MAGICALLY, the old man straightened. His right hand swung with terrific speed. That hand gripped the heavy cane; with the swiftness of a whiplash, the stick flashed downward and cracked Jake’s aiming wrist. Solid wood won the conflict with bone. The gun went clattering from Jake’s fist. The thug sprawled with a howl.
That was not all. As Twambley’s right hand performed its speedy action, his left shot beneath the right side of his coat. Out it came — a long, clutching fist that gripped a .45 automatic.
The thugs in the doorway snarled as they aimed to kill. Their revolvers swung too late to match that swiftly whisked automatic.
The first shot boomed for a living mark. One would-be killer thudded forward to the floor. The other, aiming, fired. But Twambley, was double quick. Diving sidewise, the old man struck the wall. The thug’s hasty aim was wide. The bullet that spat from the revolver cracked the window just beyond the spot where Twambley had been. Then came the old man’s second action; another roaring shot from his automatic.
Flame spurted. The thug in the doorway staggered, then went diving out into the corridor. Jake, springing upward, had grabbed his revolver with his left hand, anxious to get new aim at Twambley. A sidewise swing from the cane sent the fellow sprawling back to the floor. This time, Jake’s head took the crack.
Delka had gained Pete’s gun. He had twisted the crook about. With one fierce drive, the Scotland Yard man rammed his adversary’s head against the wall. Pete slumped. Delka, staring, saw a leveled automatic — Twambley’s.
THE old man’s hand moved slowly downward, following the direction of Pete’s sagging form. Not content with disposing of three adversaries, he had gained the aim on the fourth. Had Pete still shown fight, this amazing battler would have dropped him.
Shouts from the corridor. Train attendants had heard the sound of fray. They were dashing up to learn the cause. They had blocked the path of one crook who sought escape. That was the reason for the shouts; but Eric Delka scarcely heard the outside cries.
For a strange sound had filled the compartment, a whispered tone that rose above the chugging of the train. It was a weird burst of mirth, a chilling burst of repressed mockery intended for Delka’s ears alone.
Once before, the man from Scotland Yard had heard that taunt, upon a previous time when business had taken him to the United States. Then, as now, Eric Delka had been rescued by the author of that sinister mirth.[1] Here, in this compartment, stood a man whose lips did not move; yet Delka knew that it was from those lips that the laugh had come. The lips of Phineas Twambley. Delka knew the concealed identity of his rescuer. Twambley was The Shadow.
Strange, amazing battler who hunted down men of crime, The Shadow— Delka’s former rescuer — had appeared in England. That Delka might choose the proper course of action, The Shadow had revealed his identity to the man from Scotland Yard.
As Delka stared, the long left hand unloosened. The automatic dropped from The Shadow’s clutch, to fall at Delka’s feet. In a twinkling, that long, firm hand seemed scrawny. The Shadow’s form doubled; hunched, it sought the support of the heavy cane. Then, with a shudder, The Shadow sank back to the seat where he had been. A quavering figure, with a face that wore a senile grin, he had resumed the part of Phineas Twambley.
Eric Delka understood. Quickly, he grabbed up the gun that The Shadow had let fall. Train guards were already at the door of the compartment. It was Delka’s part to take credit for having won this battle, alone. Such was The Shadow’s order.
To that command, Delka had responded without question, even though no word had been uttered.
Whispered mirth had carried the order; and its tone had borne full significance. Eric Delka could only obey.
He had heard the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER II. AT SCOTLAND YARD
THE Great Western train was a few minutes late when it reached Paddington Station, its London terminus. Seated in the cab of the gaudily painted locomotive, the engineer eyed two men as they walked along the platform.
One was Eric Delka; the engineer had heard about the Scotland Yard man when the train had been held at Taunton. Delka was the chap who, single-handed, had crippled a crew of murderous attackers. Those thugs had been turned over to the authorities at Taunton.
With Delka was a gray-haired, stoop-shouldered companion who hobbled along at a spry pace. The engineer had heard mention of his name also. The man was Phineas Twambley, who had been in Delka’s compartment during the battle.
According to report, however, Twambley had figured in the fray only as a spectator. The engineer was not surprised, once he had viewed Twambley. Delka’s companion looked too old to have been a combatant in active battle.
That opinion was shared by every one who had come in contact with Phineas Twambley, except those who had been participants in the fight. The crooks whom The Shadow had downed were in no condition to talk, while Eric Delka was tactful enough to keep his own conclusions to himself. His first commitment came when he and The Shadow had walked from the train shed. Then Delka cagily addressed his companion.
“I should like to have you accompany me to the Yard, Mr. Twambley,” vouchsafed Delka. “Perhaps you would be interested in my report to Sidney Lewsham. He’s acting as chief constable of the C.I.D. I should like, to introduce you to him.”
“Very well.” The Shadow chuckled in Twambley fashion. “However, I should like to send my luggage to the Savoy Hotel—”
“We can arrange that quite easily.”
Delka gave instructions to the porter. The luggage that bore Phineas Twambley’s tags was marked for the Savoy. During the process, however, Delka was suddenly astonished to see his stoop-shouldered companion pluck a briefcase from among the stack of bags.
“This appears to be yours, Mr. Delka,” remarked The Shadow, in a crackly tone. “I shall ask you to return my briefcase.”
Half gaping, Delka looked at the bag in his own hand. Hastily, he pulled back the zipper fastenings. He saw at once that the contents consisted entirely of steamship folders and British railway time-tables.
As The Shadow took the briefcase from Delka’s hand, the Scotland Yard man yanked open the one that The Shadow gave him.
Within were Delka’s precious documents — the fruits of his journey to New York. Realization dawned upon Delka; new proof of the protection which The Shadow had afforded him. Had crooks aboard the train managed a get-away, they would have gained nothing. The very bag for which they had battled had not been Delka’s! Thinking this over, the Scotland Yard man smiled; but made no comment.
WITH Twambley’s luggage arranged for its trip to the Savoy, Delka and his companion descended to the Paddington Station of the Bakerloo Line, the most convenient underground route to the vicinity of Scotland Yard. A dozen minutes after boarding the tube train, they arrived at the Charing Cross underground station. From there, a short southward walk along the Thames Embankment brought them to the portals of New Scotland Yard.
Delka gained prompt admittance to the office of Sidney Lewsham, acting chief of the Criminal Investigation Department. Lewsham, a towering, heavy-browed man, was curious when he gazed at Delka’s companion. Briskly, Delka introduced The Shadow as Phineas Twambley.
“Mr. Twambley aided me in subduing those ruffians aboard the train,” explained Delka. “He used his stout cane as a bludgeon during the fight. Moreover, he preserved my briefcase, with its important documents.”