Then came the unexpected. The Shadow, in his fading drop, had reached a chair beside the wall. Even as his right hand delivered its thundering reports, his left had seized the light piece of furniture.
The Shadow’s left arm swung as his right hand dispatched its swift shot. The chair came hurtling through the air, a flying missile that preceded The Shadow’s aiming swing toward Trigger Maddock.
IT was a move of perfect execution. The chair was hurled in Trigger’s general direction. It was in mid-air as the gangleader came up with the draw.
Instinctively, Trigger ducked to the left; then frantically regained his aim, just as the chair crashed close to the spot where he had been.
A roar from The Shadow’s corner. Trigger’s aim faltered. In the split second whereby he had diverted the mob leader’s aim, The Shadow had fired one quick shot. Snarling, stopped by a bullet in his shoulder, Trigger managed to fire in reply. His weakened aim was wide. Trigger steadied for another shot. The automatic roared before the gangleader could deliver a second shot. Trigger sprawled on the floor.
The Shadow’s form rose like a specter from its corner. Keen eyes looked toward the door. Herb was lying motionless. One mobster, beside Herb, raised his arm weakly and tried to fire. The effort was too great. The man collapsed. The Shadow’s laugh rippled in sardonic tones.
The second gangster — the one who had staggered from the door — had managed to reach the stairs. The echoes of his scrambling footsteps could be heard from below. The Shadow, ghostly amid the echoes of his taunting laugh, moved toward the spot where Trigger lay.
Slumped in a heap, the gangleader looked up and snarled at the sight of the black-garbed enemy. Trigger had dropped his revolver. Vainly, he reached for it. The Shadow stooped; his gloved hand whisked the weapon way from Trigger’s faltering grasp.
Then, with iron grip, The Shadow raised Trigger’s limp form. Dragging the wounded gangleader forward, he slumped the man’s helpless body in a chair beside the table. Odd scraps of paper were upon the table; a pencil stump lay in view. The Shadow picked up the shortened pencil and placed it in Trigger’s right hand. His gloved fist pressed the mobster’s fingers tight.
Then came a weird scene. Trigger, choking, lay slumped upon the table. His right hand, forward, was in The Shadow’s grasp. Like a spirit hand guiding the fingers of a medium, The Shadow was forcing Trigger to make a penciled scrawl.
WHISPERED words came to Trigger’s ears. Those were commanding words. Weakly, Trigger followed them. Letter by letter, the words of a message appeared. When Trigger’s hand faltered, the guiding fist of The Shadow forced it to its work.
The shrill blast of a whistle came from the street. A distant blare — like an echo — was the answer. Still, The Shadow persisted in his task. Then came the far-away whine of a siren. Trigger was motionless, save for his right hand, which The Shadow guided.
Shouts from below. The sound of footsteps at the bottom of the stairway. Trigger’s hand, enveloped by the black glove of The Shadow, came to the end of its scrawl. The black fist slowly released its grip. Trigger Maddock did not move.
One last cough had spelled the end of the mobleader’s useless life. Mortally wounded by The Shadow’s second shot, Trigger was dead. His hand, tightened by the final rigor, clutched the pencil stump. A soft laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips.
Pounding footsteps. The police had reached the second floor. The Shadow turned toward the door of the inner room. He swished from view and closed the door behind him. Three seconds later, a uniformed officer appeared at the door of the outer room.
The policeman hesitated on the threshold. The Shadow had counted on such action. Within the inner room, the victorious fighter was adjusting his rubber suction cups. A window opened softly. A few seconds later, it closed. Squidging downward, The Shadow began his descent, invisible against the blackened side wall of the old building.
More footsteps. Another policeman had arrived. The first officer crossed the living room, took a look at Trigger’s body, then opened the inner door. He threw the gleam of a flashlight into the second room. The place was empty.
“Nobody here,” said the officer. “They must have cleared out. Here comes a car” — he nudged his hand toward the window as a siren’s whine sounded from the street — “so we’d better wait.”
A patrol car had arrived below. A moment later, another car pulled up. Out jumped Detective Joe Cardona. Striding forward, the headquarter’s man barked orders to the policemen. They started into the apartment building.
THE street was practically deserted. Trouble in this district dispelled crowds instead of attracting them. Joe Cardona, glancing about, spied only one man close by. A shambling figure was stealing furtively in his direction. Joe heard a plaintive whisper. He stepped away from the door of the apartment building.
“It’s me,” came a low voice. “Me — Squawky. The trouble’s up there, Joe. Trigger Maddock — I seen him at the Pink Rat. He went out; then a couple of his crew followed. I trailed ‘em.”
“They’re up there now?”
“Two of ‘em. One came fluking out. He’d been shot up. Looked like he was goin’ to cave in before he got far. I gotta scram, Joe. Look out for Trigger.”
Squawker shifted away along the street. The stoolie was making for a hideout. Cardona entered the apartment building. He shouted from the foot of the stairs. Answers came from the police above. Joe hurried upward.
“Three of them got it,” informed one of the patrol officers as Cardona reached the apartment. “Looks like a fight started while one of the bunch was writing out a note. Guess he was going to send it along by one of his men.”
Cardona nodded. He entered the apartment. He glanced at the bodies of Herb and the other mobster. They looked like Trigger’s men. It was the body of the gangleader that attracted Cardona’s chief attention.
Striding to the table, Cardona stared at the scrawl that showed on the piece of paper beside Trigger’s pencil-clutching fingers. Though roughly formed, the letters appeared to have been written by a steady hand. Cardona read the words:
Parking lot across from side door. Titan Trust. 11:30. Will cover for outfit coming from bank.
The policemen had approached. Cardona made no comment as he pulled the paper from beneath Trigger’s dead hand and folded it into quarters. Then the detective turned to the officers.
“Did any of you read this note?” he questioned.
“No,” replied one. “I didn’t know what it was — just going to take a look at it when you came in—”
“All right,” broke in Cardona. “Keep it mum. Pry that pencil out of Trigger’s fingers. Get the bodies to the morgue. It’s another gun fight.
“This” — Cardona paused to explain as he showed the folded note and thrust it in his pocket — “was a note Trigger was going to send out. It may be a clue to some job that’s coming off. That’s why I want it kept quiet. I’m going to headquarters.”
With that, the detective left the apartment. His footsteps sounded in rapid tattoo as he pounded down the stairs. Joe Cardona was in a hurry. He had found another clue.
Like the note planted in a dead gorilla’s pocket, this sheet of paper from beneath Trigger’s hand was a tip-off to coming crime. Joe Cardona had time to prepare for the thrust before half past eleven.
Once again, Joe Cardona thought that he had gained a lucky clue. He did not know that both notes had been planted by The Shadow!
Clyde Burke, reporter who served as secret agent of The Shadow, had pointed Joe the first note which the master worker had planted.
This new clue had needed no suggestion for its finding. The Shadow had left it — convincing to its every detail — in a spot where Cardona would be sure to find it for himself!