Two mobsters were aiming a machine gun in the direction of the police car. They awaited only the word of their leader before they fired.
The word came. An evil voice snarled a sharp oath from beside the touring car. Crouching men arose to loose their deadly fire.
A roar burst from the front edge of the marquee. Vivid tongues of flame flashed forth. An automatic in each hand, The Shadow opened fire. The bullets of his huge .45s were loosed before the machine gunners had a chance to obey the order given.
One body slumped in the back seat. The other gangster made a futile effort to grasp the heavy machine gun. He screamed as a bullet clipped him in the back. With a writhe of agony, he plunged head foremost from the touring car.
THE flames from The Shadow’s guns were signals to the two gunmen who watched the apartment building. There had been six mobsmen in all. Two were still blazing with revolvers at the police; two had fallen within the car. The pair of thugs on watch for such an attack as this were ready with their weapons.
Revolvers spoke as hasty shots were directed upward. One bullet zinged whining past The Shadow’s head. Another smacked the ornamental iron a foot to the left of The Shadow’s position. As fingers sought to press triggers for more certain shots, The Shadow responded with his automatics.
One mobsmen fell. The other staggered, but would not down. Brandishing his revolver, he still returned The Shadow’s fire. Bullet for bullet, he battled with the master fighter.
His revolver shots winged against the edge of the marquee. Two struck the very spot where The Shadow had been. But The Shadow, while he used one automatic, was edging to a new position.
Each burst of his huge gun meant another bullet in the staggering gangster’s body. Loaded with burning lead, the toughened mobster collapsed and lay still. His companions had turned to learn the trouble. They saw the final bursts of flame. They knew the menace above the marquee!
Cries came from the policemen. Bullets whistled past the heads of the startled mobsters. Rapid shots crashed through the sides of the touring car.
One of the gangsters — the leader — barked an order to his companion. As the second man fired at the marquee, the leader, heavy but swift, dashed toward the door of the apartment building.
The Shadow’s second automatic spoke. A bullet from its muzzle stopped the shooting mobster in his tracks. But as The Shadow swung his arm to cover the fleeing gang leader, the stalwart runner gained the shelter of the marquee.
He was fleeing for safety. Police were on his trail. He would be lucky to escape. The Shadow edged back into blackness as the searchlight of the police car came swiftly forward and uniformed men appeared.
The Shadow’s head seemed to join the ornamental semicircles of iron that fringed the marquee. His keen eyes, peering downward, could watch all that occurred.
Two policemen had dashed into the apartment house. Two others had stopped beside the dead form of Roy Selbrig. Not one looked toward the marquee above. The officers, stationed up the street, had not seen the source of the terrific fusillade which had saved them. They had been busy plugging at the mobsters below.
Confusion followed. The police were restoring order. They were keeping people within doors, stopping traffic on the street. The searchlight of the patrol car cast its brilliant gleam upon the bodies of dead gangsters. The officers discovered the dead machine gunners and their terrible weapon.
Silent, The Shadow watched this curious medley. After many minutes had passed, he suddenly observed two men who were stepping from a new police car. One, a swarthy, stocky individual, was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the New York force. The other was evidently a second man from headquarters.
CARDONA walked up to the group beside the curb. As he stood near Roy Selbrig’s body, the ace detective was plainly visible to The Shadow. Policemen, reporting to the detective, told the story of the gun fight. Cardona was more interested in the events that had preceded the fray.
The taxi driver stepped forward. Cardona examined the card within the cab. He recognized the fellow’s photograph. He quizzed the driver on what had happened.
“I picked this fellow up at Times Square,” explained the cabby. “He wanted me to drive him to the Club Galaxy — it was only half a block away. He says to me there would be another passenger there.”
The cab man indicated Roy Selbrig as he spoke.
“Go on,” prodded Cardona.
“The other guy gets into the car in front of the Club Galaxy,” resumed the driver. “He and this bird was talkin’ about Mexico. I heard ‘em give a lot of crazy names. Just snatches was all I heard. Yeah — they said somethin’ about cigarettes, too.
“Then we hits here. The new guy gets out an’ leaves this fellow in the cab. Bingo! Up comes the mob an’ gives him the works.”
“What did the second passenger look like?” quizzed Cardona.
“Didn’t get a good slant at his face,” admitted the driver. “Kind of tanned, he was, as I remember him, but I ain’t sure about that. He was wearin’ a gray hat — I didn’t notice his coat.”
“A fedora hat, I should say, sir,” interrupted the doorman from the Commander Apartments. “Gray was the color, sir.”
“A fedora, hey,” returned Cardona. “That’s just a fancy name for a soft hat, so far as we’re concerned. Did you see this fellow with the fedora?”
“He passed by me, sir,” declared the doorman. “I happened to glance after him, and I noted the hat quite distinctly. He went into the apartment house, sir—”
“Then he must be in there now!”
“Not necessarily, sir. There is another entrance on the next street, but it is seldom used. There is no doorman in attendance at the far door at any time, sir.”
“In and out,” grumbled Cardona. “The old trick. Gone while the shooting is taking place. What about the killing. Did you see that, too?”
“I was in the doorway, sir,” testified the doorman. “I heard the shots; I saw the phaeton drive along the street. I rushed out to the cab, sir. I recognized Roy Selbrig when he tumbled to the sidewalk.”
“The phaeton?” quizzed Cardona. “You mean the touring car with the gunmen in it?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“Maybe the doorman at the Club Galaxy spotted the second guy I took in,” volunteered the cab driver. “I don’t think so, though, because he was talkin’ to me, orderin’ me to move along and—”
“We’ll go down there later,” snapped Cardona. He turned to the policemen. “What about this man who got away?”
“Crowded right through the lobby,” asserted the officer. “They all scattered when they saw him coming. He went out through the other door.”
“Was he the leader?”
“Looked like it.”
THE detective who had come with Cardona was now approaching. He had been looking at the bodies of the dead gangsters. He spoke in a knowing tone.
“One of those birds,” he informed Cardona, “is Terry Grasch. I’d know his mug any place. I thought he had scrammed from New York.”
“You’re sure of that, Clausey?” asked Cardona.
The other detective nodded. Cardona became interested. Jim Clausey was a comparatively new man on the force. Assigned to the underworld because he was unknown to mobsters, Clausey had gained considerable knowledge of current affairs in gangdom.
“What’s more,” added Clausey, “I’ve got a good idea who the bird was that made the get-away — the one you were just talking about. There’s only one guy Terry Grasch ever worked for.”
“Who’s that?”
“Slugs Raffney.”
This name was by no means unfamiliar to Joe Cardona. “Slugs” Raffney was a strong-arm man, one-time speakeasy bouncer, who had gone in for a short career as a gang leader. He had made a quick exit a few months before, along with a few of his most capable henchmen. Slugs and his crew were supposed to be out of New York, or else in close hiding. The reappearance of this formidable criminal was an unfortunate event.