Steve leaped for The Shadow, swinging his gun as he sprang. Rising upward and forward, The Shadow swung his right arm like a mallet, in swift, backhand fashion. It was his quickest method of dealing with Steve’s coming aim. Just as the mobster was pressing the trigger of his gun, the automatic smashed against the revolver. Steve’s shot whistled past The Shadow’s shoulder and bored deep into a buckram-bound book upon the nearest shelf. An instant later, the revolver dropped from the gangster’s numbed fingers.
The force of The Shadow’s blow had carried his hand past Steve’s body. Wildly, the mobster grabbed for The Shadow’s arm. Powerful, quick as a tiger, Steve Quigg locked in a forceful struggle with the enemy who had diverted his shot. The mobster’s body swayed back and forth in the grip of The Shadow’s binding arms.
Kingsley Keith was on his feet, howling for Thaddeus. The lawyer’s cries ended with a gasp. Whitey Calban had come up in front of the table. Grimly, the wounded mobleader was gripping his revolver with his left hand. Elbow flopped upon the table, Whitey took unsteady aim for the struggling forms of The Shadow and Steve Quigg.
The Shadow, swinging Steve against a book shelf, caught a glimpse of the mobleader’s action. But The Shadow observed more than the mere deed. He saw Whitey’s good wrist sagging. He knew that the gangleader, weakened, could never steady for the aim he needed. Nevertheless, the situation called for prompt finish to the struggle with Steve Quigg.
With a mighty surge, The Shadow caught Steve in a jujutsu grip. The mobster’s heavy body rose upward like an effigy of straw. As Steve struggled helpless, The Shadow bent for a mighty heave. The leverage that he employed was calculated to hurl Steve clear across the table, squarely upon Whitey Calban’s wavering form.
Steve made a frantic clutch toward the wall. Just as The Shadow began a springlike snap, the helpless gangster clutched the end of a bookcase. As The Shadow delivered his terrific twist, an entire section of the bookcase came ripping from the wall with a resounding crash. Buckrammed books poured downward in an avalanche as Steve’s form shot head forward to the floor. The Shadow, like the gangleader, was buried in the deluge that came from the laden shelves.
A lucky break had given Whitey Calban a chance; the gangleader was still too weak to take it. He could no longer see The Shadow; his loose hand was wavering. It was Kingsley Keith who provided the very opportunity that Whitey required.
THE lawyer was terrorized by the sight of the wabbling gun. Showing action for the first time, Keith came up from his chair and shot his arms across the table. Had he performed the simple action of wresting the weapon from Whitey’s shaky hand, all would have been well. But the frightened lawyer behaved in a most stupid fashion.
He grabbed Whitey’s wrist with both hands. He sought to beat the killer’s forearm on the table. In so doing, he turned the muzzle of the gun directly toward himself. Whitey pressed the trigger.
A report. Keith’s hold relaxed. The lawyer staggered back from the table, rammed his shoulder into the bookcase behind him, sidled to the right and sprawled among the pile of books from which The Shadow was emerging. Whitey Calban, a glassy glitter in his eye, leered as he saw the lawyer’s fall. With a frenzied return of strength, the killer managed to steady his hand for another shot.
This time, Whitey’s target was to be The Shadow. He tried to turn the muzzle of his gun, for direct aim toward the form in black. The Shadow ended his opportunity. Half crouching among the scattered piles of books, The Shadow aimed his automatic and fired a single shot. This bullet was dispatched with vengeance. Whitey slumped from the table, carrying his gun along. The gangleader rolled over on the floor, a bullet through his heart.
Rising, The Shadow cleared the heaps of law books and headed expectantly toward the door to the hall. He was none too soon. Continued gunfire had alarmed Whitey’s henchmen. A police whistle from down the street had added to their apprehensions. One gunner had fired warning shots toward an advancing bluecoat; then the entire crew had smashed through the front door.
As The Shadow reached the hall, he saw two men advancing. He gave no quarter to these rats. An automatic in each hand, he opened fire. One man sprawled; another dove for the parlor. A third ruffian, covering Thaddeus, ran back into the vestibule.
Whistles sounded from the front. The Shadow’s laugh resounded. The gorilla in the vestibule was firing toward the street. The police had arrived. Whirling as Thaddeus scurried to the safety of the stairway, The Shadow moved across the office. He gained the bay window. Shade and sash came up together. The Shadow’s tall form swung out into the dark.
Police were coming toward the office. Steve Quigg, crawling bewildered from among the books, grabbed up Whitey Calban’s gun. Before he could aim toward the door, a bluecoat entered. The officer shot down the lone gunner who remained. Other shots were barking in the hall and outside the house. The law was taking charge.
Bluecoats had driven the last remaining mobsters into the house. The space between the building and the house next to it was unguarded. It was through this opening that The Shadow glided. His swift steps, unseen, unheard, carried him from the vicinity.
A solemn, whispered laugh sounded in the gloom of a side street, three blocks from Kingsley Keith’s. There was no mirth in the repressed shudder of the tone. The Shadow had gained a victory; with it, a loss.
He had dealt death to Whitey Calban, the murderer whom he had come to meet. But fate had tricked The Shadow. Though dead, Whitey Calban had accomplished his design. The killer had slain Kingsley Keith.
CHAPTER XVI
CARDONA MAKES A CALL
IT was the following afternoon. The newspapers had made huge stories of the fray in which Kingsley Keith had died. Photos of the dead lawyer; pictures of the house; diagrams of the downstairs room — all had provided excitement for eager readers.
Seated at the big desk in his private office, Lester Dorrington was digesting the reports. The cadaverous lawyer was nodding as he rubbed his chin. The police had hinted at a feud between Whitey Calban and Ace Feldon. Dorrington knew that for once they were right.
A ring from the private telephone. Dorrington answered it. Tersely, he ordered the speaker at the other end to send the visitor down. Unlocking the closet, he opened the panel. A wiry, wise-faced fellow stepped from the stairway.
“Sit down, Squeezer.” Dorrington waved the visitor to a chair. “Let’s talk this whole business over.”
“It looks bad,” said the wiry man, in a whiny tone. “Trailing’s my business. You know how I tagged Berlett when he took the plane to South America. But snooping in — seeing what’s happening — well, that ain’t so easy. Last night, for instance—”
The speaker paused as a buzzer sounded. Dorrington frowned slightly. He pointed back to the closet.
“It must be something important,” declared the attorney. “Duck, Squeezer. I don’t know who’s out there; it wouldn’t be good policy to keep a visitor waiting to-day.”
Squeezer nodded as he sidled for the closet. Dorrington closed the panel and locked the door. He strolled across his office and opened the door as a secretary appeared. The girl was followed by a stocky, swarthy-faced man. Lester Dorrington recognized Detective Joe Cardona.
“Step in,” invited the attorney. “I’m glad to see you, sir. It is a privilege to receive a visit from one whose time must be quite fully occupied.”
Cardona sensed the sarcasm. Dorrington was closing the door. He went to his desk, waved Cardona to a chair and offered the acting inspector a cigar.