LOPING through the bedroom, Hawkeye gained the window and dived for the fire escape. He was just in time. Mullard had reached the bedroom; two shots stabbed from the chauffeur's gun.
Hawkeye twisted through the rail and clung there to take aim; but Mullard had reached the window. The chauffeur saw the whiteness of Hawkeye's wizened face and jabbed shots at the fugitive.
As the first bullet whistled past the tip of Hawkeye's ear, the spotter dropped from the fire escape. Wise was his move; for Mullard's second shot zizzed past the very spot where the little trailer had been.
Gasping a wild cry as he fell, Hawkeye plopped to the mud of the alleyway and rolled beneath the hinged ladder of the fire escape.
Mullard had heard Hawkeye's gasp. The chauffeur thought that he had crippled his quarry. Windows were banging upward in the apartments on other floors.
Mullard swung about, snatched a big suitcase from the floor and dashed through the living room. He saw his companion waiting; whiteness registered on Coyd's tight features.
“I bagged him,” growled Mullard “Let's get away, in a hurry. Who was he?”
“Some thief,” was the reply. “Weed was here; the fellow must have found the window that he opened.”
Footsteps clattered as the two men dashed down the front stairs. Outside, they leaped into the limousine which Mullard had parked a few doors below. As yet, excitement had not reached the front of the building.
Coyd shot the big car from the curb.
Just as the limousine wheeled away, a wizened face poked from a corner of the old house. Hawkeye's sharp eyes saw the departure; the spotter knew that pursuit was hopeless. No vehicle was handy to take up the chase. Sidling away, Hawkeye scurried along Q Street, anxious to get away from this terrain before police arrived.
The Shadow's substitute had done his best; but the breaks had been against him. Too late to spot Weed's entry, Hawkeye had reached the hide−out only to encounter trouble. Instead of gaining a triumph for The Shadow, the little substitute had been lucky to save his own hide.
To−night, success had been in the balance. Had The Shadow; himself, been present to trail Tyson Weed, the schemes that involved Congressman Coyd would have been nipped in the bud. Had The Shadow witnessed that interview, evil purposes would have been revealed.
Fate had decreed otherwise. The game was still on; and with it, crime was due. The flash of opportunity had passed. New tasks would confront The Shadow.
CHAPTER XIV. MURDER BY NIGHT.
HAWKEYE'S experience had been a rough one; but the little spotter had twisted free from his trap. In that, Hawkeye had been fortunate—much luckier than another of The Shadow's agents. For while Hawkeye, free and unhurt by his drop to the muddy alley, was sidling away from Q Street, Cliff Marsland was experiencing the tight close of a trap from which he could see no escape.
Bound to a chair, his arms crossed behind his back, Cliff was blinking at the single light of an underground room. Windowless, whitewashed walls surrounded him; between Cliff and the only door stood the quartette of ruffians who had brought him here. Chief of the four was Jake Thurler, a venomous, snarling inquisitor.
“Not squawking, eh?” came Jake's quiz. It was a reference to the stolidness that Cliff had maintained. “Well, that ain't going to last forever. Get that hunk of lead pipe, Pete. Shove it in them ropes behind this mug's back.”
Pete complied. Jake, glaring, was about to issue another threat when a sharp rap sounded at the door. Jake gestured to another rowdy. The fellow pulled back the bolt and admitted a squatty man in evening clothes.
“Hello, Stew,” laughed Jake. “Want to see me put the heat on this bozo?”
“What are you going to do?” queried Stew. “Maul him?”
“Not yet,” leered Jake. “Too many taps on the konk makes a mug goofy. Sometimes they ain't able to squawk even when they want to. I got a better way.”
“What's the lay, Jake? When you brought this bird in the back way, I said use your bean about him. What's he been pulling?”
“Trailin' a pal of mine, Stew. I said I'd find out what his racket was—who he was workin' for.”
“And your pal said to give him the heat?”
“No. But two fellows said to nab him; and they left it up to me. Maybe they'd be soft enough to yap if they saw me workin' on this guy; but they ain't here.”
STEW looked doubtful. Cliff watched the gambler's calloused face; for a moment he was hopeful. Not that he saw any mercy in Stew Luffy's expression; on the contrary, the gambler's hard countenance was more merciless than Jake Thurler's ratty face.
Cliff's hope was that Stew might consider it poor policy to make a torture chamber out of this room beneath his gambling joint. For a moment, Stew seemed inclined in that direction. It was Jake who turned the trend.
“This mug was around the Nayland House,” he informed. “That's the best spot I got, Stew, for snaggin' the saps that I bring out here. Maybe he was watchin' me, too. I gotta find out, don't I?”
Stew nodded.
“Better make him talk,” decided the gambler. “The place is yours, Jake.”
Jake grinned as the gambler turned about and went to the door. Stew had decided to wash his hands of the cutthroat crew. Jake and his ruffians had proven useful at times.
“Coming down later, Stew?”
“Maybe,” returned the gambler, in response to Jake's question. “If the guy's got anything to spill, I'd like to hear it.”
As soon as the door was closed, Jake spoke to Pete. The underling had shoved the lead pipe into the ropes.
Another hoodlum took the opposite end of the bar. Together, they twisted. Cliff winced as the tightening ropes jerked back his shoulders. He felt as if he were in a strait−jacket.
“Hold it that way,” rasped Jake. “Let him get used to it. Slap another turn when I give the word.”
Stew Luffy, upon leaving the cellar room, had gone up a flight of stairs to reach another door. There, the gambler rapped. The door opened; Stew faced a big, pock−faced rowdy who served as bouncer in the gambling joint. The pair stood in a little hallway, with a door opposite. Stew gestured down the darkened corridor.
“Anybody on the back door, Frank?”
“Yeah,” returned the bouncer. “Muggsy is out there. He let Jake and them other guys come in.”
“I'll send some of the boys around from the front,” decided Stew. “We need more than one man there. If there's a raid, we'll need time to tip off Jake. He's putting the heat on a guy. Wanted me to come back and watch.”
“Going down again, boss?”
“Me? Not a chance. I'm going in and watch the suckers lose their wads. Say—there'll be a fifty−grand take to−night. No sap has a chance in this joint.”
“Not with that gaffed roulette wheel. Say, boss—you've fixed this racket great.”
“It's just started. If it stays quiet for a couple of weeks, we'll all be sitting pretty. That's why I'm letting Jake put the heat on the guy he grabbed. Maybe the bird knows too much. It's best to find out.”
With that, Stew opened the door opposite the cellar. Frank grinned as he saw the boss depart, en route to the gambling room where gullible players were losing their money on a fixed roulette wheel. Frank's chuckle indicated his admiration for Stew; but the bouncer's gloating was due for a sudden finish.
Something moved amid the blackness of the back door corridor. Like gruesome tentacles of night, two outstretched arms came forward. Then darkness became a living shape.
A cloaked figure followed the arms; a silent, living avalanche swooped hard upon Frank, before the big bouncer realized what was arriving.
IT was The Shadow, swift, noiseless and expert in his overwhelming attack. Frank, gasping, stared bulge−eyed into fiery optics as gloved hands pressed his throat.