Guns lay ungripped in ready pockets. Not one man tried to draw. A dozen paling faces showed twitching lips while bulging eyes stared at the black-cloaked figure that had entered.
With burning eyes that peered from beneath the brim of his low-turned slouch hat, The Shadow was watching every man in the room. From his black gloved-hands projected huge automatics. The very sight of those guns brought fear.
The Shadow’s laugh ended. Weird echoes seemed to linger. Then came a sneering voice, in a tone that resembled a magnified whisper.
“You speak of The Shadow.” The words were mocking. “I am The Shadow! I am here to meet those who think they do not fear me.”
With this statement, The Shadow moved slowly forward. Boastful mobsters cowered. Braggarts were silent. Every man could see those gun muzzles looming toward himself.
Every crook felt the burn of The Shadow’s eyes.
“Who dares to meet me?” The Shadow’s tone was scornful. “Now is his opportunity. Let him speak for himself!”
As The Shadow paused, Cliff Marsland calmly edged one hand below the level of the bar. He drew his automatic from his pocket. He hunched his body backward as he rested the barrel on the woodwork. With steady, calculated aim, he pressed the trigger.
WITH the unexpected roar, The Shadow staggered. His gloved hands dropped as his tall figure broke toward the door. Rising to full height, Cliff Marsland flashed his gun and fired a second shot that burst with a long flame.
The Shadow leaped headlong through the door, swinging the barrier as he fled.
Cliff delivered two quick shots that splintered the woodwork of the door. Then, with a ferocious leap he cleared the bar, thrust the barkeeper aside and dashed in pursuit. He yanked open the door and emptied his gun down the passage which The Shadow had taken.
The room was in a clamor. Every petrified mobster was leaping to action. Revolvers were flashing. Men reached the spot where Cliff was on guard; others dashed through the archway that led to the head of the stairs. There they found the watcher groggy as he lay slouched against the wall.
Pursuit was too late. The Shadow, though obviously wounded by Cliff’s first shots, had made his escape. Would-be pursuers were returning to the barroom. There they found Cliff Marsland reloading his automatic.
“The Shadow!” jeered a gang leader. “He was trying a comeback. Say — here’s the guy that showed him where he stands. Give me your mitt, there, Marsland.”
Others were offering their congratulations. Cliff received them in indifferent fashion. Among those to shake his hand was Duster Corbin. King Zobell’s right bower turned his head toward the two men with whom he had been talking.
“Scram, you punks,” he ordered sourly. “Afraid of nobody, eh? Why didn’t one of you take a chance when The Shadow showed up?”
The rejected applicants sidled away. Duster gripped Cliff by the arm and drew him away from the congratulating throng.
“I’ve heard of you, Marsland,” declared the heavy-browed gun handler. “Now I’ve seen what you can do. You had me beat. I was standing there like a dummy while you took a plug at The Shadow!”
“I didn’t drill him,” commented Cliff, in a disappointed tone.
“You nicked him,” asserted Duster, “and you’re the first bimbo that ever beat him to a shot. Put it there — and listen” — Duster’s voice became a buzz — “how would a job with one grand a week suit you?”
“I could use it,” affirmed Cliff.
“It’s yours,” rejoined Duster. “You’re on — new body for King Zobell. You’re going over to his place with me tonight.”
FIFTEEN minutes later, Duster Corbin and Cliff Marsland sauntered from the Nugget Club. Acclaim from the men remaining was still ringing in Cliff’s ears.
The Shadow, jealous of The Cobra’s rising power, had attempted a comeback. Cliff Marsland had achieved the hitherto impossible. He had put The Shadow to flight.
Cliff grinned grimly as he clambered into a cab with Duster Corbin. He had reason. At The Shadow’s bidding, he had aided in the duping of a dozen witnesses. Cliff had played his part to perfection.
The carefully aimed shot that he had delivered was well calculated. Cliff had sent it a full foot wide of The Shadow’s body. The Shadow’s stagger had been a well-feigned pretense.
The second shot, delivered to the top of the door through which The Shadow was passing was another token of Cliff’s ability to miss the mark which others thought that he had hit. Again, The Shadow had made a deliberated plunge.
Tonight, The Shadow had deliberately arranged to injure the fame which he had gained. There had been method in his action. What The Shadow had lost, Cliff Marsland had gained. Through his sudden fame, he had gained the berth as King Zobell’s new bodyguard.
King Zobell would be The Cobra’s next prospective victim. Through some crafty plan, The Cobra would manage to meet King Zobell on his own ground, in the presence of his friends.
Two could play at that game. With Cliff Marsland working for King Zobell, The Shadow could match The Cobra by appearing when he chose. Cliff, as inside man, would pave the way.
What was The Shadow’s purpose? Why did he desire a direct meeting with this strange character whose purposes were apparently as just as The Shadow’s own?
Only The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER XV
AT KING ZOBELL’S
TWO nights had passed since Cliff Marsland had played his role. The Shadow’s agent, new hero of the underworld, was working at his new job of bodyguard for King Zobell.
The big shot lived in an old-fashioned apartment house in a decadent neighborhood. There was reason for this choice of residence. King Zobell, controller of half a dozen rackets, had purchased the building outright. He had fitted it like a stronghold.
Zobell’s apartment was on the fourth floor. It could be reached only by a private elevator which opened in a little anteroom near the rear of the apartment. Crossing the anteroom, one reached Zobell’s living room, the spot where the big shot spent most of his time.
Barred windows — sheer walls four stories to the ground — these were the protections which King Zobell demanded. The fourth floor — the top story of the building — was above the level of the neighboring structures. Hence King Zobell dwelt in apparent security.
King Zobell, himself, was a portly, fat-faced fellow who looked like a cross between a politician and a corporation president. It was business ability, a well as nerve, that had enabled him to merge some of the most active rackets in New York.
Wary as well as enterprising, Zobell had learned to play his hand in crafty fashion. Lesser racketeers did duty for the big shot. They were on the firing line; King Zobell pulled the strings. It was seldom that the big shot left his apartment. Most of his business was conducted by telephone. When personal interviews were necessary, visitors were brought to his apartment.
Of late, however, King Zobell had not been at home to visitors. Duster Corbin, his chief lieutenant and ranking bodyguard, fared forth to treat with those who had business with the big shot.
This explained why King Zobell had chosen to have two lesser bodyguards. He wanted one on constant duty; and he wanted Duster Corbin free to leave at any time required.
CLIFF MARSLAND had quickly recognized the fact that King Zobell was a nervous, troubled man. The big shot could have surrounded himself with a whole corps of henchmen; instead, he preferred to trust to picked bodyguards. He was afraid of traitors. He knew that his secluded abode, guarded by capable gun wielders, would give him best security.