Major, though weaponless, held the advantage, and realized it. The Shadow, prone, wounded, could be no match for him.
The Shadow had rolled a yard away; but the space was short, and Major was reaching for the gun as he sprang forward. All was in his favor — had he been coping with any one but The Shadow. For, despite his helplessness and the fact that he could neither rise nor use both hands, The Shadow was equal to the emergency.
Coincident with Major's spring, the right hand of The Shadow made a quick, twisting motion. The gun tipped backward in his hand. The muzzle swung up toward Major, and The Shadow's hand caught the butt. His outstretched finger was ready for the trigger.
A clean bit of jugglery, performed in a split second! As the gun plumped safely in The Shadow's hand, Major's fingers arrived. They were closing upon the barrel of the revolver, when The Shadow pulled the trigger. Major's form kept on, hurtling forward on the floor, across The Shadow's body. The flashlight slipped away from Major's dying grasp. It clattered on the stone, and lay shining along the corridor, uselessly turned away from the amazing scene of action.
The lunge of Major's body had trapped The Shadow's arm, but that arm was writhing free. It was racing now with Ferret.
The moment that he had heard the shot, the stoop-shouldered man understood. His arms were folded, and his revolver was in his pocket. But Ferret, backing along the corridor, was quickly drawing his weapon. He was the first to fire.
Then came a quick, weird duel in the dark, the staccato barks of the revolvers echoing like the roar of cannon. Ferret was firing low, toward the floor, at a form he could not see. The Shadow, flattened, had the partial protection of Major's dead body. Ferret was crouching in the dark, only the flashes of his revolver betraying his location.
Quick, alternate shots — with bullets ricocheting everywhere. Ferret, wild and excited; The Shadow fighting with waning strength from a position that handicapped his aim. The sharp roar ended with a mighty burst as both revolvers barked at once. Then only chattering echoes resounded through the long corridor, and ended with a ghostly sound from the distant wall — a tiny reflection of the two shots.
Silence took command. No one stirred in that corridor of doom. The flashlight threw long streaks down the floor and against the walls. No one spoke — not even a whisper broke the stillness. Then came a low, dragging sound. Someone was creeping toward the flashlight.
Fingers closed about the handle of the torch. A form, rising against the wall, cast a huge silhouette as it wavered there, outlined by reflected glare as the flashlight pointed toward the floor. The Shadow had come to life!
Judge and Major had thought him dead. Only Ferret had doubted. Judge's shot had indeed done cruel work; but it had not killed.
The long, toppling plunge, head-first down the stairs, had stunned The Shadow. Only the protection of the slouch hat had broken the final blow, when the head beneath it had struck the floor at the bottom of the steps.
The Shadow had regained his senses on the floor of the corridor. Silent and unmoving, he had bided there until his opportunity had come. Now, in quick conflict, he had thwarted his enemies. Ferret had been right on one point. The thickness of the stone barriers was sufficient to main all noise within the corridor.
This was lucky for The Shadow. If Butcher had entered in response to the shots, The Shadow might not have been able to cope with his third foe.
Even now, triumphant, The Shadow was in a sorry plight. He had been unscathed by Ferret's bullets; but the shot that Judge had fired had caused a serious wound.
Weakened from loss of blood, and strained by superhuman effort, The Shadow was experiencing a relapse. He sagged as he made his way along the corridor. His footsteps faltered.
He sank to his knees. The flashlight went out. Crawling weakly through the darkness, The Shadow strove to reach the end of the corridor. Foot by foot he progressed, resting now and then before he resumed his tedious way. At last he gained his feet again, and paced forward at an unsteady gait. The effort spent his strength. With a last spasmodic exertion, The Shadow neared the wall at the end of the corridor, and lost his footing. He plunged to the floor, and lay still. All was dark and silent throughout the passage. The Shadow lay as motionless as the two men who were dead. He had sought to make his exit from this vaulted corridor of death, but had failed.
Was The Shadow alive — or was he dead?
Chapter XIX — Butcher Enters
Deacon, standing by the open door that led to the alleyway, was superintending the loading of coffins upon one of Harvey Bronlon's trucks.
Four men were at work. They had brought the caskets from below, and had stacked them in the alley. Now their task was nearly completed. Only two of the long boxes remained.
"Put them in the hearse," ordered Deacon. "I didn't think the truck would hold them all."
The men obeyed.
While the workers were thus engaged, Deacon drew away from the front door and stepped into the funeral parlor. "Butcher," he whispered.
The big man advanced through the gloomy room.
"I'm riding up to Bronlon's," declared Deacon, in a low voice. "Following right after the truck, with the hearse. As soon as we're away, go through and tip off Major and Ferret."
"Sure," replied Butcher. "The only thing, Deacon, is the idea of you going alone on this ride. Suppose—"
"Don't be a fool, Butcher. This trip is nothing. It has to look on the level. Wouldn't it look fine" Deacon's tone became sarcastic — "for you to be taking a ride in an undertaker's hearse?
"You know that nothing can go wrong. These men don't know what they're carrying. Those coffin lids are clamped down so tight, it will take a crowbar to open them. Don't you worry. Judge will have them within half an hour. Your job is to slide along, with the others. Be sure the door stays locked. I'm locking it now."
"O.K. I'll be seeing you soon."
"You will not. I don't know you. Stick to your teller's window, and I'll keep doing business in the funeral parlor."
With that, Deacon was gone. Butcher heard the door close behind him. Listening, the big man caught the sound of the truck driving away; then the hearse followed. Butcher started for the stairs. He paused a moment in the gloomy morgue. Butcher grinned as he stared at the depleted piles of old coffins. A clever idea, tonight's shipment. These were brainy men — Judge, Deacon, and Major. Butcher felt that he and Ferret were fortunate to be linked up with this crew. Unlike Ferret, he had never fancied acting on his own initiative. Butcher was content to follow, and do as he was told. Realizing that Major and Ferret would be waiting, Butcher hurriedly opened the panel and shoved back the sliding stone barrier behind it. His flashlight was in his hand. His revolver was in his pocket. The flashlight was needed, for the corridor was dark. But before Butcher pressed the button, he paused and sniffed in the darkness. His nostrils caught the pungent odor of powder. As he stepped forward in the gloom, Butcher's foot stumbled against a form. He quickly pressed the flashlight, and its rays shone upon a black-clad figure, sprawled upon the floor of the corridor. The discovery astonished Butcher. It was entirely unexpected, and he could make nothing of it. The thought occurred that it must be either Major or Ferret.
He bent over the prostrate form, and decided that it was a corpse. Should he go on — or should he stop here? Butcher decided that the latter course was preferable. He gripped the body and dragged it back through the panel, until he reached the floor of the morgue.
There, Butcher let his burden rest gently on the floor. He carefully rolled the body over on its back. He pulled away the slouch hat.