Burke?” questioned Egglestone, turning to the reporter. “There’s your story. Police commissioner recovers the stolen gems. Don’t forget; it was my case—”
“How about getting the commissioner’s angle?”
“Good!” Egglestone nodded and picked up the telephone. “I’ll call headquarters.”
Three minutes later, Egglestone laid down the phone with a puzzled air. He turned to the patrolman who had brought in the suitcase.
“Are you sure that was the commissioner?” he questioned. “Did he identify himself?”
“He said he was the commissioner. He was wearing a full-dress suit.”
“Do you know the commissioner by sight?”
“No. I did think it was kind of funny, him being in a taxi.”
“That wasn’t the commissioner,” declared Egglestone, with a scowl. “The commissioner just called in from Long Island. He and Cardona went out there on a tip. Expected trouble at the home of Tobias Wolfenson. They found the house closed. Wolfenson is in Florida.”
“Say, Burke” — Egglestone wheeled suddenly to the reporter — “you’d better stick to the fact that the gems were recovered. Get me? That crook knew I had him trapped. Surrendered the swag to a patrolman so he could make a getaway.”
He drew Clyde over toward the safe and added a comment that the reporter alone could hear.
“My case,” he said. “Remember that. You’ve got your facts. We have the stuff back — inside half an hour. Gems worth fifty thousand.”
“About the crook,” put in Clyde. “Sweater or evening dress — which was he wearing?”
“Either one. Better make it a sweater.”
“Why not both?”
“Say — what’re you trying to do? Stick to the facts. I’ll tell you how to write this story.”
“You don’t need to. I’ve got my story.”
With a grin, Clyde Burke turned on his heel and strode from the little office, leaving Inspector Egglestone fuming. Leaving the pawnshop, Clyde waved his way past bluecoats and detectives and reached a cigar store two blocks away. He put in a call to Burbank. His grin increased.