“You guessed it,” jeered Darkin. “An underground passage that leads a block away. If you’ve got any smart cops waiting outside, it won’t do them any good.
“I learned about that passage. I brought my crew in from the other end. I got a guy waiting back where we came in.
“Do you know what’s coming off here? I’ll tell you. I’m going take Old Growdy’s swag out through that passage.
“What’s more, nobody’s going to stay around to squawk. Old Growdy gets the works — and so does Tomkins. Maybe you two get it, too. Maybe you’ll go along with me. But there’s no shooting coming until Old Whiskers coughs up the mazuma.”
WHEELING, Heater turned to Eliaphas Growdy. The old man trembled as he saw the viciousness of the crook’s gaze.
“What about it?” demanded Heater, “Where do you keep the dough?”
“I have nothing,” protested Growdy. “Nothing of value—”
“Listen.” Heater’s tone was hard. “Just because two mugs blew in here, don’t think you’ve got a chance. You saw what happened to them. That’s why I opened the steel door; just to nab any smart eggs who might come around. If any more show up, I’ll get them too. Come on! Squawk!”
“I shall tell you nothing,” quavered Old Growdy. “If you intend to kill me, why should I speak?”
“So that’s it?” Heater laughed in ugly fashion. “No use to talk? We’ll see.”
Striding past the desk, Heater reached to the floor. With one hand he seized both of Growdy’s legs. He gave a twist that sent the old man revolving in his swivel chair. The turn ended as Heater plopped Growdy’s feet squarely on the desk.
“Look at those old shoes!” scoffed Heater. “Saving every penny, you old miser. Well, Whisker Face, here go the boots.”
Roughly, the crook tore the shoes from Growdy’s feet. The old man’s toes showed through holes in the ends of his socks. Again, Heater laughed.
“That makes it simple,” he asserted. “All set. Here’s where I give the heat. Ever have your toes singed, Old Whiskers?”
Bringing his left arm down on Growdy’s ankles, Heater produced a matchbox. He held it in his left hand. He extracted a match with his right. He lighted the match. He brought the flame close to the old man’s toes and held it there.
Old Growdy began to writhe as the match went out.
“Want more?” snarled Heater, as he struck another match. “Want more? Or are you going to squawk?”
Old Growdy tried to squirm away. He was helpless. He shrieked as the second match approached his toes. He was clasping his hands in agony, swaying back and forth in the swivel chair, while Heater watched him gloatingly.
WESTON and Cardona stood helpless. The commissioner was wild with repressed fury at sight of this preliminary torture. Cardona was grim. Yet neither could make a move, in the face of the two revolvers that covered them.
Biting his lips, Commissioner Weston turned his head away as the second match went out. He knew that this first torture was but a taste of what was to come. Heater had not commenced to work. He was bringing out a third match, ready to strike it.
Futilely, Weston stared toward the panel on the opposite side of the room, as though expecting aid from that quarter. The commissioner, alone, was gazing toward the secret exit. Hence he was the only person to witness the surprising occurrence that took place there.
With a slight click, the panel slid open. Framed before a dim background stood the most fantastically garbed man that Weston had ever seen. Clad from head to foot in a wrinkled brown jersey, this tall arrival was masked by a hood that covered his head.
Part of the brown garment, the hood was painted in fantastic fashion. Circles of dull white; tapering lines below them — these gave the head the exact appearance of a cobra’s hood, with a topping bulge above it.
A gasp came from the lips of Commissioner Ralph Weston. Into this scene of terror had come the man whose promise had brought Weston and Cardona to this place.
The man at the panel was The Cobra!
CHAPTER XI
QUICK STROKES
EVEN as Commissioner Weston gasped, The Cobra took action. He had walked into a set-up. All that he needed was promptitude and nerve. His revolver spurted as he whipped it from his jersey.
The Cobra had picked Luke. His bullet found its mark in the gorilla’s body as Luke turned to learn the cause of the panel click.
The gangster who was guarding Tomkins swung also. He did not have a chance. Before he could aim, The Cobra had swung the revolver in his direction. Again the brown finger pressed the trigger. The second gangster fell.
Leaping up from the table where he was holding Old Growdy by the ankles. Heater Darkin turned to face this foe. His plight was worse than that of his henchmen. The Cobra had caught them unaware. He now had Heater Darkin unarmed. The big shot fumbled in his pocket, seeking his revolver.
“Ss-s-s-s-s-s-s-s!”
The Cobra had reserved his warning hiss for the one man whom he had come to get. He had shot the others only because they were armed.
The hiss ended while Heater was still striving to yank out his gun. Deliberately, The Cobra fired. Heater Darkin slumped to the floor.
For one long moment, The Cobra stood watching the body of his victim. Then, with a backward step, he went into the passage. The panel clicked shut.
The Cobra was gone.
“Look out, commissioner!”
Weston turned as he heard the cry from Joe Cardona. Luke, the big two-gun gorilla, was swinging a revolver. The Cobra’s shot had wounded his left arm; his right was still ready with its gat.
Cardona was leaping for Luke as he cried his warning. The detective delivered an upward swing that sent Luke’s shot toward the ceiling.
With a snarl, the big gunman dived for the passage. Cardona snatched up the gun that had dropped from Luke’s left hand. Weston seized the revolver that had been held by the gangster who had covered Tomkins. The secretary had rushed to aid Old Growdy, who was now slumped helplessly in his swivel chair.
Cardona fired down the passage. His aim was wide. Bullets ricocheted past Luke, who was fleeing to the other end. Cardona hurried after; Weston followed. They reached the door where the passage turned.
Cardona was first. The detective stopped short. As he clicked a flashlight toward the cellar stairs, he realized that he was trapped. Luke had turned; with the big man was a second mobster. For the first time. Cardona remembered what Heater Darkin had said about another gorilla stationed in the cellar.
SEEKING safety, Cardona dropped to the floor, firing wildly. He slipped as he tried to dive back along the passage. He heard snarls; and caught the gleam of turning revolvers.
Then came a roar from the cellar stairs. It was repeated with quick precision. Cardona’s flashlight, turning upward, showed the mobsters toppling. For a brief instant, it revealed a form in black; but Cardona did not catch that glimpse.
Weston was standing above Cardona. The commissioner was following Cardona’s wild shots with bullets of his own. His own flashlight gleamed as Cardona’s dropped. Weston ceased firing as he saw the two bodies of the dropped gangsters.
“Good work, Cardona,” he commended. “You bagged them.”
The commissioner’s words reached the darkened stairs. They brought a faint, whispered murmur of a laugh from a being who stood shrouded there. It was The Shadow.
The master fighter had reached the cellar stairs just as The Cobra was making his departure from the room below. Before The Shadow had gained the bottom of the steps, Luke had come dashing forth from the passage.
Waiting, The Shadow had seen the arrival of Joe Cardona. With timely precision, he had saved the life of the detective; and probably that of Commissioner Weston, for the latter had come blundering after Cardona.