Aiming with the mirror as his guide, The Shadow’s shot had been no more than a simple test of his skillful marksmanship. His steady hand, diving beneath the upraised arm, had ended the evil life of Rochelle’s murderous monster.
Yet even as The Shadow laughed, Darvin Rochelle performed an action of his own. The insidious plotter was demonish in his persistent attempts to thwart the black-garbed avenger.
The Shadow had turned one gun to finish Thurk. He had raised the other to keep the crooks at bay. Rochelle, momentarily uncovered, performed the one action which lay within his power.
LEANING forward with left hand on the table, Rochelle delivered a vicious, downward swing with his heavy cane. Had he aimed the stroke for The Shadow’s body, the black-garbed fighter could have whirled away from it. But Rochelle, as he screamed an order to his minions, had chosen a more suitable objective.
His cane smashed against the automatic that bulged from The Shadow’s left hand. It drove the weapon downward.
The effect of the blow was twofold. Not only did it clear the menace of that automatic, the downward drop of The Shadow’s left arm clamped his second gun — the one with which he had slain Thurk.
Rochelle’s quick action brought the momentary interval needed to swing his henchmen into action. As they heard their chief’s cry and saw his deed, five men acted with single accord.
Whistler Ingliss and Maurice Twindell reached to their pockets for revolvers. Bugs Ritler and his mobsters shot their hands to hips. Guns flashed in the light.
The Shadow whirled. His swift turn swung him toward Rochelle. The master crook, sliding back with his cane, was about to scramble, crablike to the rear door of the office. Had The Shadow paused to end the fiend’s life, it would have given the armed minions their chance.
Instead, The Shadow, swinging his unlimbered automatics, veered to meet the onrush. Tongues of flame belched from the mighty weapons. Caught within the echo-holding walls of the room, The Shadow’s shots sounded a cannonade.
Bugs Ritler staggered. One of his gangsters loosed a shot. His bullet zimmed past The Shadow’s head, then the mobsmen fell.
Vic Marquette was pouncing on the second mobster, who was aiming toward the weaving form of The Shadow. The bark of an automatic forestalled Vic and the mobster as well. Vic saw the gangster fall before he could grapple with the man.
Harry Vincent and Clyde Burke were alert. Each of The Shadow’s agents had chosen a separate man. Harry leaped for Maurice Twindell; Clyde for Whistler Ingliss.
Twindell, thinking that the others could down The Shadow, wrenched away from Harry. Wheeling, he aimed his revolver point-blank between Harry’s eyes. Harry sprang forward to forestall the shot. His effort was too late. Twindell was pressing finger to trigger.
HIS shot, however, never came. The Shadow had seen Harry’s plight; a turn of his wrist with a trigger squeeze dispatched a leaden messenger to Twindell’s skull.
Whistler Ingliss, fighting with Clyde Burke, delivered a glancing blow to Clyde’s head. The newspaperman slumped to the floor. Whistler, his lips pursed for an imaginary trill, snapped his wrist directly toward The Shadow.
Gleaming eyes — a tongue of forking flame — these showed as The Shadow’s gun barked in response to the cool gambler’s calculating aim. Whistler Ingliss had delayed a split second too long. His lips widened; his hand went to his breast. Tottering, Whistler Ingliss wavered, then sprawled face foremost on the floor.
Vic Marquette had grabbed two revolvers from the floor. Plunging across the room, he caught Harry Vincent by the arm. Vic had seen the havoc of The Shadow’s fire. He knew that the minions within this room were doomed.
“Come!” Vic was shouting the order as he dragged Harry along. “This way! That’s where he’s gone — the big shot. Out through the way they brought us in!”
As The Shadow, now near the door to the anteroom, delivered his last deciding bullet, Vic Marquette and Harry Vincent gained the door at the back of the room. Harry was clutching a gun that Vic had given him. Together, these delivered prisoners were in pursuit of Darvin Rochelle.
The final echoes of The Shadow’s gunfire were broken by a new and strident sound. It was a peal of taunting laughter, a burst of freed, triumphant mirth.
The Shadow had delivered doom to minions of crime. He, too, was ready to take up the search for Darvin Rochelle, the insidious master plotter who alone had fled!
CHAPTER XX
THE DEATH VATS
HARRY VINCENT and Vic Marquette were dashing down the spiral stairway. They knew the route, for it was through this way that they had been brought to Rochelle’s.
“The house at the rear,” panted Vic, as they clattered from the staircase. “That’s where he’s gone! Be ready, Vincent! There’ll be other mobsmen there!”
The door to the courtyard was unlocked. Vic gripped Harry’s arm as they reached the open. The two paused momentarily to listen. Sound of gunfire were bursting from streets all around the area.
“The police!” exclaimed Vic. “Say — how could they have got here this quick? Come on, Vincent; this will help us. They’re coming in from all sides. Our man is trapped!”
Vic and Harry reached the house in back. A dim light showed in a rear room. Vic spied a doorway. He opened it to show a flight of descending stairs. With Harry Vincent at his heels, the secret-service operative led the downward dash.
A dim light showed in a cellar room; beyond it, another dimly lighted compartment. Harry Vincent clutched his companion’s shoulder.
“Listen!” whispered The Shadow’s agent.
Vic heard the sound. Within the stone walls of the cellar, it made a ghostly effect — a slow, steady tapping that was gradually drawing away. For a moment both men were startled by the uncanny noise. Then the explanation came in a blurted whisper from Harry’s lips.
“The man with the limp! It’s the tapping of his cane!”
Vic Marquette nodded. They had overtaken the villain whom they sought. Somewhere, beyond the narrow opening to the other section of this dim cellar, a fiend was seeking safety.
“Come!” Vic led a cautious advance. He and Harry crossed the first room swiftly, but with little noise. They gained the opening; off ahead, they could hear the echoes of the tapping cane.
Together, the pursuers moved foot by foot into the further room. Vic’s eyes were straight ahead. Harry’s wavered toward the floor. This was fortunate. Just as the tapping of the cane had ceased, Harry gripped Vic and drew him back.
The action was just in time. Vic Marquette’s feet were on the edge of a stepping-off spot.
A rank odor surged to the nostrils of the pursuers. Their eyes accustomed to the gloom, Vic and Harry saw what they had just escaped. They were on the lip of a deep pit; several feet down in the uncovered hole was a murky, greenish liquid that filled the entire pit.
THEIR eyes traveled further. They saw a second pit separated from the first by a thin, dividing side. Beyond that, a gloomy wall, with a narrow edge of floor—
A chuckle brought eyes upward. With guns lowered, Harry and Vic were taken unaware. Their staring eyes saw the figure that they sought. On the narrow ledge beyond the further pit stood Darvin Rochelle!
The fiend was standing backed against the wall. His cane was in his right hand. His left was drawing it away. Before either watcher could recover, the cane had come apart. A hollow sheath was withdrawn from glimmering steel!
Up came Rochelle’s right hand. Harry and Vic were covered by the strangest weapon that they had ever seen. The interior of Rochelle’s cane had formed a long-barreled gun.