Below, Louie found a rakish touring car on the garage floor. Four mobsters were in the machine. The driver called to the gangleader to hurry.
“Waitin’ for you,” were his words. “The others made their getaway. The swag went first. Anybody else comin’?”
Louie delivered a negative response as he leaped into the car. A gangster yanked a lever near the garage door. The barrier swung open; the man jumped aboard the touring car as it passed. The escaping mobsters were leaving by the rear, through a door that led to the street in back of the block where the Fergis Building was located.
A whistle sounded. Police had arrived in this block. Too late to flag the previous cars, the officers were determined to stop this machine. They fell back, however, as shots came from the guns which bristled at the sides of the touring car. The swift machine sped along the street.
Mobsters were benefiting by The Crime Master’s strategy. In forming his game, the cunning supercrook had counted on the flight of the taxis to draw police away from this rear exit. The gangster-manned cabs had experienced much trouble; the touring car, however, was in the clear.
Swinging along the nearest avenue, Louie Harger and his companions gloated on the fact that their own escape must be proof that the men with the swag had made a clear getaway. Such was the case; Louie’s crew, however, was due for trouble.
As the car reached a corner four blocks from the scene of crime, a siren sounded up ahead. Commissioner Weston was maneuvering his forces like fire engines after the third alarm. For each police car that had headed into the danger zone, other cars were coming in reserve.
The driver cursed as he swung the touring car down a side street. The rakish machine roared through a canyon of silent buildings. It crossed another avenue. As it reached the next broad thoroughfare, the driver gave the wheel a sudden twist.
The right wheels took a low curb. Louie Harger, staring from the rear seat, saw the reason for the unexpected maneuver. A taxicab, coming at a breakneck, rolling speed, was skidding past the crossing. The driver of the touring car had swerved to avoid it.
“Smash him!” shouted Louie, as the touring car bounded from the curb toward the center of the avenue. “Smash him — it’s a guy we’ve got to get—”
The order was too late. The taxi had careened past. As the touring car finished the crossing and came to a jolting stop with its nose down the side street, Louie was spending futile shots after the fleeing cab.
“Get him—”
Louie’s startled companion joined in the fire. They, like the driver, had taken the taxi for a vehicle that contained escaping mobsters. Louie’s blazing shots, however, seemed to indicate a purpose. The surprise of the sudden meeting rendered bullets futile. The Shadow’s lurching cab had reached a point more than half a block away.
“After him!” rasped Louie. “We’ve got to get him! It’s The Shadow!”
An oath came from the driver. The man shot the touring car into reverse. The machine swept backward into the avenue. The taxi was two blocks away; but this swift car could overtake it.
THE chase never began. Just as the driver was shifting to low gear, a siren whined. From a corner one square below, a police car appeared upon the avenue. It was in chase of The Shadow’s taxi.
The driver of the gang car sensed the menace. To pursue the taxi would mean a course squarely in front of the police car. He yanked the wheel and headed toward the direction from which he had backed — along the side street.
Anxious gangsters fired from Louie’s side. Bullets whistled toward the police car. At sight of this new foe, the officers slackened speed. As the touring car sped down the side street, they forgot the cab that they were chasing and took up the pursuit of the car which contained Louie Harger.
Block after block — a twisting, tortuous chase. The swift touring car outdistanced its pursuer. Louie and his companions were safe; but they had made a damaging error.
Not only had they failed to stop The Shadow; they had also diverted the police chase from the cab which the wounded warrior had commandeered. Far up the avenue, the taxi was whirling along, unmolested. Then, as it passed a crossing, its speed began to slacken.
Coasting crazily, the taxi continued for another block. Behind the wheel lay a limp, helpless form. The Shadow had weakened. His foot no longer pressed the accelerator nor did his hands control the steering wheel.
The cab climbed a curb. Pedestrians scattered as the vehicle jounced tilting toward the corner. A black glove gripped the steering wheel and gave it a twist. The cab rolled caticornered into a side street, bounced down from the near curb, climbed the sidewalk opposite and came to a crashing stop against a high stone steps.
A door wrenched open. The Shadow sprawled against the steps. Contact with the stone seemed to bring him to a revived state. Spontaneously, the black-cloaked form arose and went tottering, with a flash of its accustomed stride, along through the darkness away from the wrecked cab.
Pedestrians who had fled from the path of the taxi came rushing over to give rescue. They came from the direction of the avenue. They found the cab empty. During their approach from the near side of the smashed vehicle, The Shadow had limped a dozen yards.
Then he faltered. His form collapsed beside a pair of steps further down the street. The shouts of the persons by the wrecked cab seemed faint at the spot where The Shadow lay.
Feebly, the cloaked fighter pressed his left hand to his side. Dripping blood smeared the black glove. From beneath the black cloak, fumbling fingers drew forth a tiny vial. The hand rose to the lips beneath the hat brim.
The vial was corked. The Shadow bit the stopper free with his teeth. A pungent odor came from the vial. With an effort, The Shadow swallowed the contents. The bottle made a tiny tinkle is it fell and broke upon the cement beside the steps.
Clutching the stone beside him, The Shadow arose. The elixir had given him a new taste of life. Though he limped and staggered, while his right side drooped, the game warrior began to cover the remaining distance of the block.
The next crossing marked a quiet uptown avenue, for The Shadow had arrived far north of Times Square. The black-clad figure wavered as it reached the far side of the crossing. Then came two dozen steps away from the corner. After that, The Shadow paused; he swayed and crashed upon the sidewalk.
A minute passed. No one chanced to come along the sidewalk while The Shadow lay there motionless. The figure moved again, with pitiful weakness. The power of the elixir had ended; its passing had brought an opposite reaction.
Crawling foot by foot; dragging himself by the sheer strength of his left arm, for his legs were weakening, The Shadow reached the white wall of a low apartment building. The entrance showed ahead. The Shadow, however, stopped at a nearer door.
The left hand crept upward. Fingers, moving spiderlike, gained the knob. The hand drew the form below close against the door. Then the left arm drooped; once again, fingers fumbled. The hand came up, carrying the metal pick.
Faltering fingers probed the lock. One click failed — another had a like fate. The Shadow’s hand persisted. The lock yielded. The pick dropped; the hand clutched the knob. A final twist; the door opened inward and The Shadow’s form went sprawling forward.
Barely across the threshold, The Shadow made a last motion of his arm. This action closed the door — not quite tight. The hand sought to finish the work. It failed. A sigh came from The Shadow’s lips; his form dropped flat. The slouch hat rolled from the head that wore it.
Stretched prone upon the floor, The Shadow lay motionless. Slow, labored breathing such was the only sound that came from the spot where he had lost all consciousness. The folds of the blood-soaked cloak lay like a shroud upon the crippled shape.