AT that instant, the barrier swung open. With it came a powerful figure, hurtling inward with a gun. A vicious face — that of Coney Laxter. The expected gorilla had arrived. Outside the door, he had heard the voice of The Shadow. He was charging in, to meet the menace.
Coney had gauged his entry by the sound of The Shadow’s voice. His gun was ready as he hurled himself through the door, then straight toward the window. His quick finger pressed the trigger of the revolver.
But The Shadow had acted as swiftly as had Coney.
With the fling of the door, The Shadow had whirled forward and downward. Half sprawling in the direction of Doc Ralder, he had taken the one measure that could save him from Coney’s aim. The mobster’s bullet whistled inches past The Shadow’s dropping head. It sped through window shade and shattered the pane beyond. As the glass clattered, an automatic barked.
The Shadow had fired from the floor. Coney’s hand, swinging downward for new aim, came to an instantaneous halt. But the revolver, loosed by quivering fingers, clattered to the floor. Coney’s hands went to his chest. With a groan, the invader sagged.
It was Doc Ralder who acted in his place. With a savage cry, the sawbones sprang upon the cloaked form that had come to the floor beside him. Had he sought to draw a gun, Ralder would have been doomed upon the instant. Had his purpose been to grapple only, he would have failed again.
But Ralder, as he leaped upon The Shadow, was quick to utilize a deadly weapon that he held in ready grasp. With left hand clawing for The Shadow’s throat, he brought his right fist downward, aiming the hypodermic needle straight for The Shadow’s back.
The Shadow lunged. Ralder’s arm shot forward. His fist went beyond its aim, as The Shadow, prostrate on the floor, knocked his knees from under him. Clutching with his left hand, the sawbones twisted and tried to make another jab at the body beneath him. Then came the muffled boom of an automatic.
The syringe clattered from Ralder’s grasp. The needle pricked the floor; then the instrument rolled away, useless. The Shadow, one gun shoved up against the crook’s stomach, had fired a second death shot.
Dorry and Lefty were wounded men. But, as The Shadow had discerned upon his arrival, they were by no means helpless. The pair of gorillas had not held the advantages possessed by Laxter and Ralder; but The Shadow’s dilemma had given them their chance.
The wounded crooks had gats beneath their pillows. Revolvers flashed as they yanked them into view.
As The Shadow freed one automatic from beneath Ralder’s body, the crooks were ready with their weapons.
The one automatic swung toward Dorry, in the inner corner of the room. Three guns, aiming simultaneously. Two to one against The Shadow. Even though he beat Dorry to the shot, he could not deal with Lefty.
The automatic barked; and with its boom came the report of a second automatic. It was not The Shadow’s other weapon, that was still clamped by Ralder’s body. The shot that had chimed with The Shadow’s had come from the door of the room.
Like puppets, Dorry and Lefty wabbled on their cots. Dorry’s right hand loosened. Lefty’s left fist unclenched. Both gorillas had been beaten to the shot. Dorry by The Shadow, Lefty by Cliff Marsland, standing grimly at the door.
THE SHADOW’S agent had heard Laxter enter by the side door. He had followed the thug up the stairs. Cliff had reached the top just as Laxter had broken through the door. Dashing forward, Cliff had arrived just in time for the final stroke.
Cliff’s shot had come with The Shadow’s. Bullets had sped upon a cross-fire flight. Dorry and Lefty were done. The former had sagged back upon the pillows. The latter, who had reached far in his aim, was toppling on the edge of his cot. As The Shadow came up from the floor, disentangling his cloak from Doc Ralder’s body, Lefty’s form rolled from the cot and sprawled motionless upon the floor.
With Lefty died the chance of learning more. The location of Hoot Shelling’s hide-out could not be gained. But The Shadow had work already scheduled for tonight. The house on East Eighty-eighth Street was his present goal.
Silence had followed the last echoes of the shots. From a distance came the shrill sound of a police whistle. The cop on the beat. The Shadow laughed softly as he swung toward the shattered window. He raised the sash; turning, he motioned to Cliff Marsland.
The agent nodded. He hurried forward and scrambled through the window. As Cliff dropped from the roof to the ground below, The Shadow followed, closing the sash behind him. Then he, like his agent, dropped noiselessly to the ground.
A hissed command in the darkness. Obeying it, Cliff took off through a space between houses at the rear. His job was to remain in the underworld. He had time to get away before the police arrived; to drop into some hangout and mingle with the mobsters there.
The whistle sounded from in front of the house. There were voices; other whistles; hammering on doors.
Men were coming to the back.
The Shadow’s cloak swished in darkness; his lips whispered an echoed laugh as he followed the course that his agent had taken.
TEN minutes later, Joe Cardona was standing in the room where death had struck. The ace had stationed himself in this vicinity, to be close at hand when word came from Dopey Roogan. Joe had heard the shots; he had joined the policeman who had headed here.
Dopey Roogan had come to his senses. Bewildered, the stool pigeon was staring about him. Doc Ralder — Coney Laxter — two gorillas — all lay sprawled in death. Dopey could not understand it.
For the stoolie, unscathed, had been out cold from the time that Ralder had dragged him in this room.
Senseless throughout the Shadow’s conquering fray, Dopey was as useless a witness as the corpses on the floor!
CHAPTER IX. DEATH DELIVERED
AT the very time when The Shadow was departing from the underworld, two figures were crouched by the rear door of a house on Eighty-eighth Street. Above them reared old-fashioned, brownstone walls.
Steel-shuttered windows jutted in the darkness. This was the East Side residence of which Dr. Ralder had spoken.
One man was holding a guarded flashlight; while the other worked upon the door itself. The lock had yielded, the problem now was to loosen a chainbolt on the inside of the door. The task was coming to a slow conclusion as the worker probed through an inch-wide space, using a jimmy. Each twist of his wrist brought the chainbolt closer to the dropping point.
“Take it easy,” whispered the man with the light. The voice was that of Hoot Shelling. “Any noise will queer the stunt. Got it, Greasy?”
“Yeah,” growled the worker. “There it goes.”
The chain swung free and clicked against the door frame. Shoving his hand through the space, Greasy caught the chain and steadied it. He pushed the door further inward; then closed it carefully and turned to Hoot.
“O.K.,” said Greasy.
“Come on, then,” urged the leader. “We’ll scram. You did a neat job, Greasy. That lock won’t show any signs of what you did to it.”
“Yeah, but what about the chainbolt? The chief won’t be able to shoot it when he comes out.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Hoot was leading a course away from the house. Flashlight out, he was pressing through the darkness. “The servant will think he forgot to lock the door — that’s all. Just so long as nobody can prove that we worked on the door, it’s all jake.”
“I don’t get it, though,” stated Greasy, as they sneaked across the street. “We blew the door at Lyken’s place. You had the gang along, too. But here—”
“You don’t have to get it,” whispered Hoot, harshly. “But I might as well give you the lay — as much as I know of it. Lyken had to be bumped with a gat. See? That’s why we made it look like a burglary. But this old gent that lives here — Elwood Phraytag — well, he’s on his last legs.