A burst of flame came from The Shadow’s automatic. Aimed with quick precision, the bullet did its work. Skimming just above the rail, it found its mark in the shoulder of the snipping killer. The rifle barrel wavered; then came a deep, muffled pop, like the sound of an air-gun.
A whizzing projectile plastered the wall, above and to the right of the window. A puff; greenish gas formed a nebula upon the surface of the bricks. Diving inward, The Shadow escaped the deadly spray. His tall form reached the floor of Eagle Tabrick’s living room. The Shadow swung quickly out of sight along the inner wall.
On the roof opposite, a huddled form was crawling away from the rail. Dragging his powerful air rifle with him, The Crime Master’s henchman was panting as he sought to gain an opening in the roof.
He had fired three grenades from the muzzle of his weapon. Two had delivered death. The third, which he had fired while wounded, was one for which he could not account. Escape had became his one objective.
Amid the shots that had been delivered against the killer — two by Pigeon Melgin, one by The Shadow — the raucous sound of horns and the impatient bursts of motors had formed a symphony from the street below.
A traffic jam, with its attendant noise, had drowned the sounds of shots from above. Yet it was possible that some one had heard at least one of the three reports. Any one other than The Shadow would not have remained in a room where three men lay dead. Yet The Shadow lingered.
The master fighter knew that he had winged the marksman who had sent the gas grenades from the opposite roof. He expected no further menace from that quarter. Moving like a spectral shape, The Shadow reached the spot where Eagle Tabrick lay sprawled upon the floor.
There was no sign of the projectile that had caused the big shot’s death. The Crime Master had plotted well. The projectile, evidently of some thin substance, had been shattered to bits when it had reached the mark. The Shadow knew that the same must be true concerning the grenades which had followed.
The Shadow picked up the telephone. He spoke, in a voice that was strangely like Eagle Tabrick’s. He told the operator to connect him with detective headquarters. Then another voice responded. The Shadow asked to be connected with Inspector Timothy Klein.
“Hello…” The Shadow’s tone was Eagle’s nasty snarl. “Inspector Klein?… Good. This is Tabrick… Eagle Tabrick… Yeah, in my apartment at the Mid Gotham… Listen, inspector, I’ve got a friend here with me… We’ve just handed the bump to Talker Grube… I’m not kidding. It was self-defense. That’s why I’m calling you… Listen, I’m slated for the spot. Talker came here to get me… Yeah, that’s why I can’t scram. I’m counting on you to get some men up here before they blot us out — me and my pal…”
The Shadow’s feigned speech ended. His gloved hand hung up the telephone. A soft laugh came from the lips that were unseen behind the upturned collar of the cloak. The Shadow’s keen eyes spied the envelope that lay on the floor.
Picking up the torn wrapper, The Shadow withdrew the folded paper from within. He produced a pen; in letters, he inscribed this message:
Tuesday night. Raid at Fergis Building. Pickets on watch. All off if police enter. Word will be passed along. Keep under cover.
The Shadow folded the note. He replaced it in the envelope and tucked the wrapper under Eagle Tabrick’s arm. The distant siren of a police car was whirring from a block away. The Shadow laughed.
Turning, the black-garbed investigator strode swiftly to the door. He reached the hallway and closed the door behind him. His figure disappeared in the direction of the stairs.
Again, The Shadow had planted a clue at the scene of death. He knew whom this note would reach — Commissioner Ralph Weston. The Shadow also knew that the very vagueness of the note and the circumstances under which it would be discovered would cause the commissioner to preserve secrecy and to act with caution.
The Shadow knew more. He knew that The Crime Master would have no way of learning that Talker Grube had talked too much. He also knew that The Crime Master would believe that the police had found nothing more than a blank sheet of paper in the envelope which Eagle Tabrick held.
This was the cause of The Shadow’s sinister mirth. Crime was set for Tuesday night. The deaths of Talker, Eagle, and Pigeon would not deter it in the least.
The Shadow, through his cunning, had driven a wedge into The Crime Master’s cunning game!
CHAPTER XI
BLACK JOINS WHITE
IT was Monday, midnight. The Crime Master, seated at his checkered table, was studying the set array of pieces on the board. The map beneath the squared glass showed the complete detail of the Fergis Building as well as the closest blocks which surrounded it.
Reds, greens and blues — all were arranged for attack and defense. White pieces, scattered here and there, seemed hopelessly lost. The Crime Master was giving the police every advantage that they might possibly obtain; still, his game was sure.
The buzzer. The old man chuckled as he placed a scrawny finger on the button. Henley entered from the clicking door. The Crime Master’s secretary was carrying a sheaf of reports. Approaching the table, Henley paused and handed the first sheet to his master.
“Good.” The white-haired man chuckled, as he perused the paper. “So we have lined up the five mobleaders who worked for Eagle Tabrick. I have only one regret, Henley. It is too bad that this fellow Pigeon Melgin was sacrificed along with his useless chief.”
“Melgin’s men have joined with the other groups,” remarked Henley. “That fact is clearly stated on the report, Master—”
“I see it,” interposed the old man, in a querulous tone. “But that does not make up for Melgin’s loss. One leader of his caliber is worth a dozen gunmen.”
New sheets followed. The Crime Master chuckled as he read their details. The thoroughness of the reports pleased him. The underworld was in the hollow of his scrawny hand.
“Crime is a business, Henley,” announced the old man, dryly. “It needed some one of my ability to make it pay. Come. Let me have the next report.”
Reluctantly, the solemn-faced secretary passed the final sheet to his chief. Fierce eyes sparkled though slitted lids as The Crime Master read the words before him.
“The Shadow!” The old man spat the name. “That spook — that scarecrow! So these fools think that he has been the cause of the trouble they encountered. Bah! It is their pretext to cover their own stupid mistakes.”
“Louie Harger is a capable fighter, Master,” reminded Henley. “He made a remarkable escape after his fight at the Titan Trust. This is the first report we have had in full from him.”
THE CRIME MASTER made a new study of paragraphs to which Henley pointed. His snarl, though vicious, was impersonal. It was plain that on second reading, he had decided that his criticism of Louis Harger had been too bitter.
“Bullets from the bank building, eh?” The Crime Master contemplated the statements. “A black figure in the doorway. These could account for Harger’s failure to wipe out Cardona and his men. At the same time, Henley, this may be Harger’s alibi.”
“I have a previous report, Master,” interposed Henley, drawing a paper from his stack, “The raiders — the reds — stated after the robbery that shots increased as they fought with the detectives. They saw no one — and yet—”
“It could have been The Shadow. I agree with you, Henley. I thought they, too, were presenting an alibi. But none of them have had contact with Harger. This begins to appear important, Henley.”
“Here is another old report, Master. It relates to the death of Trigger Maddock. We have been unable to trace any one who could have killed him and his underlings.”