“I’m picking up a friend,” returned the hard-faced man as he entered the cab. “Stop in front of the Galaxy. Honk your horn twice.”
“Right-o,” returned the driver.
One minute later, the cab pulled up in front of the glittering night club. People were moving in and out. The driver gave the horn two toots. No one appeared.
“Wait,” came the order from the back seat.
A minute passed. The doorman strode to the cab, spoke to the driver.
“You can’t stay here, bud,” he began. “No parking in this space—”
“We are picking up a passenger,” came the harsh voice from in back. “Blow the horn again, driver.”
Two honks sounded. A man appeared beside the cab. Seeing the arrival, the doorman opened the door of the taxi. The driver caught a glimpse of a tall, stoop-shouldered man who wore a gray fedora. Then came the order from the man who had hired the cab.
“Commander Apartments. Uptown. You know the address?”
“Yes, sir,” returned the driver.
As the cab sped uptown, the driver caught snatches of conversation. Automatically, some of them persisted in his mind. He swung from traffic, and took the narrow side street upon which the Commander Apartments fronted. He brought the car to a quick stop.
The door opened before the driver could reach it. Out stepped the man who wore the gray fedora. With rapid stride, he entered the apartment building. The driver turned to look for the hard-faced man who had first entered.
At that instant, a touring car jammed to a shrieking stop beside the cab. The driver turned quickly to note three pasty faces leaning from the car. He caught the flash of revolvers; he dropped to the floor of the cab as shots broke loose.
With a fierce, deliberate fire, the mobsters riddled the interior of the cab. The driver, peering upward, caught a glimpse of his first passenger, half rising, groggy, from the seat. Then the leaden missiles gained effect. The hard-faced man sank with a dull cry.
The touring car started forward. It shot on toward the avenue beyond the apartment building. The driver, seeing its tail-light, rose mechanically and clambered to the street. The doorman from the Commander Apartments came faltering forward.
Unsteadily, the driver yanked open the door of the cab. The stock body of the hard-faced man tumbled out. It plunged across the step, struck head foremost upon the curb and rolled face upward on the sidewalk.
GUNS were barking at the corner of the avenue. Neither the driver nor the doorman sensed the sound. Both were staring in dumbfounded recognition. The driver saw the face of the man who had hailed him near Times Square — the passenger who had ordered him to the Club Galaxy to pick up a friend.
The doorman saw a face he knew. His gasping words expressed his recognition in short, horrified tones.
“It’s Mr. Selbrig!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Selbrig — Roy Selbrig. He’s — he’s been living here for months. That’s Roy Selbrig. Call the police — the police—”
Other men were coming from the apartment house. They were surrounding the body on the sidewalk. They stared, sickened, at the bleeding, bullet-riddled form. The doorman’s identification had been correct.
This was Roy Selbrig. He was the man who had called Harland Mullrick tonight. He had kept his appointment at the Galaxy. Death was the result.
“He’s been murdered!” gasped the doorman. “Roy Selbrig murdered—”
“There was a fellow with him,” began the driver.
“The police—”
The doorman’s demand ended. New shots were bursting from the corner. The crowd scattered for the shelter of the apartment house. Roy Selbrig’s dead body lay alone upon the sidewalk. Ganged at the entrance to the place he lived, Roy Selbrig had been slain. Death had fallen. The hand of The Shadow had not been there to stay it!
CHAPTER VIII
FROM THE MARQUEE
THE slayers in the touring car had encountered trouble at the end of the street. The sound of their murderous shots had been heard. A traffic officer, stationed at intersection of street and avenue, had acted with promptitude.
He had ordered the driver of an approaching van to swing his huge vehicle upon the sidewalk. The driver had obeyed. The immense van, stretching its great length from curb to curb, blockaded the end of the side street. The maneuver was accomplished before the mobsmen arrived.
The first shots were the efforts of the gangsters to force the van away. The driver had fled from his post. While his companions had opened their second fire, the gunman at the wheel of the touring car managed to swing the automobile about. With guns blazing, the gangster-manned car was reversing its course.
The fusillade cleared the street like magic. Scurrying men were just in time to reach the door of the Commander Apartments. The mobsters spread their fire in the lighted space beneath the broad marquee which stretched, like a projecting roof, in front of the apartment-house entrance.
The touring car swept past the abandoned taxicab, while revolver bullets sprayed walls and windows. Then, as a siren sounded from the end of the street toward which the car was headed, the driver, with a loud oath, ground the brakes. His companions saw the reason for his stop. A police car, of the radio patrol, had entered the street from the other end!
Killers were trapped. The storage van blocked one way of escape; the police were approaching from the other. The gangster car had swerved with the application of the brakes; men were dropping to the street to use it as shelter against the police attack.
Those within the apartment-house lobby were peering forth from window ledges. They saw the gangsters. Two mobsmen were facing in their direction, ready to shoot should anyone be bold enough to appear. The gangsters beside them, as well as two who had remained within the car, were watching the lights of the nearing police car.
None saw the figure approaching from the other direction. Coming from the end of the street where the van formed a blockade, a swift form in black was heading toward the lighted zone beneath the sheltering marquee.
The Shadow had arrived upon this scene where battle loomed!
TEN paces from the realm of light, The Shadow changed his course. A shot from here would have been a warning to the mobsters. Further advance — into the light — would have been suicidal. Beside the darkened front of the apartment building, The Shadow moved in his new direction. Upward!
Gloved hands caught the grille work of a high first-story window. With amazing swiftness, The Shadow sprang up the wall. He caught a cornice above the window. With a mighty swing, he gained the edge of the marquee. His tall form flattened in the darkness above. It edged along the projecting roof to the ornamental ironwork that marked the front of the marquee.
The searchlight of the police car showed the touring car. The lights of the gunmen’s vehicle were out. Officers of the law, though knowing that desperate men awaited them, came boldly onward. Shots came from the police car. Uniformed men leaped from its sides and crouched as they opened fire.
Gangster revolvers blazed. Shots splattered from both sides. This opening fusillade was wild. With mobsters trapped, the police had the advantage. The two members of the patrol car, with others who had leaped upon their running board, had only to keep their enemies at bay until reinforcements arrived.
They had the mobsters trapped, they thought. Not for an instant did the police suspect the truth; that they, not the gunmen, were ensnared. Only The Shadow, prone on the marquee, could see the fate that awaited the attacking officers.
Viewing the murder car at an angle, from above, The Shadow caught the glimmer of steel in the back seat.