A few stopped to fire from the side passage. They saw Cobber being propelled in their direction. They blasted shots at the man who served The Shadow as a living shield, then fled as they heard an automatic thunder. The flight was complete; with them, the invaders were dragging men who had been clipped by The Shadow's bullets.
ONLY Cobber was abandoned. Stumbling ahead, he unwittingly blocked the pursuit that The Shadow made. Out through an alley, past the rear exit of a small store - there, The Shadow raced ahead of the stumbler who slowed him. Cars were wheeling around a corner when The Shadow reached the side street.
A taxi sped in from the opposite direction. Figures bobbed in sight; they were The Shadow's agents, arriving on the scene. Further pursuit was useless; but The Shadow's trail was not ended. He signaled the cab to wait. It stopped, for it was his own taxi. The agents took to cover.
Half a minute later Cobber, sagging, came from the alley. His rattish eyes were glazed, but they saw the waiting cab with open door. Thinking it manned by his pals, Cobber stumbled aboard, muttered for the cab to get started.
The door slammed, the taxi rolled away. Slumped to the floor, Cobber was chilled by a whispered laugh that sounded close beside his ear. The crook looked up; his dying eyes met the burning gaze of The Shadow.
"They double-crossed you, Cobber!" The Shadow's tone was a harsh, emphatic rasp. "They made you the fall guy; then tried to croak you so you wouldn't talk!"
Through the film of Cobber's eyes, there showed a glisten. This was the sort of speech that the fellow understood, and believed. He knew where those last shots had come from. Close to death, he was willing to depend upon The Shadow to deliver vengeance.
"Get him!" coughed Cobber. "The guy - that fixed the double cross! He's at - at Mandor's -"
A spasm racked Cobber. He twisted into a huddling mass on the taxi floor. His head tilted back, jounced the door, then settled, face upward, against The Shadow's forearm.
"Apartment" - Cobber spoke each word with a rattling gulp - "James - Mandor -"
Came a dying gurgle; then silence. As the cab rolled onward, The Shadow spoke; his tone was a solemn whisper: an order to the driver. The cab wheeled around the next corner. A block farther on, it reversed direction.
The Shadow was taking the trail that Cobber's death had brought.
He needed no address. The name of James Mandor was a prominent one; the man's residence was one that The Shadow had visited as Cranston. No need of wasting precious minutes to make a telephone call there; nor would a call to Burbank help.
The Shadow, himself, was closer to the goal than any of his agents; and, in this emergency, the chances were that he could accomplish most by making the trip alone. The mission, itself, was one of utmost consequence.
Search for a master crook could be postponed. The Shadow's immediate urge was to prevent a new addition to the ranks of the Dead Who Lived!
CHAPTER V. THE TRAP THAT TURNED
AT the very moment when The Shadow changed the direction of his taxi journey, a dignified gray-haired man entered the lobby of an old-fashioned apartment house. He stopped at the desk, received a stack of letters and glanced over them. All the letters were addressed to James Mandor.
"How was the plane trip, Mr. Mandor?" questioned the clerk.
"Monotonous!" returned Mandor. "Like all cross-country flights. By the way" - he glanced at the clock above the desk - "I am expecting some visitors at eight-thirty. Send them up without delay."
Mandor was on the elevator when he remembered that he wanted a New York newspaper. The operator offered to obtain one, but Mandor stopped him.
"Never mind," he said. "I want both morning and evening editions. There may be some trouble obtaining them. I shall send Adolph out for them."
The elevator reached the top floor. Mandor unlocked the door of an apartment. He entered, went through a living room and came to a square room that served him as a study. That room formed a curious medley of business and pleasure.
There was a desk in one corner; in the wall beside it, a large shiny safe of latest pattern. Few persons in New York owned such a finely fitted strongbox. There was a filing cabinet in another corner and it was the last item that pertained to business.
All around the room were sporting trophies; with them, the implements that Mandor had used to acquire them. Golf bags were racked along the wall; tennis racquets occupied a special corner. There were fencing foils, shotguns, polo sticks. As athlete and sportsman, James Mandor was remarkably versatile.
In business, too, he had a varied career. Mandor was a promoter who acquired small fortunes through his ventures. A huge spender, with his time heavily occupied by sports, he concentrated upon business only when he foresaw a shortage of funds.
Mandor was chuckling to himself when he took a niblick from its bag and began to practice swings that chopped deep into the tuft of an expensive Oriental rug.
"Back to business, Jim," he said, half aloud. "Don't worry about that Frisco deal. It can wait. This other proposition is sure fire! Only, I wonder -"
He paused, weighing the golf club; then shook his head.
"Not a chance!" he muttered. "They wouldn't think of selling out their shares. They know how good it is."
A few more swings of the golf club, and Mandor thrust it back into the bag. He looked toward the doorway of the study. He had remembered Adolph. Angrily, Mandor shouted for the servant.
There was no reply. Mandor fancied that he heard a stir in the gloomy living room. He stepped through the doorway, looked toward a window where an outside balcony extended along to the next apartment.
The window was closed, but Mandor thought the sound had come from its direction. He eyed a big chair suspiciously; craned his neck, suspecting that a figure crouched beyond it.
His attention was suddenly diverted by a grating sound behind him. He swung toward the closet door just as it opened. Before he could recover from his startlement, he was staring into the muzzle of a gun held by a masked owner.
Mandor's hands came up. The masked man motioned him into the study. As Mandor turned, he saw other figures rise. There were three others in the room - one behind the big chair that he had first observed.
THE gray-haired sportsman took the invasion almost with contempt. The leader of the masked group observed it; pulled his handkerchief mask down around his neck. Mandor saw a face that was hard-eyed, blunt-nosed, long-jawed. But the fellow had a wise look that showed him intelligent as well as tough.
"Maybe we'll get places quicker," rasped the invader, "if I introduce myself. My name is Quill Baxton.
Ever hear of me?"
"I have," replied Mandor, dryly. "You were mixed pretty deep in that Florida race-track scandal."
"Mixed in it?" scoffed Quill. "I was the guy who made the wheels go around, until they queered the racket!"
"So you went into this one," returned Mandor. "Well, burglary has its merits, I suppose. A quick way of getting money."
"Yeah. Easy, too - when the guy that owns a safe opens it for you. Like you're going to do with that one, Mandor."
Quill nudged his revolver toward the big safe. Mandor eyed him coolly.
"Suppose I don't open it?" he questioned.
"Then you'll hear this gat talk!" retorted Quill, shoving his revolver against Mandor's ribs. Then, his rasp turning to a coarse chuckle: "You wouldn't want that, would you, Mandor?"
Mandor considered. He shook his head.
"No," he decided, "I wouldn't. They'd have a hard time bagging you, Baxton, because this type of crime is unusual for you. So I'll open the safe. You're welcome to the few thousand dollars that I have there."
Calmly, Mandor went to the safe and worked the combination. The door came open, disclosing another inside it. As he thumbed the second combination, Mandor spoke.