The laugh faded, with echoing mockery. That was the token of The Shadow’s departure. The Shadow, himself, had started on his way. He had appointed work for his men; for himself, a lone game.
This night would bring the climax. The meeting between The Shadow and The Cobra was due to come! Like The Cobra, The Shadow had decided on his course!
CHAPTER XXII
PASS THE COBRA
CALEB MYLAND’S Long Island home showed dimly in the night. Only a few windows were aglow. The quiet place seemed far away from the teeming slums of Manhattan. Yet this secluded spot bore a close connection with affairs of the underworld.
This was where Caleb Myland, criminologist, was to hold another conference with Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. For this was Wednesday night — the evening set for the appointed meeting.
Myland’s estate was skirted by a hedge. Beyond that clumpy barrier, three rakish automobiles slid into line. Lights out, men clambered to the road. They stood silent, listening to the low growl of one man who was undoubtedly their leader.
“Lay low, you fellows.” The voice was that of Gringo Volks. “Ease in from the hedge — I’ll lead you back to where there’s a break in it. Spread out and move around the house.
“Keep the front clear. There’s a big driveway there; we’re not stopping people from driving in. There’s bushes on the drive. Keep behind them — you guys that go to the front.”
Low growls proved that the listeners understood Gringo’s order.
“The Cobra’s coming in tonight.” Gringo’s voice was still a low tone. “Maybe he’s in already. Maybe he’s coming later. We took our time getting here. It don’t matter either way. Pass The Cobra — in or out. You get me? Pass The Cobra.”
“We get you.”
“When he comes out,” resumed Gringo, “that’s when the fireworks start. You won’t see him at first. His signal will be a shot. That’s when we cut loose. High and wide. To cover The Cobra in his get-way.
“Crowd close to the house. Raise a big row. Then back here to the cars, shooting all the way. Plaster the front, you fellows by the bushes. Plug the tires in cars. Then join the rest of us.
“We’re working for The Cobra. But we’re mum. This is the job that fixes things the way he wants it. From now on, we’re in the money. And remember” — Gringo’s tone was final — “pass The Cobra!”
Slouching gangsters grunted their understanding. A squad of more than a dozen, they filed toward the opening in the hedge. Spreading upon the darkened lawn, they edged away at Gringo’s order.
THESE mobsters represented a picked crew. Never before had such a capable outfit ventured from the underworld. They were not ordinary gorillas. Each was a fang of The Cobra. Each could have told his own story of treachery in The Cobra’s service.
Gringo’s tale would have been typical. The former aid of Deek Hundell had been cornered by The Cobra. In return for life — with the added promise of remarkable gain — Gringo had worked from then on for The Cobra. He had betrayed Deek Hundell to his new master.
Among the others who were in Gringo’s squad were the ones who had crossed other big shots. Only one was lacking: Diamond Rigler had been slated for a lieutenancy higher than the one which Gringo Volks was holding. But Diamond, alone of all the fangs, had died in The Cobra’s service.
The nearer mobsters had reached the bushes on the close side of the drive. Others had circled the house and were reaching a similar position on the other side. Gringo had taken a vantage point close to the near side of the big house.
Fangs of The Cobra formed an armed circle! Steady hands with potent trigger fingers, these aids were ready for what might come.
A car came up the drive. Gringo eyed it from a distance. The night was still; he could hear the door slam; he could even hear footsteps crunching along the walk toward Myland’s front door.
An interval; then came another car. Like the first, it remained in the driveway while an occupant alighted to enter the house. Gringo watched. Minutes passed.
In accordance with instructions from The Cobra, Gringo had brought his crew hither with no haste. Assembled at the Black Ship, he had waited until the appointed time to start. Then he had gone from car to car, instructing his drivers how to reach the road by Myland’s hedge.
The Cobra was coming here tonight. It was probable that he had arrived before his crew. At the same time, there was a chance that The Cobra had chosen to wait until visitors had reached Myland’s home.
The big house, as Gringo viewed it, would make a good lurking spot. Gringo, had he been in The Cobra’s place, would have chosen to come ahead of the mob. Nevertheless, he saw merit in the other course, and appreciated The Cobra’s wisdom in making provision for a later entry.
Somehow, Gringo began to lean to the belief that The Cobra had remained outside. Had he chosen this latter plan, he would be able to see how well the gang stationed itself under Gringo’s order.
The night had been cloudy. The overcast sky was clearing. Gringo was glad that the fangs were stationed. Faint moonlight was now upon the lawn. Creeping men would have been visible. As it was, all were in their places. Not a sign could be seen of a single lurker.
THE lawn stretched out in back of Myland’s house. A clear space showed a dull, silvery surface instead of blackened grass. Gringo turned. His ears had detected a faint sound that seemed familiar.
Was it a hiss?
Staring, Gringo saw a wrinkled shape, like a dark smudge on the silvered lawn. A bulky, stalking body, it was topped by a strange, outlandish hood. Upon that masklike headpiece glowed a luminous, painted face.
Circled eyes. Straight lines that tapered like chevrons to form a false face of venomous appearance.
The hiss was repeated.
The Cobra!
Gringo growled a low order. It was heard by a fang stationed closer to the house:
“Pass The Cobra!”
The next man whispered the word along:
“Pass The Cobra!”
Murmurs from the waiting fangs — murmurs no louder than a passing breeze. Awed eyes watched while lips were silent. Like a triumphant general passing beneath a bridge of swords, the figure of The Cobra stalked through the lines of his waiting, watching fangs!
The brown-garbed figure reached its goal. The Cobra had advanced to an obscure side door of the house. His snakelike form was swathed in darkness. The back of his hood was toward his men. The luminous face could no longer be observed.
“Pass The Cobra!”
The watchword had been obeyed. From now on, visitors could enter Caleb Myland’s only by the driveway in the front; but none would be permitted to leave. The bars would not be lifted until the waiting fangs would hear the signal shot that would thrust them into action.
Then, amid the barrage of a besieging horde, The Cobra would depart, while his waiting fangs once more obeyed the order:
“Pass The Cobra!”
CHAPTER XXIII
MEN AT BAY
“WHERE is Mr. Myland?”
Commissioner Weston put the question. He was asking it of Babson, Caleb Myland’s servant. Babson had ushered two visitors, Commissioner Weston and Joe Cardona, into Myland’s study. They were awaiting the arrival of the criminologist.
“Mr. Myland should be here, sir,” informed Babson. “He was out of town. I fancy that he missed his train and was forced to take a later one.”
“Humph,” grunted Weston, as Babson left. “This is maddening, Cardona. We need Myland’s advice at once. I want him to hear the report that you received from Gorgan.”
“It is still incomplete,” reminded Joe. “Gorgan is going to call by telephone before—”
“That’s just the trouble,” interrupted the commissioner. “Myland should be here before Gorgan phones. Myland may have some important ideas on the matter.”