Slugged gangsters staggered. Others, in the middle of the dive, blazed shots toward the door, unmindful of the fact that others of their kind might receive the bullets. Shooters were out to get their enemy at all cost.
It was Cliff Marsland who provided prompt diversion. Springing to the side wall of the room, Cliff was knocking tables from his way while he punched through the darkness toward the outer door. He had drawn a pair of automatics; with these weapons, Cliff delivered quick shots across the darkened dive.
Wild shots stopped the men who were aiming toward the door. This attack from their very midst sent gangsters dropping for the cover of tables. The Shadow had thrown aside the last blockers. Cutting in by the wall, he had kept them between himself and the interior of the dive. Bullets intended for The Shadow had clipped the intervening mobsters.
As Cliff’s fire spelled an interval; as mobsters turned in the dark to aim for the unseen henchmen, The Shadow loosed shots from his second automatic. These bursts came from the door itself. The rapid fire ended as quickly as it had begun. Gangsters, dispatching slugs toward the door, were shooting only at the spot where The Shadow had been.
CLIFF had ceased fire. A light came on. Some one had pressed the switch at the inner door. Chaos showed in the Pink Rat. Groaning mobsmen and crippled waiters were lying on the floor. A cluster of crumpled forms showed by the exit to the alley.
Oaths rang through the joint as mobsters saw that their quarry had escaped. There was no sign of the stoop-shouldered waiter. Some one shouted the suggestion of following to the street. Half a dozen ruffians sprang toward the exit.
Cliff was among this throng. His smoking automatics marked him simply as participant in the fight, not as The Shadow’s aid. Battering past tables, Cliff had traveled well toward the outer door. He was at the heels of those who sought The Shadow’s trail.
Flashlights showed the alley empty. Swiftly, The Shadow had traveled from the outside street. Shrill whistles were sounding, less than two blocks away. A policeman had heard the gunfire. He was summoning other officers to the scene.
“Scram,” came a growled suggestion.
Grunts of acknowledgment. One mobster leaped back to the Pink Rat to pass the word to those within. The others began to scurry along the alley. Cliff joined in the departure.
Staring back from the corner, The Shadow’s agent witnessed a general exodus from the Pink Rat. Whistles — distant sirens — told that the police were closing in. Cliff darted for another alleyway and made good his escape.
FIVE blocks away, Cliff pulled the envelope from his batch of bills. Near a street lamp, he read the names of four localities that The Shadow had chosen for investigation. Cliff knew that The Shadow had taken other places for himself.
The nearest was an old, deserted house on the border of Chinatown. Cliff knew the place well; but he had not figured it as a hideout. Nor had The Shadow, until after more likely spots had proven barren.
Cliff lost no time in heading for this first place on his list. He felt that success was improbable. When he reached the dingy building, he saw no lights among its broken windows. The back door offered possible entry. Cliff found the rear entrance in the darkness. Suddenly, The Shadow’s agent dropped beside a pair of battered steps.
Footsteps were coming toward the back of the house. They mounted the steps; a soft knock sounded on the door. Cliff could almost feel the swish as the door opened inward.
“That you, Steve?” came a voice from inside the house.
“Yeah,” was the cautious response from the man on the steps. “What’s the lay, Hunky?”
“Stick here,” ordered the inside man. “Whitey’s coming up with the mob. They’re all in the cellar.”
“We’re startin’ out?”
“Yeah.”
“Where to?”
“Jake’s joint, where we’ve got the cars parked. Then up to Eighty-fifth Street, in back of the old Budwin Garage. We’ll get together there. The job’s near the place.”
“O.K., Hunky. I’ll mooch over to Jake’s. I’ll be waitin’ there.”
“We’ll be along in ten minutes.”
Footsteps descended. The door closed. One minute passed. Cliff Marsland arose and moved stealthily from beside the steps. Reaching the street, Cliff traveled one block and reached a dilapidated drug store where he found a battered phone booth.
The agent was calling Burbank. Through the contact man Cliff would get much-needed word to The Shadow. There was no time to stop men of crime from leaving on their mission; but there was a chance to meet them at their goal.
Cliff Marsland, following The Shadow’s tip, had located the hideout of Whitey Calban, five minutes before the murderous mobleader and his crew of killers were leaving to deliver another stroke of death!
CHAPTER XIV
MOVES TO A FINISH
HALF an hour after Cliff Marsland had sent the tip-off to Burbank, a man was answering a telephone call at the Hotel Goliath. It was Edwin Berlett, in his room on the twentieth floor.
“Hello…” The lawyer’s crafty face showed a smile. “Yes… This is Mr. Talbot… Good… Good… That means tonight will finish it… Yes… I’ll handle it from now on… Certainly. I understand…”
The lawyer hung up the receiver. Satisfied, he laid the telephone aside and strolled to the window. As Berlett stared toward the lights of Times Square, his face showed the pleased expression of a man who was concerned with well-completed plans.
SINGULARLY, another individual was making a telephone call at the very time Berlett was talking. This speaker was Lester Dorrington. The criminal lawyer was standing in the spacious study of his home on Long Island.
“Stay on the job, Squeezer,” Dorrington was saying in a cautious tone. “Watch him, but don’t get too close… That’s right. There may be trouble if he spots you… I know. He won’t suspect I’ve got you watching him, but he might turn dangerous if he knew… No, no. It doesn’t matter if he does talk. He can’t talk, Squeezer… That’s right… It would mean trouble for him if he said too much. More trouble for him than for me… Tomorrow… Yes… Loven’s office…”
These were not the only telephone calls in which lawyers were participating. Seated by the table in his living room, Kelwood Markin was also speaking across the wire.
“Very good,” the old man was saying. “If you’ve found the identity of the killer, you should be able to stop the murders… Yes, I feel safer than before; but I shall be even more satisfied after you have acted… Yes, that may be true; at the same time, Dorrington may have more than one weapon in his arsenal… Gangsters… Yes, if they are eliminated, Dorrington’s teeth will be gone… But he may still find a way to bite…”
The men who had telephoned were secluded, away from approaching crime. There were others, however, who were about to deal in action. A group of men were clustered in a darkened spot behind the old Budwin Garage on Eighty-fourth Street. They were awaiting the arrival of their leader.
“Here he is,” whispered one of the gang.
A man was stepping from the sidewalk to join the crew. It was Whitey Calban, notorious gangleader, ready to give orders to his murderous cohorts.
“Listen, mugs,” growled Whitey. “Remember all I’ve told you. After tonight, the guy we’re working for won’t need us. You can show your pans wherever you want. I’ve paid you off. I’m taking a trip.
“The job’s mine to night. I’ve got you birds along just to make sure it goes all right. Six houses down the street; that’s where I’m going. I’m ringing the front door bell and I’m going in. But I want you guys to stick around by the front door. If you hear too many shots, pile in. Got it?”