Upward came those steel-joined wrists. The body of the handcuffs met Stanley Warwick’s square chin.
The detective’s head went back as he fell.
Wheeling toward the doorway, The Shadow kicked the half-opened door. It swung shut in the faces of the plainclothes men. The Shadow sprang to the door and locked it.
There was pandemonium outside. The man in sable black appeared not to notice it.
The keys to the handcuffs were in the possession of the unconscious detective; but The Shadow chose a quicker way to release himself.
The telephone table had an old-fashioned marble top. The Shadow swung his hands downward, striking the cuffs against the projecting edge of the table top. The marble cracked from the forceful blow. One arm of the handcuffs sprang open.
Another heavy stroke and The Shadow’s other hand was free. Silently, swiftly, the tall man removed his black cloak and hat.
The detectives were crashing at the door. The barrier began to break beneath their blows. Above the uproar came a sharp cry from within the room.
The men stopped as they recognized the voice of their chief, punctuated by a pistol shot.
“Hold it,” came Warwick’s voice. “I’ve finished him. Stand by. I’m opening the door.”
The key turned in the lock. The door opened inward. A gray-clad arm indicated a huddled figure in black that lay on the floor, face downward, with the broad-brimmed hat beside it.
“I shot him,” Warwick’s tones same from beside the door. The soft gray hat obscured the speaker’s face.
“Pick him up and carry him out.”
The detectives surged forward. Two of them lifted the limp body. The face came into view.
“It’s the chief!” cried one of the men.
THE others leaped toward the door, just as a gray-coated figure flashed from view. Shots followed; but they were wide.
Then did the detectives realize the ruse. The Shadow — with incredible speed — had donned Warwick’s coat and had enveloped the detective in the black cloak. He had even clipped handcuffs on Warwick’s wrists!
“Get him!” came the cry from the top of the stairs.
A man stationed at the front door heard the shout. He was bewildered for an instant as he saw the form of Stanley Warwick approaching him. Then he realized that the oncoming man was taller than his chief.
Before he could act, the detective fell beneath a sweeping punch. The front door opened. The escaping prisoner stepped forth, deliberately closing the door behind him.
The lights of the street did not betray his false identity. The Shadow had not assumed the features of Stanley Warwick but his pose was a perfect imitation of the detective.
With his head turned down, he glanced swiftly in both directions. He waved his thumb over his shoulder, and issued a command in Warwick’s customary tones.
“Inside men,” he ordered. “Make it snappy! We’ve got our man!”
Two detectives came from the front of the building. The man with the gray hat stepped to the sidewalk as they dashed up the steps. The front door opened before their arrival. Two men in plain clothes burst forth.
“There he goes!” cried one, indicating the man with the gray coat and hat, who was moving swiftly along the street.
Shots came from steps. They were answered by a gibing laugh that tantalized the pursuers. The range was too great for accuracy.
The detectives hurried to the sidewalk, in time to see their quarry disappear around the corner. When they reached the spot, their quarry was nowhere in sight.
The Shadow, superman of action, had escaped. Still living, he could block Palermo’s crimes.
Nevertheless, the keen-minded physician had scored a victory. That night, Stanley Warwick issued a statement that put in effect new police orders.
A dangerous criminal had eluded the police. All officers were instructed to watch for him. His name was not known; but his alias had been revealed.
The Shadow was wanted!
CHAPTER XVI. PALERMO MOVES
THE search for The Shadow lost its official approval as soon as it had begun. The ardent efforts of Detective Stanley Warwick were overruled by his superiors.
Nothing like this had ever occurred in the history of the New York police force. Men could be wanted for crimes; clews could be followed in tracking unknown criminals. But it was impossible to swear out a warrant for every person who might be wearing a black cloak and hat.
The voice of The Shadow had been heard over the radio the night after the affair in the house on Eastern Avenue. That meant nothing. There was no proof that the man who had eluded Warwick was the same person as the radio announcer.
Police records showed that more than one criminal had claimed to be The Shadow. In the face of previous occurrences, the police commissioner deemed it wise to rescind the order which Stanley Warwick had sponsored.
Warwick was quick to realize his folly. He knew that he could demand to know the identity of the man who broadcast every week; at the same time, he saw that such an action would be a mistake.
He would not know The Shadow if he should meet him face to face. He would be ridiculed, and would gain nothing. He felt that his best policy was to wait until The Shadow again became active.
If a man in black should commit a crime or place himself in a suspicious position, that would be a starting point.
Warwick already had a tip. Palermo had secretly notified him that George Clarendon should be watched.
Warwick quickly learned facts concerning Clarendon, who was well known in society. But he could not trace the man, nor could he learn where he lived.
All data on Clarendon ended at a certain point. Beyond that, nothing was obtainable.
It was evident that The Shadow was exercising caution, and Doctor Palermo had gained the freedom he desired, temporarily at least.
He advised Warwick to track down The Shadow’s agents, and named Clyde Burke as one of them.
The ex-reporter was not to be found. Following instructions from The Shadow, he was living in the apartment across the street from the Marimba. Harry Vincent was the only one who ventured forth.
Had either of the men been quizzed, they could not have furnished important evidence. For The Shadow made all his phone calls from different sources. Each hour word was received from him; the return number was invariably a new one.
The vigil kept on. On the fourth night following the encounter between Warwick and The Shadow, the phone buzzed while Burke was watching from the window. Burbank was on the wire.
“Called to the fortieth floor,” came the report. “Must hurry back. Palermo may be going out.”
WORKING quickly in the dark, Harry Vincent dialed the latest number given by The Shadow. There was no reply. It was a moment that required decision.
“Come,” said Harry shortly. “We can’t miss this chance.”
The two men hurried to the street and slipped into Harry’s coupe. They drove around the block. A taxicab was pulling away from the Marimba Apartments. They could not see the face of the passenger.
“Guesswork,” grunted Harry. “We’ll follow this bird, just the same.”
The cab rolled uptown, the coupe staying well in the rear. The course led to Eastern Avenue. The cab stopped in front of an old house with boarded windows.
Harry and Clyde saw a man go up the steps and unlock the door. They drove by as they watched.
“It’s Palermo,” said Clyde softly. “That house is the one mentioned in the newspapers — the home of Doctor Brockbank, where Warwick met The Shadow.”
“It’s a funny thing,” observed Harry, as he stopped the car around the corner. “Warwick started the rumpus about The Shadow. Warwick is also after Palermo. Why hasn’t he identified Palermo as The Shadow?”