A minute later, the touring car rolled out through a door that led to the street. Marty Jennings swung the machine westward. Lance Bolero was staring into the back seat to make sure their captive was still well bound and gagged.
“I’m for bumpin’ him quick,” he growled. “That’s what Flash said to do. Knock him off in back of Hawley’s an’ then travel. There won’t be no mistake if we do. I can make a guy squawk; but sometimes it ain’t easy to—”
“That would be a fine idea, wouldn’t it?” ridiculed Marty. “Suppose Flash should come along afterward—”
“Flash oughta be there as soon as us. He’s got his bus ready. It won’t take him much time—”
“He might be delayed.”
“Listen, Marty.” Lance was insistent. “Maybe you got mixed up on this. You should ‘a’ let me talk to Flash, too. You know what he told us. Get any guy out quick—”
“Yeah, but he told me to tip him off tonight, if we nabbed anybody. We did. That’s what he says: wait.
“But suppose we fix it this way, Lance: I’m takin’ my time gettin’ to Howley’s. If Flash ain’t there, we’ll know he ain’t comin’. Give him a few minutes — then the works for this gazebo!”
“Now you’re talkin’, Marty!” agreed Lance, pleased at the compromise.
The touring car rolled on in silence. At one spot, it passed close by a traffic officer, who gave it no attention. Finally, the automobile turned into a small side street, and Marty, after an alert glance in both directions, piloted it into a narrow alley.
The place widened out after twenty yards. It was an open space in back of a deserted building — the old garage which had been abandoned. The structure was awaiting the wreckers.
“A good spot,” commented Lance. “We were comin’ here, anyway. Just as well that Flash liked it. But I don’t see him around.”
“Lay low,” replied Marty, as he parked the car at the side of the open space. The lights were out, and the automobile was practically invisible. “Wait a couple of minutes, Lance.”
Silence reigned while Marty Jennings stared straight ahead. Lance reached back into the rear of the car and prodded Harry Vincent to make sure the captive was still under control.
“I’m takin’ a look,” whispered Marty.
He slipped from the front seat, and Lance could hear the soft crunching of his feet. Marty was walking around the car. Lance felt uncomfortable. He did not like the delay. Silently, he drew his automatic and inclined it toward the form in back.
A few shots in the dark — that would end the wait! Marty would be back in the car in an instant. They would have to leave in a hurry. Lance could explain that the captive had been releasing himself.
With an evil chuckle, Lance pressed his automatic against Harry’s body. He felt the muzzle nudge against the helpless man’s ribs. The temptation was enough.
“Here goes!” muttered Lance, as he placed his finger upon the trigger.
AT that instant, a hand caught the gunman’s wrist. The door of the car had been opened so softly that Lance had not known it.
The clutching hand was invisible — a thing of blackness that had come as if from nowhere. It swept Lance Bolero’s arm upward. The shot from the automatic shattered the rear window of the car.
With an oath, Lance was grappling for his unseen opponent. Down came another hand, swinging a heavy revolver. Lance — purely by accident — dodged the blow as he shot forward over the back of the seat.
Lance Bolero was stocky and heavy. He was one of the toughest rowdies in gangdom. His attack was delivered with a mad fury, for he no longer held his automatic. It had clattered to the floor, twisted from his grasp. A form came up to stop him, but Lance had launched himself forward and downward.
The other man went back as the gangster’s body struck him. Together, they hurtled from the side of the car to the ground below. Lance was on top, his eager fingers clutching for the other man’s throat. The body beneath him took the full force of the fall. Lance was sure that his enemy was stunned.
Then came amazement for Lance Bolero. He heard metal click against the paving — his antagonist’s revolver had dropped. Even as Lance clutched the other’s throat, two powerful hands were upon the eager gangster.
A forearm came behind Bolero’s neck. The two-hundred-pound form of the fighting gangster turned a complete somersault, and was hurtled, back upward, a few feet away.
The back of Lance’s head crashed against the paving. Flung as though he had been a man of straw, Lance Bolero was stunned and helpless.
Some one was climbing in the car from the other side. It was Marty Jennings. Kneeling upon Harry Vincent’s body, the gangster knew that Bolero had been attacked by a stranger from the dark.
A flashlight glimmered in Marty’s hand. It disclosed the scene before him. Lance Bolero was on the ground, dazed. Beside him, closer to the car, was a man in black, half rising from the ground.
The sable cloak of the man gave him a weird appearance. He seemed a shapeless mass, topped by a slouch hat. In a twinkling, Marty saw a black-gloved hand reaching to the ground. The hand was after a revolver that lay there.
Marty fired for the head that topped the cloak. “Shoot ‘em in the face!” was his motto.
He knew that a bullet through the head would spell certain doom for the man who had overcome Lance Bolero. But the man in black had divined Marty’s act to the split second. He seemed to collapse as Marty fired.
The gangster’s bullet clipped the top of the slouch hat. The automatic swung from the ground and spat flame as it rose.
Had The Shadow’s shot been wild, he would never have fired again. For Marty Jennings was aiming a second shot that could not have missed its mark.
But The Shadow’s marksmanship was unerring. There was but one spot at which he could fire, and be sure of hitting his target. His bullet found that spot — the flashlight in Marty Jennings’s left hand.
THE electric torch was shattered. Marty’s left hand fell, numbed and helpless. That stopped his shooting for the moment. Then he began to pepper away, his bullets ricocheting from the cement below.
Where was The Shadow? It seemed incredible that the man could have arisen and fled from the spot in so few seconds!
Marty was leaning forward, firing another shot when a revolver answered from below. The Shadow had rolled beneath the touring car. The final flash of Marty’s automatic had shown the position of the gangster’s body.
Again, The Shadow’s aim was true. The bullet shattered Marty’s shoulder. He lost his balance and hung from the side of the car. The Shadow’s gloved hand wrested his gun away. The man in black arose and flung the crippled gangster from the car.
The motor started. The car shot forward; then backward. It headed forward again, and made a wide swerve toward the narrow alley. Its headlights illuminated the scene.
Marty Jennings was groaning on the ground. Lance Bolero, raised to his elbow, was scrambling to escape the oncoming headlights. The car shot by the disarmed gangsters. Harry Vincent, still bound in the rear of the automobile, could see none of this.
But he knew that he had been rescued by The Shadow. He knew that his release was close at hand. For, as the car roared its way toward the street, he heard a sound that he had heard before — a chilling sound that he dreaded even though he had no cause to fear it.
It was the mocking laugh of The Shadow — the weird, sardonic laugh that brought terror to all creatures of the underworld.
The Shadow, carrying Harry to freedom, was jeering the men whom he had conquered — jeering them with triumphant merriment!
CHAPTER XI
CARDONA TRACES MURDER
THE sensational death of Charles Blefken was the greatest crime news of the year. The dead attorney had been a man of high repute. The killing that had taken place in his own home, with friends and a detective present, was evidence that a bold and relentless killer was at work.