A gloved hand produced a flattened pick of stout blackened metal. Deft fingers probed the lock. The fastening, the strongest type of lock that Dobey Blitz could obtain, began to yield under magic persuasion. A muffled click sounded The Shadow’s triumph. Slowly, the gloved hand moved back the grille. The Shadow’s body slipped through a narrow space; then his hand drew the grille back to its full extent.
ON the third floor, The Shadow stopped before a massive door. Here, again, his pick did its work. A lock gave; the door opened. The Shadow stepped into a paneled anteroom. There was a door inside.
Closing the outer barrier, The Shadow approached this new obstacle.
The door had no lock. The knob failed to yield. It was obvious that the door depended on a latch that could be operated only from the other side. The door opened inward; paneling concealed its edge. This was an obstacle that no pick could conquer. To cut or break away the woodwork would be a lengthy task; moreover, one that would leave traces.
The Shadow had a method all his own. He produced an object that looked like a screw-driver or a brad-awl. It was actually a brace-and-bit, with a spring device in the handle. The shaft was amazingly thin. Stooping, The Shadow gauged the exact position of the knob. He placed the point of the bit against the paneling and pressed.
The action drilled a perfect hole, straight through the wood. Striking metal, The Shadow removed the bit and inserted a needlelike instrument. The latch clicked loose. The door wavered inward. Out came the needle; The Shadow’s fingers, ungloved, applied a dab of brownish putty that rendered the hole invisible.
Stepping through the doorway, The Shadow closed the door behind him. He was in a hallway; beyond was a small reception room where three men were sitting. The Shadow recognized one as “Chunk” Elward, reputed bodyguard of Dobey Blitz. The others looked like mobsters.
“How long is that mug Greaser goin’ to be in there?” one of the mobsmen was demanding. “Ain’t he never comin’ out?”
“Keep your shirt on, big boy,” growled Chunk. “Dobey will see you when he’s ready. He ain’t asking no favors of you, you know.”
“Maybe he ain’t. But we was told to come up here and see him—”
A further door opened while the man was speaking. Out stepped Greaser Bowden. Behind him was a heavy, hard-faced man attired in a dressing-gown. A cigarette hung from his puffy lips. This was Dobey Blitz.
The big shot motioned to the two mobsmen. They entered. The door closed. Chunk Elward started to conduct Greaser Bowden toward the hallway. Greaser stopped him.
“Dobey said to put me up here for the night,” informed Greaser. “Guess he meant to tell you.”
“All right, Greaser,” decided Chunk. “Stick around until those mugs come out. I’ll ask Dobey then.”
“Who are they, Chunk?”
“Some small fry that Dobey’s trying out. You know the way he works. Don’t let them get wise to nothing until he knows they’re on the level.”
A few minutes passed. The door opened and the mobsmen reappeared. Chunk spoke to Dobey. The big shot nodded. Evidently he was certifying that Greaser should remain.
“If any one else shows up,” growled Dobey, “keep them waiting. Rap on the door; if I don’t answer, it means I don’t want to see them. I’m going to take a nap.”
Chunk ushered the mobsmen toward the hall. The Shadow glided inward, and slid behind the opened door to a room while Chunk let the mugs out through the anteroom. When the bodyguard had returned to join Greaser, The Shadow again took up his vigil.
THE SHADOW knew that any crime that might be fostering must depend upon Dobey Blitz. Whether or not the big shot intended to engage in it himself, the crime must at least have its beginning within his private room. Did Dobey again intend to talk with Greaser? Perhaps. Or he might be awaiting some new arrival. The fact that Greaser was to remain here indicated, at least, that the man was of some importance to Dobey Blitz.
Half an hour elapsed while The Shadow waited in the hallway. Then came a break. Chunk and Greaser arose and headed toward the hall. The Shadow heard Chunk saying that he would pick a room for Greaser. Again, The Shadow faded from view. The instant that the men had passed, he moved into the reception room.
His step was bold and quick. He reached the door of Dobey’s private room. It had a latch lock and it opened inward. The Shadow’s glove was off; the miniature brace and bit was ready. Steel bored through wood with swift, certain pressure. Steel clicked metal. Out came the bit; in went the needle. Dobey’s door moved inward.
A few seconds later, The Shadow had glided into a darkened room. The door was closed behind him.
There was no sound in the room. Evidently, Dobey was napping. Yet, as The Shadow listened, he could catch no noise of breathing.
A soft laugh sounded in the darkness. A gloved hand found a light switch. On came the lights. The Shadow, weird in the glow, stood alone. The room, though it had no doors, and its windows were barred, was empty!
The Shadow knew the answer. He had not reckoned with the craft of Dobey Blitz. The big shot must have some secret exit, unknown to his henchmen. Through it, he could come and go as he chose. Here was his alibi — men to swear that he had not been out of his apartment — yet he was free to fare forth unbeknown!
The Shadow knew more. He sensed that Dobey’s absence might mean present crime. The Shadow must act at once. He must take up Dobey’s trail. Search for the secret exit would mean time. The Shadow opened the door to the reception room. Chunk and Greaser had not returned. The Shadow started for the hallway.
As he reached his objective, The Shadow stopped short. There was a sound from the front of the hall.
As The Shadow stepped back, Chunk appeared with two new mobster visitors. The Shadow, swinging into the reception room, looked quickly about for a hiding place. He found none. He swung to the door just as the three men entered.
Chunk and the gunmen spied The Shadow just as his burning gaze turned on them. In one tense instant, they recognized this dread foe of the underworld. It was Chunk who snarled an order that the others did not hesitate to obey. Anywhere — anytime, mobsters were willing to forget all other affairs to battle with The Shadow.
“The Shadow!” snarled Chunk. “Get him!”
Guns flashed from pockets. At the same instant, The Shadow’s arms, crossed in front of his cloak, came snapping outward. Black fists revealed mammoth automatics that came as a challenge to glittering revolvers.
Fingers pressed triggers. Automatics roared while revolvers barked. Weaving sidewise across the room, The Shadow loosed his metal at the fighters who were springing in from the door. Bullets whistled. Some flattened against the walls. Others found flesh and bone.
A gangster toppled, snarling. A second delivered a shot that clipped felt from The Shadow’s hat brim.
Then the mobsmen rolled sprawling on the floor. An instant later, The Shadow dropped, just as Chunk Elward loosed two quick shots.
Those bullets snapped mahogany splinters from the arm of an expensive chair. But they did not find The Shadow. He had performed a swift fadeaway to beat Chunk’s aim. His right hand shot up from the other side of the big chair. Its automatic spoke.
Chunk sagged. Snarling oaths, he fired with wavering aim. A second bullet from The Shadow’s gun.
Chunk dropped to his knees. Still, he tried to raise his revolver. He wanted one more shot before he died. The Shadow was rising, as he aimed to prevent it.
A man sprang in from the door. Greaser Bowden. He fired as he came. One wide shot. The Shadow snapped the trigger of his left-hand automatic. The barrel belched flame while the gun was on the move.
Greaser pitched forward. Chunk, coming up, had his chance. His gun was on The Shadow. But his finger faltered. His strength was gone. Swinging to fire, The Shadow withheld his shot as Chunk coughed a last breath and twisted on the carpet.
Swiftly, The Shadow gained the anteroom; then the outer hall. He ran squarely into an elevator man; the fellow was ready with a revolver. The Shadow’s arm was swinging before the man could fire. The thug went down from a gun-clout that landed above his ear.