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Calling another man, Socks pried at the wall. It slid to the right; the mobsmen scrambled through the opening. They were in the subway, where they crouched as a local thundered past. This opening was the back wall of a flight of steps which served as the emergency exit below Eighteenth Street.

“Come on!”

The subway was strangely silent as Socks and his men invaded it. Had service been suddenly suspended after the passage of that uptown local? The train had just had time to get to the next station.

The glares of bulls-eye lanterns swept through the gloomy depths of the subway. Shouts arose from everywhere. The mobsmen realized that they were trapped. Leaping for pillars, they began to fire at the lights.

Bullets whined from echoing revolvers. Leaden missives ricocheted against subway walls. Scattering gangsters spread — up and down along the tracks.

Well had Inspector Klein responded to Cardona’s word. The squad of police and detectives was a small one, but there had been time to lay a perfect ambush. The mobsters, clustered in a group, were spreading wildly; those who fought for the law were stationed in well-chosen spots.

Groveling gangsters cursed as they coughed out their lives. One group — four together — ran the gamut and drove on toward the Eighteenth Street station. As they approached, policemen leaned from behind pillars to greet them.

Face to face, the forces clashed. One officer went down from a bullet which ricocheted from a post. But the mobsters had no chance. One was dropped as he sprang to the safety of the wall. Another fell, pulling a trigger vainly upon emptied cartridges. A third staggered while leaping toward a pillar. Only the fourth, already wounded by a glancing shot, preserved his life by dropping his emptied gun and raising his hands in token of surrender.

So far as the dozen mobsters were concerned, it was a complete triumph for the law against these wanted men. There was a thirteenth member of the group, however. He, alone, had effected a swift escape.

THE first to open the door from the secret passage beneath the emergency steps, Socks Mallory had been the last to leave. When police shots had been loosed, the leader of the mobsmen had chosen the one way to safety — back over the route toward that hidden cavern which had served as headquarters for The Red Blot’s mob.

As Socks scrambled along at top speed, he heard the sound of shots. Stopping at the entrance of the cavern, he observed the body of Dynamite Hoskins prone upon the ground.

A wisp of smoke was trickling through the crevice of the door that led to the Red Blot’s office. Detective Joe Cardona had downed the first man who had attempted to come that way.

Madly, Socks Mallory answered the challenge. His revolver burst forth toward the crevice. A lucky shot! It found the opening and clipped Cardona’s shoulder. Hearing a sour grunt beyond the door, Socks Mallory sprang across the cavern and yanked open the door.

It was the gang leader’s last deed. Joe Cardona, wounded, still could fight. The detective had staggered away from the door; but as the barrier opened, he fired a shot with a hand that was pressed close to his body. The bullet felled Socks Mallory. The gang leader’s form fell forward, and jammed between the door and the wall.

Cardona was in retreat. His left hand supporting his crippled right arm, the detective staggered back into the office.

He was just in time. Two figures leaped from passageways where they had fled. Together they invaded the corridor.

The first one stopped at the office door; then entered. Joe Cardona, slumped in the chair, his right arm useless, looked up to face Detective Merton Hembroke.

For a moment, Joe was dazed. He thought that this was a rescue; then he realized that he was mistaken. There was an evil look upon Hembroke’s countenance; a look that was by no means friendly.

“Thought you’d spring one on The Red Blot, eh?” jeered Hembroke. “Well, you got away with a lot — but you didn’t know I was working for him, did you? Socks Mallory and I — we were the boys who put the idea across for him!”

Hembroke held a gun, but he made no effort to cover Cardona, who was helpless. Instead, Hembroke turned to the doorway and pointed to a man who was entering — a gray-haired individual, whose eyes glared maliciously.

Joe Cardona gasped as he recognized Dobson Pringle, president of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association.

“Meet The Red Blot!” grinned Hembroke.

Pringle was holding an automatic. Cardona realized that only his helpless state had prevented these two villains from taking his life immediately upon their entrance. They were now prepared to make up for that brief lapse.

Cardona’s automatic was lying on the table, where it had dropped from his weakening fingers. With a determined effort to go out fighting, the detective made a mad effort. He grasped the gun with his left hand, expecting as he did so, to receive a bullet in the back.

Dobson Pringle had stepped within the doorway. He was on one side of the room, Merton Hembroke on the other. As both men raised their weapons to end Cardona’s life, a strange sound from the doorway made them turn. A whispering laugh — an uncanny announcement of a sinister presence — this betokened the arrival of The Shadow.

With an automatic in each black-gloved fist, The Shadow was here to prevent the murder of Joe Cardona. His powerful guns covered Dobson Pringle — now known as The Red Blot — and Merton Hembroke, the sleuth whose double-crossing activities had aided the master plotter.

With a savage cry, Hembroke hurled himself upon the tall figure at the door, raising his revolver to fire as he leaped. Swift, vicious, and determined, the false detective hoped to end the menace who had blighted The Red Blot’s schemes.

An automatic spoke, as Hembroke tried to press the trigger of his revolver. The detective’s leap ended in collapse. Half rising to his knees, Hembroke again attempted to use his wavering finger. The effort was in vain. The man sprawled face down upon the floor.

NOT for one instant had The Shadow’s keen gaze lost track of Dobson Pringle. As a plotter, the Red Blot had shown amazing prowess; as a man of action in this crisis, his powers were not so apparent. Pringle had halted, counting upon the success of Hembroke’s onslaught. Seeing the detective fall, The Red Blot backed away, raising his automatic in desperation.

The Shadow had him covered. Tauntingly, the black-garbed master awaited Pringle’s action. The gray-haired man was afraid to fire; he could not beat that looming weapon which faced him. But as he hesitated, another factor came into this conflict.

Joe Cardona, his automatic successfully gripped in his left hand, rose from his chair and leaped toward The Red Blot.

With a harsh cry, Pringle acted. He leaped to the right to gain the cover of Cardona’s body. His hand, its forefinger upon the trigger, thrust outward, to put an end to Cardona’s clumsy effort.

Whether Pringle or Cardona would have gained the first shot, none could ever tell. For while their fingers pressed against the triggers, The Shadow’s automatic sounded in advance.

Its target was Pringle’s arm. The gun fell from The Red Blot’s hand. A moment later, Joe Cardona’s shots roared forth. Dobson Pringle dropped to the floor and lay face upward.

A sardonic laugh awoke vague echoes. Cardona turned as he heard the creepy, chilling sound. He saw no one at the door. The Shadow had departed. The detective bent above the body of The Red Blot. Dobson Pringle’s lips were moving weakly.

“I–I am dying.” Pringle’s gasp came wearily. “I–I am beaten. You will find — find the millions — in the floor — beneath the desk—”

Cardona could see that the man was speaking the truth. Mortally wounded by Cardona’s haphazard shots, Dobson Pringle had lost his malicious expression.