Frantically, the bouncer struggled, clutching at a twisting form that managed to wrench from his grappling arms. All the while, thumbs pressed hard against the big fellow's windpipe.
Frank slumped. The hands released their grip. The bouncer rallied for a struggle; but arms were clutching him for the final stroke. A lithe, powerful figure snapped backward; the bouncer hurtled head foremost to the floor. His skull cracked the wall. Frank lay half stunned.
Snapping away the fellow's belt, The Shadow bound Frank's hands behind his back. This was his second swift victory. Entering the back door of the gambling joint, he had clipped “Muggsy” on the chin and left that victim senseless, bound and gagged as well.
The Shadow finished his job with Frank by gagging the bouncer with the fellow's own handkerchief. That done, The Shadow unlocked the cellar door.
In the improvised torture chamber, Cliff Marsland had experienced the agony of a second twist. His back was tight against the rear of the chair; the topmost rung was cutting against his spine. The strain upon his shoulders was even worse. His arms felt ready to wrench from their sockets.
Cliff realized what torture the next twist would bring. He foresaw permanent injury should he be wrenched to a worse position and held there. Yet Cliff was grim in his defiance. He was ready to hold out, despite the fact that rescue seemed hopeless. Cliff did not know that Hawkeye had been a witness of his capture.
“Spill it, mug,” oathed Jake Thurler, his ugly face close to Cliff's. “Who told you to tag Quidler? What's the trouble? Not comfortable enough? I'll fix that. Go ahead, you guys. Give it another twist—”
Jake broke off and held up his hand to stop the torturers. Some one was rapping at the door. Jake nodded to the hoodlum stationed there. The fellow pulled back the bolt and swung the barrier inward.
“It's Stew,” chuckled Jake. “Come to lamp the fun. I thought he'd be back—”
Jake blinked suddenly. For a moment, he saw only the blackness of the cellar. Then, to his astonishment, the gloom moved inward. A swish, a sudden change of shape. Blackness had become a living being. A whispered laugh echoed through the cell−like room. Jake gasped his recognition:
“The Shadow!”
A FIGURE cloaked in black, burning eyes that glared from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. Mammoth automatics, thrust forward by gloved fists. Those were the impressions that held vicious crooks staring.
Jake stood helpless; so did the cutthroat at the door. Pete and his companion loosed their grip upon the lead pipe; their hands came upward.
Cliff Marsland grinned weakly as he tugged forward. The bar revolved among the ropes. The strain ended.
Cliff's muscles responded with more than normal strength. He gave a powerful twist, vainly hoping to break a rope; his success was different than he expected.
The side of the chair back broke. As the wood crackled, the rope slid from it. Cliff drew one arm free; then used it to tug the other free. Rising, he twisted and pressed down upon the broken chair as he pulled his ankles clear from the lower ropes. That job was easy, once he had gained a standing position.
There was no need to talk. Jake and his crew had learned who Cliff's chief was. Their realization that they were faced by The Shadow had been a stunning blow. But Cliff's regaining of freedom was to produce a change.
Jake was maddened at the thought of the captive being clear to demand vengeance. Insanely, the rat−faced rogue made a wild leap for The Shadow.
The move would have been suicidal but for the actions of the others. As maddened as Jake, they, too, went berserk. The hoodlum at the door snatched out a gun. So did the torturers behind the chair. Cliff was between them and The Shadow; he was their shield, and knowing it, they leaped for the released prisoner.
The Shadow had caught the moves in a twinkling. Instead of blazing a shot at Jake, he wheeled suddenly from the wild crook's path. He shot one hand upward and pressed the trigger of its automatic. Flame spurted toward the single light in the ceiling; the bullet shattered the huge incandescent.
While glass was clattering amid the sudden darkness, an automatic blazed in the direction of the door. A cry—a groan— The Shadow had clipped the guard who had been posted at the barrier. He had picked the rowdy's exact position in the dark.
Cliff parried the swing of wild arms in the dark. Free from the broken chair, he dived across the room, heading for the door. He knew that The Shadow wanted him clear of the fray. He was responding to that wish. The Shadow heard Cliff stumble over the prone form of the wounded crook.
Revolvers were barking wildly; in response came automatics, their blaze from an unexpected inner corner.
Jake and his two pals saw the spurts; wildly, they fired in that direction, forgetting the door in their effort to down The Shadow. Cliff, stumbling through, gained the stairway.
AUTOMATICS spat in earnest. His unarmed agent clear, The Shadow had no longer need to tarry. Ever shifting, he had moved away from telltale spots where his guns had flashed; but crooks, with their spurting revolvers, had forgotten the need for motion in the dark.
Ripping bursts were thunderous in the stone−walled room as The Shadow dispatched scorching slugs toward living targets.
His laugh, triumphant, quivered mockingly through the torture chamber as The Shadow whisked through the doorway and followed Cliff's path. Groans and oaths, belated shots—those alone pursued the master of darkness. The Shadow had felled every member of Jake's crew, including the rat−faced ruffian himself.
Cliff had reached the upper hallway to find Frank's outsprawled figure. A revolver was bulging from the bouncer's pocket. Cliff snatched the weapon; and none too soon.
Cries came from the end of the hallway. Stew's door crew had come around the building, to find Muggsy bound and helpless. Entering, they had spotted Cliff.
The Shadow's agent opened fire. As he did, the cellar door swung outward. From the crack between the door and the frame, a fresh automatic blasted quick shots down the hall.
Cliff heard a hissed order; he dived for the door that led into the gambling rooms. He was no longer a target when the men at the back door found the range.
The cover−up crew was advancing; the progress stopped as the invaders met The Shadow's withering cannonade. Under that barrage, they faltered. As the foremost ruffians staggered, those behind them turned and scrambled for the safety of outdoors. The Shadow, swishing out from behind the door, delivered final bullets. The corridor cleared, he followed Cliff's path.
Straight into the gambling room. There, Cliff had stopped short. Tuxedoed men and gowned women had heard the gunplay; they were scurrying for side rooms, while frightened croupiers were gathering up money from the roulette table.
Stew Luffy, revolver in hand, was standing in the center of the room. Alone, he was ready to shoot it out with any comer.
HURTLING in from a passage, Cliff took the challenge. As Stew blazed hasty shots, Cliff answered with bullets that skimmed the gambler's coat sleeves. Recognizing the prisoner whom he had failed to favor, Stew feared further quarrel.
As croupiers burrowed their way behind slot machines along the wall, Stew dived past the roulette table.
Behind its bulk, he popped up with his gun.
Cliff, taking a short−cut, had reached the near side of the table. Dropping as Stew came up, Cliff hoisted the table with a mighty heave and toppled its entire bulk upon his foe. Stew, scrambling back, was too late.
The table flattened him; his revolver clattered across the carpet as his head thudded the floor. Money scattered everywhere; the roulette wheel jolted loose and rolled to a stop, exposing the wiring of the electrical equipment that had been used to gyp the customers.