He had counted on a delay when Rex’s driver came to make the turn. Seconds were precious to The Shadow.
The trucks had lumbered by. Rex’s cab swung left. It rolled steadily, easily along a side street, following one-way, eastbound traffic. Idly puffing his cigarette, Rex noted that they had passed an avenue.
The cab jostled to a halt beside a curb. As Rex stared, puzzled, he saw his driver alight. The muffled man stepped to the sidewalk; then strode into a passageway that showed black between two buildings.
Looking above the darkness, Rex caught the blink of an electric sign on the next street. He saw the words: “Club Renaldo.” He wondered if that might be the driver’s destination.
Perplexed by the taximan’s sudden departure; Rex opened the door of the cab and stepped to the curb.
He stopped short with a startled exclamation. Men were coming from doorways on this darkened street.
Revolvers glimmered in fists that extended from sweatered arms. On the instant, Rex realized that he was the victim of a trap.
Minions of mobland were massed for massacre. The departure of the cab driver was the signal for them to riddle the helpless victim in the taxi.
CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW’S THRUST
REX BRODFORD was enmeshed in a most singular snare. A clever plan had been devised for his elimination. James Jubal, unable by persuasion to prevent Rex’s departure for Michigan, had loosed a prearranged scheme that would have no comeback.
Chuck Haggart had stationed mobsmen here to get Bugs Barwold. Word had passed along the grapevine that such was Chuck’s purpose. Actually, the mobleader had accepted payment from Jubal.
His real purpose was to murder Rex Brodford.
Chuck’s gorillas did not know the game. They were instructed to shoot at sight if a man should remain in a car that stopped by the back way to the Club Renaldo. The idea — as Chuck had explained it — was to keep Bugs Barwold from drawing his own gat.
Thus the intention was to have Rex Brodford slain, apparently by mistake. Police, investigating, would learn the supposed reason for Chuck and his mob being here. They would figure that an innocent person had fallen victim to a crook feud.
Thus posted, gangsters had arisen promptly when Rex’s driver had cut through toward the Club Renaldo.
That driver, a hireling of James Jubal’s, was in the know. He had given a prompt signal. Attackers had sprung forward. The opening of the cab door by Rex Brodford was the cue for a barrage.
Rex saw the rising guns. Instinctively he dropped for safety, choosing the only refuge: namely, the interior of the cab. Dropping, he slammed the door behind him. Revolvers barked an answer. Opening shots zipped through the windows of the beleaguered cab.
The cards held death for Rex Brodford. A horde of a dozen ruffians sought to slay him. Men of crime were piling in from all directions. Murder seemed due.
But there were others beside mobsmen who had seen Rex when he started to step from the cab. Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye, posted apart, had spotted the man marked for death. Both knew Bugs Barwold by sight. They knew that this was not the missing mobleader. Emergency had arisen; The Shadow’s agents acted with promptitude.
HARD on the opening shots came the bursts of automatics, as Cliff and Hawkeye fired into the killers who were closing on the cab. One mobster issued a wild cry as he sprawled to the street. Others swung about. New flames stabbed from darkened doorways. A second gangster fell.
Forgetting the cab, gorillas dropped for cover. They fired at the spots from which the shots had come.
Huddling in shelter, Cliff and Hawkeye were separately boxed. Each could fire only intermittent shots; neither could longer cover all the area about the cab.
Killers from the sidewalk were out of range. One was leaping forward to thrust a revolver through a shattered cab window. Before the man could fire, an automatic barked from the darkness of the passage that led through to the Club Renaldo. The killer spilled.
Harry Vincent had fired that timely shot. But with it, he, like Cliff and Hawkeye, was thrown on the defensive. Other mobsters whirled in his direction. Bullets caromed from the wall where Harry was crouched. Firing, Harry dived back for deeper shelter.
Chuck Haggart’s men had deployed with swift precision. Spreading in all directions, they were starting a pitched battle against the three snipers. Throwing The Shadow’s agents at an instant disadvantage, half a dozen gorillas paved the way for the remainder to reopen the charge upon the cab.
“Get him!” came a harsh cry. Chuck Haggart’s voice. “Get him! The guy in the cab. Rub him out!”
A trio of mobsmen sprang from across the street. Leaping at an angle toward the front of the stopped taxi, they were too swift for the aim of Cliff and Hawkeye. These ruffians were coming in to kill.
Moreover, their method was double-fold. This was a one-way street, eastbound. They were coming in such fashion that they could meet any new cars that were heading down the street. Startled taximen had stopped above, blocking traffic. Rescue was cut off.
But as the killers sprang forward to deliver death, they heard a roar behind them. One man shot a glance over his shoulder. His startled cry made the others turn. Bearing squarely upon the murderous crew was a speeding taxi cab that was coming up against the traffic.
Mobsters turned to fire. The driver of the cab applied the brakes. The vehicle did a hard skid to the left, turning half around in the cleared section of the thoroughfare. As tires bent under, the right side of the cab dipped toward the street. Its door swung open. Plunging outward came a mass of blackness that caught its footing in the street.
“The Shadow!”
A MOBSTER roared recognition as he recognized the occupant of Moe’s cab. The hurtling shape had gained its footing. A blackened figure, The Shadow was swinging upward, a dozen paces from his cab.
Hard on the mobster’s cry came his own announcement of identity.
With a wild, outlandish laugh, The Shadow opened fire. Mingled with his gibe came the tongued flashes of two mammoth automatics. Swinging with a weaving twist, The Shadow loosed deadly slugs at aiming mobsmen.
Revolvers answered. But as they fired, killers sprawled. The Shadow’s shots were chosen. He picked the closest mobsters first. He caught them with their fingers trembling on triggers. He sprawled them while their fellows fired wild.
Chuck Haggart had sprung for shelter on the sidewalk. Dropping behind a thickset fire plug, the mobleader was trying potshots. But The Shadow was weaving in the opposite direction. The range was long; and Chuck’s precaution for his own safety did not aid his aim. Chuck’s shots went wide.
Other mobsters had whirled about to join the fray. They were hewing in from all sides. But in their desire to get The Shadow, they were opening themselves to other danger. Cliff and Hawkeye, springing from their respective doorways, were swift with a flank fire that raked these new disturbers.
Mobsters faltered. Others dived for shelter. Three dashed for the passage through to the Club Renaldo.
Harry Vincent leaped forward to stop them. He went sprawling with one mobster, while the other two dashed on.
Harry drove an automatic hard against his antagonist’s head. The gangster slumped. Harry arose against the wall. Bullets were whistling down that alleyway — for Cliff and Hawkeye had opened fire after the fleeing killers — but Harry, standing back, was immune.
Again The Shadow’s laugh. With purposeful objective, the master fighter had wheeled about to reach a wall on the inner side of the sidewalk, on the same side of the street as the cab wherein Rex Brodford still crouched.