The swiftest shooter in the underworld, a gunner who could drill a mark while on the draw, Trigger had surrounded himself with a band of capable sharpshooters who were equipped for rapid duty. The two men with him were evidently members of his select squad.
There were others of Trigger’s ilk in the underworld — raiding mobleaders like Louie Harger, “Pigeon” Melgin, or “Turk” Bodell. They either worked swift jobs of their own or sold their talents to big shots who might need them. Meanwhile, they were clever enough to evade the law. So far, the police had never been able to hang sure evidence upon Trigger Maddock.
Trigger’s presence in the Pink Rat was not unusual. This place was one of his favored hangouts. Others of his type had their own chosen spots. They, like Trigger, made it a practice to meet their henchmen at appointed places in the badlands.
Squawky Sugler became watchful. His furtive glances returned at regular intervals toward Trigger Maddock. Anxious to gain some information, the stool pigeon was looking for any sign that might indicate coming action on the gangleader’s part. Yet no such sign came.
HALF an hour passed. Squawky shifted in his chair. He began to feel uncomfortable — afraid that some one might be noting the watch that he was keeping on Trigger. Squawky’s eyes roved about the room. They came to a sudden stop.
In watching Trigger, Squawky had been looking toward the left. For the first time, he observed a person on the right. Seated at a table not more than a dozen feet away was a lone gangster whose eyes met Squawky’s as the stoolie stared in his direction.
Squawky did not recognize the mobster. But he crouched uneasily as he studied the stranger’s visage. Squawky saw an immobile face — a countenance as fixed as a statue’s. A hawklike nose, from its sides a pair of piercing eyes that held the compelling stare of a hypnotist.
The focused gaze seemed to burn through the startled stool pigeon. Squawky’s clawing hands scratched at the table beside the bottle. Squawky feared that this strange watcher had spotted him as a police informant.
The stranger was wearing a turtle-neck sweater, black in color. Its heavy folds gave him an impressive bulk; though seated, it was apparent that he must be at least six feet tall. Sinking in his chair, Squawky managed to wrest his gaze from those weird, blazing eyes. Slowly, the stool pigeon looked toward the floor beside the other table.
There he saw a streak of blackness. It might have been a continuation of the bulky sweater. It loomed wide upon the floor; and Squawky, staring as he blinked, observed that it ended in a striking silhouette — a profile of the hawklike visage that lay as motionless as though it were etched upon the floor.
Squawky shuddered. He reached for the bottle. His hand shook as he poured himself a drink. Drops trickled from the lip of the glass; the liquid dabbed Squawky’s hand. More spattered on the stool pigeon’s chin as Squawky raised the glass to his lips.
There was reason for Squawky’s terror. That silhouette, as formidable as the form above it, brought grotesque thoughts to the stool pigeon’s fevered brain. It reminded Squawky of a dread being whose name he had heard whispered through the underworld — The Shadow!
Big shots had quailed through fear of The Shadow. For The Shadow was known as a superfighter, a lone wolf who roved the underworld, preying upon all who dealt in crime. A phantom of darkness, a living being who could travel unseen, The Shadow was the mighty foe of crookdom.
Dying gangsters had gasped The Shadow’s name. Others, who had gained respite through flight, had told of seeing him. A figure clad entirely in black; his eyes like living coals beneath the brim of a slouch hat; his form concealed by an inky, flowing cloak; his gloved hands gripping a pair of deadly automatics — such was The Shadow.
The Shadow, it was rumored, was a master of disguise. The Shadow, it had been proven, knew much, if not all, concerning activities in the underworld. He gave no quarter to those who dealt in crime. None were immune once The Shadow had marked them for destruction.
THIS was why Squawky feared. The unknown gangster; the black sweater; the silhouette upon the floor — these brought beads of perspiration to the stool pigeon’s forehead.
The Shadow was independent of the police. Squawky, as a stool pigeon, could gain no immunity should he incur The Shadow’s wrath. The presence of this mysterious stranger kept Squawky in a tremble. Until he found proof that The Shadow was watching some one other than himself, Squawky was afraid to move.
Wresting his gaze from the floor, Squawky blinked at the bottle as he helped himself to another drink. He did not dare to gaze to the right. His furtive, timorous glances were all brief ones, toward Trigger Maddock, at the left. Even these were few. Squawky still feared that The Shadow’s eyes were upon him.
Two men entered the Pink Rat. They looked like small-fry mobsters. One came slouching over toward Trigger’s table. He clapped the gangleader on the back and mouthed a friendly greeting. Trigger, apparently annoyed by the fellow’s approach, snarled in reply. The newcomer grinned in apologetic fashion. He began to sidle away. Trigger arose and followed him a few paces.
For a moment, the pair stood jaw to jaw. Trigger shoved the other man’s shoulder. Still snarling, the gangleader went back to his table. The small-fry crook rejoined his companion.
Squawky had seen the brief altercation. His eyes naturally followed the man whom Trigger had rebuked. But there were eyes that followed Trigger instead. Those watching eyes were the optics of the sweatered stranger whose gaze Squawky Sugler feared.
The sweatered watcher had seen a shift of hands. He saw Trigger, as he moved away, thrust his fist into his inside pocket. The small-fry crook had delivered something to Trigger Maddock.
Neither of Trigger’s gorillas had detected the move. Like Squawky, they had taken the affair only as an unpleasant meeting that had not been to Trigger’s liking. But the sweatered watcher was ready for the aftermath which came.
Trigger Maddock swallowed a drink. He spoke to his companions. They nodded. Rising, the gangleader strolled toward the door. Squawky, gripping his bottle, began to pour a third drink.
There was a motion at Squawky’s right. The sweatered mobster arose. His trousers, like his sweater, were black. He strolled toward another exit. No one was concerned with his departure.
When Squawky Sugler had gulped his drink, he gazed unthinkingly toward the floor beside the table on the right. The silhouette was gone. Squawky looked up; he blinked when he saw that the table had been vacated.
With a sigh of relief, the stool settled back in his chair. Concerned no more with Trigger Maddock, relieved of the fear which he had felt toward the stranger whom he had suspected to be The Shadow, the stool pigeon began to observe others in the Pink Rat.
MEANWHILE, Trigger Maddock was departing from the outside alley. The gangleader had reached the street beyond. He paused to gaze over his shoulder; then resumed his course. He walked rapidly along the street.
From the darkness of the alley, a pair of keen eyes had seen Trigger’s move. A sweater moved upward; from beneath its bulk came the girdling folds of another black garment. A cloak swished over shoulders.
A flattened hat took shape. It capped the head above the cloak. A form moved forward. Gaining the sidewalk of the street, a fleeting figure merged with the gloom of a house wall. Burning eyes spied Trigger, less than a block ahead.
Then began a weird pursuit. One block — two — three — the gliding phantom trailed Trigger. The space was closing. Trigger did not suspect that he was being followed.
The gangleader reached a brick building which, though old, was more pretentious than others of the neighborhood. He stopped just outside the door. The place was a cheap apartment.