FOR an instant, Cliff staggered as he reached the street. He was momentarily confused, not knowing which way to turn. Then the cool air revived him.
He turned parallel with the elevated line, and dashed along the sidewalk. A man rushed in to block his path, but cringed and dropped away as Cliff swung his automatic. Shots came from the front of the hotel, while the corner was still yards away.
Cliff nearly slipped as he caught a thick lamp-post and turned to fire his remaining bullets at his pursuers. He saw the men leap wildly for cover. Then he began a last dash for his goal.
The pursuers made one last attempt at long-range, as Cliff reached the corner. A bullet ricocheted from the sidewalk and struck him in the leg.
He stumbled and fell; then crawled quickly beyond the corner and pulled himself to his feet, clutching the side of a building with his right hand.
He saw the car ahead of him, waiting by the entrance to the alley. He stumbled onward, wondering if he could reach it. His feet seemed incapable of action. He slipped and plunged forward, clutching against the wall of the building beside him.
Some one caught him as he fell.
To Cliff’s excited mind, it seemed as though a mass of darkness had come to life. Then powerful arms virtually lifted him the last few yards, and he was thrust through the open door of the car.
He knew then The Shadow had saved him. Somehow he understood it all — the strange disappearance and the rustling of the window shade in Tim Waldron’s room.
The Shadow had come and gone up and down the wall on the outside of the building! Above the black alley, he had crawled, a human fly, along the surface of projecting bricks!
When he had fired the shots that downed the menacing gangster, he had left the room by his own exit — through the window — to await Cliff’s arrival at the sedan!
Thoughts turned to confusion in Clifford Marsland’s mind. He knew that the car was moving, pulling away from the curb, traveling faster now. There were shots somewhere behind — far behind. The pursuers were being outdistanced.
Cliff’s leg pained him. His shoulder was helpless. He was weak and fainting. The episodes that had just passed were becoming hazy.
Cliff’s head dropped backward. It bumped above the cushion of the rear seat. He opened his eyes and fancied that he saw a black form looming above him, with two shining spots that glowed like the piercing eyes of The Shadow.
Then his own eyes closed, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER IV
“KILLER” DURGAN
IT was the next evening when Ernie Shires entered the lobby of Larchmont Court, one of Manhattan’s newest hotel apartments. The tough-faced gangster was gaudily dressed for the occasion.
He looked about him with an approving grin as he mentally contrasted the elegant surroundings of this apartment with the decadent lobby of the Hotel Spartan. He whistled softly to himself as he entered a smooth-running elevator and called for the twenty-first floor.
“Whew!” murmured Ernie, as the elevator sped upward. “This is some joint! This guy Durgan must be a big shot. Tim Waldron couldn’t touch this!”
The elevator stopped, and Shires stepped into a thickly carpeted hallway. He looked in both directions; then, noting the numbers on the doors, he walked to the right and stopped at the entrance to a suite in the corner. He knocked, and was admitted.
Again, Ernie Shires was amazed by his surroundings. He stood in a lavishly furnished room. He seemed to feel the thickness of the rug that was beneath his feet.
The walls were hung with expensive tapestries. Chairs and tables, carved of heavy mahogany, bespoke luxury.
Ernie’s eyes wandered across the room, and he gazed with keen interest toward a divan upon which a beautiful girl reclined. She was attired in a varicolored dress that formed the one bright spot in the softly-lighted room. The girl had blond hair, and she gazed at Ernie with languishing eyes.
Then, as the gangster continued to stare toward her, the girl turned her eyes toward the ceiling, and raised a cigarette to her lips. She seemed indifferent to his presence as she blew a puff of smoke.
Ernie suddenly came to his senses. He knew the reason for the blond’s action. Men of the underworld are jealous of their women. Ernie was here on business. It was not wise for her to attract his attention.
Ernie Shires realized his mistake and immediately rectified it. He turned toward the other side of the room, where two men were seated, both looking steadily in his direction.
One of these men was quiet-looking and solemn-faced. He was obviously a visitor. It was the other man who commanded Ernie’s interest. He needed no introduction.
Ernie recognized him as “Killer” Durgan, racketeer de luxe!
No individual could have been more out of place in those surroundings than Killer Durgan. He was a man with a cruel, leering face, that betrayed a merciless, animal nature.
MANY a mobsman had quailed before the snarling face of Killer Durgan, but Ernie Shires did not follow their example. Instead, he returned the man’s evil leer with a grin.
Killer Durgan was a man to his liking. In him, Shires recognized his own traits. He had heard that Killer Durgan was a man who would stop at nothing. Now, he was sure of it.
Durgan nodded slowly as he surveyed Ernie Shires. Evidently, he, too, was well pleased. The hard-faced gangster who stood before him was meeting with his approval, and even as he nodded in satisfaction, Durgan curled his lips maliciously.
“You’re Shires?” he questioned, in a raspy voice.
“Yeah,” replied Ernie.
“Sit down.”
Durgan turned to the man beside him. “All right, Mike,” he said. “Run along. Call me to-morrow.”
The solemn-faced man nodded. He arose and left the room, walking past Ernie Shires without glancing at him.
Durgan turned toward the corner where the blond girl was staring upward at a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“Beat it, Madge,” ordered Durgan.
The girl arose and walked across the room. She opened a door and went into another room of the suite.
She did not look at Ernie Shires as she left. Killer Durgan’s minions acted like human automatons when they received his orders.
Ernie Shires grinned again, in admiration of the man.
“What’s the lay?” Durgan demanded suddenly.
Shires shrugged his shoulders.
“I was working for Tim Waldron,” he said. “He was blotted out last night. That’s all.”
Killer Durgan half-closed his eyelids as he stared at Shires. He raised his lower lip in an ugly manner.
“What did you do for Waldron?” he questioned.
“Managed his gorillas,” returned Shires.
“Who knocked him off?”
“A guy named Cliff Marsland.”
“What are you doing about it?”
“Me?” Ernie Shires shrugged his shoulders. “What should I do about it? I wasn’t Waldron’s bodyguard.”
“You were in the money, weren’t you?”
“Sure. I was getting mine out of Waldron’s racket. One grand a week to keep the gorillas working. But why should I worry? I ain’t eating snowballs. I’m a long way from being broke!”
Killer Durgan pondered. He continued to study his visitor.
He knew well why Shires had come to see him. If he had not understood the purpose of the gangster’s visit, he would not have granted him admittance. Shires was after a job with Durgan; and Durgan wanted to find out a few things about the gangster’s previous connection with the defunct Tim Waldron. He had learned one fact already; that Shires had been working for Waldron on a strictly business arrangement. That pleased Durgan.