REVOLVERS barked wild shots as the gunmen responded to their companion’s shout. Had The Shadow continued his swing from the window, the next shots would have beaded him. Instead, The Shadow delivered his response.
Clinging to the sill, he swung his right hand inward and pressed the trigger of a mammoth automatic. His target was the bull’s-eye lantern. Darkness, crashing glass, and the howl of the wounded lantern-holder was proof of The Shadow’s perfect aim.
Again, the automatic spurted flame. Tongues of fire; driving bullets that smashed hot against the walls of the hallway sent mobsters ducking for cover. Amid the echoes of the gunshots came the strident tones of The Shadow’s laugh.
Time was precious. More than twenty mobsters were close by; should The Shadow remain, this room would become the focal spot for hastening fighters from all parts of the underworld.
With a sweep through the window, The Shadow poised with one hand clutching the sill; then dropped catlike, a dozen feet to the sidewalk below.
The plunge was timely. Mobsters had reached the street. They had heard the bark of guns from above. With The Shadow’s poise, flashlights glimmered upon the window — just in time to reveal the huddled shape in black as it dropped to the street.
Down came the glimmers. Focused lights played on The Shadow’s shape as it showed, half-sprawled upon the sidewalk. Cries of recognition; shouts of triumph! These came as the men with the flashlights aimed revolvers toward what appeared to be their helpless prey.
They had reckoned wrong. The Shadow, as he took the plunge, knew that split seconds would be precious. The fall had neither stunned nor crippled him. He had chosen to use his guns instead of rising.
Automatics blazed. They were held by hands that were less than two feet above the sidewalk. Crouching with back against the brick wall of the old house, The Shadow delivered an enfilading fire along the street.
Gangsters staggered or dived for cover. The Shadow, rising as he pressed the triggers, sent shots that ricocheted from walls and paving. The street was cleared except for a trio of crippled mobsters who had failed in their dive for safety.
The Shadow’s laugh came in ringing challenge. His emptied automatics dropped beneath the folds of his cloak. Another pair of .45s — fully loaded — appeared instead of the exhausted weapons.
LEAPING from the wall, like a black projectile, The Shadow gained the center of the street in two quick bounds; there, still moving toward the opposite side, he whirled and brought his automatics into play.
The Shadow did not choose men as his targets. Instead, he picked the spots where men must be. The doorway through which he had trailed Deek Hundell; the entrance of an alleyway, thirty feet along the street; the front windows of the old house — one on the ground floor; the other on the second — the very window through which The Shadow had escaped.
These were the points upon which The Shadow rained his leaden hail. As The Shadow fired, shots came from those strategic spots. The Shadow, in his lone game, held a strange advantage.
His retreating figure, weaving toward the gloom of the opposite side of the street, was a hopeless target even for skilled marksmen.
Bullets sizzed past that phantom shape in black. Metal messengers flattened against old walls beyond the further sidewalk. A single shot that seared The Shadow’s shoulder with a trivial flesh wound was the closest of the mobster bullets.
Doorways and windows — these were the targets which The Shadow had chosen. It was purely through superiority of numbers that the mobsters had gained their chance to open fire. The Shadow’s shots, blazing back, stilled those nests from which frenzied sharpshooters were sniping.
Quick shots sent mobsters scurrying back along the alleyway. Timely bullets picked two gangsters at the door; one crumpled within the doorway, the other staggered back. Shots to the downstairs window dropped a sniper there. Then came the upturned blaze of an automatic.
A gangster, leaning from the second-story window, was aiming for the last spot where he had seen an automatic spurt. He never found his target. The Shadow’s bullet clipped the mobster’s shoulder. His revolver dropped from his hand and clattered to the sidewalk. Then, with a wild scream, the mobster lost his hold and hurtled forward to the street below.
As this final enemy landed head first upon the paving. The Shadow’s laugh came as a mocking peal.
The mobster’s rolling form lay still. It was the last motion in the street. The Shadow had gained the passage between the buildings opposite. Stanch warrior of the night, he had returned to darkness.
POLICE whistles were sounding in the distance. Cries rose from afar. Excitement was arising in this section of the badlands. Ringing gunfire had been heard for blocks around.
The Shadow no longer remained in the vicinity where confusion reigned. His was a fleeting figure, traveling unfrequented byways. The swish of a cloak; the soft whisper of a laugh; these alone marked The Shadow’s escaping course.
The Shadow had fought well tonight, yet he had been forced to a struggle which he had not sought. Battling for his own protection, he had borne the brunt of a conflict which another had precipitated.
Hollow victory had been The Shadow’s gain. It was The Cobra who had won tonight. The new avenger who had risen to strike down fiends of crime had not only gained the end which he had sought; he had left The Shadow — his rival — in a desperate predicament.
What Gringo had told Deek was true. The famed might of The Shadow was on the wane. One whom the underworld had feared was giving way to a new and more destructive warrior — The Cobra.
Terror — swiftness — action — these were the weapons with which The Shadow had kept the hordes of gangdom at bay. Another had adopted those very methods; The Cobra was using them with repeated strength that eclipsed The Shadow’s tactics.
What was the meaning of this rivalry? Only The Shadow knew; and his whispered, fleeting laugh was the only token of what the future might hide.
Tonight, The Shadow’s power had been no more than an anticlimax.
It was The Cobra who had won. He had delivered vengeance while The Shadow tarried!
CHAPTER IV
THE COMMISSIONER HEARS
DEATH in the underworld!
The headlines of Manhattan dailies screamed this legend. The killing of Deek Hundell, added to the deaths of other notorious crooks, had made The Cobra’s work sensational.
Yet rumors — not facts were all upon which the reporters could draw. Men of gangdom, though they might mutter among themselves, were loath to talk freely of the new scourge that had arrived within their midst: The Cobra.
Of all the readers of crime news, none could have displayed more interest than a dignified, gray-haired man who was seated at the table in a large, well-furnished study. This individual wore a quiet smile as he read the wild accounts in the newspapers that were spread out before him. He seemed to be amused by the manner in which rumors had been padded into column stories.
A telephone rang. Still reading a newspaper, the gray-haired man reached for the instrument and spoke quietly into the receiver:
“This is Caleb Myland speaking… Yes… Hello, Townsend… No, I don’t expect to be in town on Thursday… Sorry, old man… Tonight? No, I’m staying here on Long Island. An important appointment…”
Caleb Myland hung up the receiver and continued his perusal of the newspapers. He looked up as the door opened. A long-faced servant was standing there.
“What is it, Babson?” questioned Myland.
“Commissioner Weston is here, sir,” replied the servant.
“Ah!” exclaimed Myland, warmly. “Usher him in at once, Babson.”