Dopey wavered. Slugger heard him shift. Turning about, the big man saw the pointing gun shaking in Dopey’s fist. Slugger hissed a snarl; he aimed his .38 and fired four quick shots, straight for Dopey’s body.
The pasty-faced killer sprawled face forward. Slugger grabbed the knob of the door and yanked the barrier inward. He sprang out into the hall.
The light from the room revealed The Shadow. In an instant, the odds had changed — even while Slugger’s shots were still echoing, while smoke still coiled from the revolver in his fist. But the glare did not pierce the darkness of the stairs.
The Shadow was still between two foes; and both were aware of his presence: Slugger, visible to The Shadow; The Creeper, still safe in darkness!
Had The Shadow hesitated for one instant, he would have been an open target for The Creeper. It was a situation that would have been hopeless for any but that cloaked avenger. Well had The Shadow guessed that the man on the stairs would prove a formidable enemy.
In this emergency, The Shadow acted with incredible speed. He chose the man whom he knew must be the less brainy of his two antagonists; the one, also, whom he could see. Springing forward, The Shadowy grappled with Slugger Haskew.
SHOTS ripped from the darkness of the stairs. The Creeper had opened fire; but his bullets were too late. The Shadow, flinging his arms about Slugger, had yanked the big bruiser sidewise. With a twist, he had turned the mauler’s bulk to serve him as a shield.
The Creeper’s fire ceased; he could not afford to shoot down Slugger, his only aid on this field of battle.
Slugger fought wildly. His swinging arms were seeking to batter down The Shadow’s clutching arms. But Slugger, despite his bulk, was staggering willy-nilly. The Shadow, fierce in combat, was heaving him backward toward the rear stairway.
The grapplers tumbled over the top step. Whirling downward together, they rolled fighting to the bottom, out of that glare wherein The Shadow might again have become The Creeper’s target!
The Shadow had taken a long chance. Even as he spun downward, still grappling, he knew that misfortune might arrive at the bottom of the fall. Twisting with a final effort, he tried to break his plunge, just as the crash arrived.
He was partially successful. Though the impact was terrific, The Shadow still retained his senses as he rolled from Slugger’s grip. Though half dazed, he realized what was going on about him. A fierce snarl in the darkness told him that Slugger had survived the fall.
A thrusting revolver muzzle jabbed The Shadow’s ribs. Mechanically, The Shadow responded. His automatic was still in his grasp; he swung it hard against the pressing arm and fired. While Slugger had momentarily hesitated; The Shadow had gained the drop. A vicious cry sounded in the blackness as Slugger rolled away.
The Shadow fired again — blindly; but his shot alarmed his wounded foe. Slugger was on his feet, diving for the rear door of the tenement house. A figure leaped in to meet him. It was Hawkeye.
Encountering the spotter, Slugger delivered a swing with one good arm and sent the little man sprawling.
When Hawkeye came to his feet, he heard Slugger clambering down the alley.
Hawkeye’s thought was of The Shadow. Dashing into the building, the spotter stumbled over the figure of his chief. Hawkeye had drawn a gun; it was good that he had done so. A flashlight gleamed from the top of the stairs. The Creeper was using it to locate his tumbled foe.
Quickly, Hawkeye opened fire. The flashlight disappeared. Bullets, whistling up from below, were something for which The Creeper had not bargained.
He was off along the second floor corridor, that foe in the dark. Off to safety, once he had descended the front stairs; for neither Cliff nor Moe was there to intercept him. As Hawkeye aided The Shadow to the alley, Moe’s cab drew up beyond it, and Cliff came hurrying from it. He and Moe had heard the muffled shots that had sounded within the building.
Cliff heard Hawkeye’s call and joined the little spotter. Then both heard a whispered order. The Shadow had steadied; drawing away from Hawkeye’s supporting grasp, he was delivering quick instructions. Cliff hurried back to the taxi; Hawkeye sped into the tenement building and dashed up to the second floor.
Three minutes later, both agents arrived near the entrance of the alley. Moe’s cab had circuited the block, with Cliff aboard; Hawkeye had entered Dopey’s room, made a quick inspection and returned.
Reports were given; Cliff told that patrolmen were entering the front of the tenement house. Hawkeye stated that Dopey was dead, the ebony box shattered and devoid of contents.
Wailing sirens from the Bowery were proof that more police were arriving. The alarm had been sounded.
The Creeper, like Slugger, had left this terrain. It was unwise for The Shadow’s agents to remain.
Speaking from darkness, he ordered them to travel away in Moe’s cab. Cliff and Hawkeye obeyed, knowing that their chief had revived.
JUST within the alleyway, pressed close against the darkened wall, The Shadow watched the taxi leave.
He heard shouts from within the tenement building; he knew that the law had arrived. The side street was devoid of traffic; it offered a way of departure for The Shadow himself. But there was a reason why he had remained.
His keen eyes were focused upon the sidewalk just outside the alley. There, The Shadow had spied a blob upon the paving — a mark that showed dark-red beneath the street light.
Moving forward, The Shadow looked beyond. Just past the curb was another crimson blot, obscure against the asphalt. Across the street, past the lunch wagon, was the entrance of another alleyway.
Gliding swiftly, The Shadow headed for that goal.
He reached the alley; his tiny flashlight glimmered upon cobblestones. The searching gleam revealed another moist spot of crimson.
It was blood — life blood, shed by a departing murderer. It showed the course that Slugger Haskew had taken. Though The Shadow did not know the identity of the big-fisted killer, he was certain that Slugger must be the one who had gained the scroll from within the ebony casket.
The flashlight’s glimmer moved ahead — through the alleyway, to an obscure street beyond. New blobs of blood showed beneath the blinking gleam. The Shadow turned left, still on the track of the wounded killer. He had passed the closing cordon of the law. His way was clear to follow Slugger Haskew.
For The Shadow had found a trail of blood; one that would show more vividly, the further he progressed.
The Creeper did not matter; he had eluded The Shadow’s toils for the present, and could wait until later.
For the present, The Shadow had a more important quest. Slugger Haskew, the murderous henchman, was the quarry that he wanted.
For Slugger held what men of crime needed — that missing scroll that told the secret of Bigelow Doyd’s wealth. Could The Shadow gain it, the purposes of evil workers would be balked. Wherever Slugger Haskew might be, there would The Shadow find him. That blobby trail of dripped blood had become a guiding line to serve the cloaked avenger of the night!
CHAPTER XI. THE NEXT LINK
SEVEN blocks from The Bowery stood an old house that had once been a pretentious residence. This building had been converted into a second-rate apartment house. The first floor consisted of tiny suites that had been fashioned from larger rooms.
In one of these tiny apartments a weary-faced man was sitting at a plain table, picking out the keys on a tiny, old-style portable typewriter.
Several pages of finished manuscript lay at one side of the typewriter; on the other, a sheaf of blank sheets. Except for chair and table, the room was devoid of furnishings. There were a few dishes stacked in the corner kitchenette; beside them, a box of crackers and a few opened sardine cans. Within the adjoining bedroom was a ramshackle couch, topped by a ragged overcoat and flabby felt hat.