“It ain’t goin’ to be easy,” volunteered Scoffy, with a shake of his head. “I knowed Bennie was workin’ for The Jackdaw. I was the only guy that knowed it. But I never got no hook-up on the rest of the mob.
“The Jackdaw is a silk-hat, Joe. He may use some gorillas when he needs ‘em, but he ain’t in their class. He’s a guy that moves high. He knows the swells, an’ he works alone whenever he can.”
“I know his game,” nodded Cardona. “If he had stayed around long enough I would have grabbed him. Now that I know he’s back, I can get to him. But I may have to do it through the mob. That’s where you come in. Understand? Watch Bennie Lizzit.”
“All right, Joe,” nodded Scoffy reluctantly.
“Give me a call,” ordered Cardona. “Tell me as soon as you have any new dope. Nobody knows that you’re tipping me off. Don’t worry.”
With this assurance to the stool pigeon, Cardona closed his coat collar about his chin. He slouched his hat down over his eyes, opened the door, and thrust his hands into his pockets as he stalked down the stairs.
Scoffy listened at the door. He heard the thud of Cardona’s footsteps. He was glad that the detective had gone. The interview had taken only a few minutes. Scoffy tried to convince himself that no one had recognized the detective. The stool pigeon realized that he had taken a long chance in bringing Cardona here.
Satisfied as to Cardona’s departure, Scoffy closed the door. He stood trembling as he fished in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Matches rattled as a wooden box came out in the shaky hand.
Scoffy’s gaze was toward the window. Suddenly, it turned to the door. With a wild gasp, the stool pigeon sprang to lock the barrier.
He was too late.
SIMULTANEOUSLY with the sound of footsteps, the door swung open, and a big-shouldered, ugly-faced ruffian thrust himself into the room. In his right hand, this fellow held a big revolver. He covered Scoffy with a weapon, and a fierce grin appeared upon the pockmarked countenance.
“Bennie Lizzit!”
The name was gasped from Scoffy’s lips. The intruder laughed as he closed the door behind him.
“Didn’t expect to see me, eh?” he snarled. “Who’d you think I was — that smart dick comin’ back?”
“What dick?” questioned Scoffy, trying to bluff.
“Joe Cardona,” jeered Bennie Lizzit. “Say — that clod-hopper was lamped when he hit the avenue. Everybody knew he was down here. I heard where he headed. I figured maybe he was comin’ to see you.”
“What’d he want to see me for?” asked Scoffy. “I ain’t said nothin’ to him, Bennie. You an’ me — we’re pals and—”
“We was pals,” retorted Bennie. “But not no more — you squealin’ rat!”
Scoffy saw what was coming. Bennie Lizzit was between him and the door. With a frenzied cry, the trapped stool pigeon made a dash for the window. Bennie overtook him; with a sweep of his arm, the big gangster sent the little man spinning into the corner.
“Honest, Bennie!” Scoffy was pleading. “Honest — I didn’t squeal!”
“You mean you ain’t goin’ to squeal no longer!”
With these words, Bennie shot his left hand forward, and pinned the stool pigeon’s neck to the wall. Before the cornered squealer could manage to squirm away, Bennie made a vicious swing with his right arm. His revolver landed squarely upon the side of Scoffy’s head.
The little fellow sagged. Bennie Lizzit delivered another skull-crushing blow. He released his left hand. Scoffy’s body tumbled to the floor. The stool pigeon was dead.
Bennie gloated as he surveyed the work which he had done. Still holding his revolver, he turned toward the door.
The murderer’s eyes began to bulge. His fist tightened on his revolver. His hand, however, did not rise. Bennie Lizzit, killer though he was, felt pangs of fear at the uncanny event which was taking place before his gaze here in this gangster hideout.
The door was swinging open, of its own accord. As Bennie stared into the darkened hallway beyond, all that he could see was a pair of blazing eyes. As he stared, the murderer saw a form materialize. He gasped as he observed a being in black that appeared just within the doorway.
“The Shadow!”
Bennie’s blurted recognition was a fitting tribute to the mysterious presence of The Shadow. A tall form garbed in black, The Shadow had arrived as an avenger from the night. His shape seemed spectral beneath the folds of a black cloak. His features — all save those terrible, blazing eyes — were invisible beneath the shade of a broad-brimmed slouch hat.
THE one symbol of realism was the huge automatic that projected from a black-gloved hand. The sight of that weapon brought terror to Bennie Lizzit. The mobster had killed. His victim lay at his feet. The Shadow had trapped the murderer.
An ominous laugh came from unseen lips. The Shadow had arrived too late to prevent the death of Scoffy, the stool pigeon. He was here, however, to learn the reason why Scoffy had been slain. His sinister laugh was the token of his power.
Had The Shadow trapped Bennie Lizzit at any other moment, the gangster would unquestionably have quailed. From his lips, The Shadow would have learned the reason for the murderer’s crime.
But with Scoffy’s body at his feet, Bennie Lizzit still was dominated with a savage thirst for murder. At the sound of The Shadow’s laugh, the killer spat a fierce oath and swung his gun arm upward to fire point-blank at the avenger who had caught him on the scene of crime.
The room re-echoed to the roar of an ear-splitting report. The flash of flame came from The Shadow’s automatic. A split second before his enemy, The Shadow had delivered his message to prevent the gangster’s shot.
Bennie staggered backward, clutching his left shoulder. Crippled, he still snarled his rage. With clawing finger, he managed to pull the trigger of his revolver. Shots went wide from his wavering gun.
Once more the automatic thundered. The bullet clipped the gangster’s arm. With a shriek of pain, Bennie Lizzit sprawled sidewise. He was against the window as he fell; his useless hand, as it lost the revolver, struck against the drawn window shade.
The sash beyond was open. Lurching, where he had sought solidity, Bennie Lizzit floundered headforemost over the low sill. He made a wild clutch with his left hand; his fingers slipped as they clicked against the window frame.
The window shade snapped loose. Wrapped like a shroud about the hurtling gangster, it accompanied Bennie Lizzit on his three-story plunge to the paving beneath the window. A hideous scream ended in a crash below.
Silent, The Shadow stood within the door of this room where death had been delivered and avenged. Shouts came to him from the street below. The black cloak swished. The tall form disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.
Coming events had brought The Shadow to this spot. Joe Cardona had talked with Scoffy. The stool pigeon had died at the hands of Bennie Lizzit. The murderer, in turn, was dead. These startling occurrences were but the prelude to a trail of crime.
The Shadow, though he had not heard the words from Scoffy’s lips, foresaw the coming conflict. Though Joe Cardona, alone, had received word that the smooth crook called “The Jackdaw” had returned, The Shadow soon would know what the detective had learned.
The stage was set for the events that were to come.
CHAPTER II
THE SHADOW BEGINS
LATE the next afternoon, Detective Joe Cardona was seated at his desk in headquarters. The place was deserted. Cardona, alone, was giving vent to his feelings by means of a sullen scowl. The chief object of Cardona’s annoyance seemed to be the evening newspaper that was lying on the desk before him.
Leaning back in his chair, Cardona spent a few minutes in reflective thought. Then, in a decisive manner, he arose, picked up the newspaper, and strode into another office.