Ivan Motkin was on his way to Paris, leaving behind him a helpless prisoner whom he had deceived with a false promise.
He had ordered the doom of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW DEPARTS
DENSE gloom had descended upon the room on the second floor of Ivan Motkin’s residence. The early dusk of a long Moscow night was all-pervading. Prensky, seated by the front window, arose softly and turned on a light above the desk.
The mild illumination threw a soft glow through the room. It revealed the form of the man who had called himself Henry Arnaud, still resting in the chair by a side window.
In methodical manner, Prensky drew down the front window shade; then performed the same action at the window where Henry Arnaud still slept.
The clock on the mantel showed half past seven. Prensky, now in the center of the room, paused and rubbed his smooth chin. A wicked light gleamed in his dark, shifty eyes. He grinned in anticipation.
Noting the black cloak and hat lying on a chair where Motkin had tossed them, Prensky picked up the garments and examined them. These had been a disguise. Now, they would answer for a shroud.
While Prensky smiled maliciously, he sensed that some one was watching him. He looked quickly toward the chair by the window. The prisoner had opened his eyes, and was watching. Prensky’s evil grin turned suddenly to a token of friendliness.
“These are yours,” he declared, in Russian. “You may have them, when you leave.”
Arnaud’s eyes stared blankly, and Prensky remembered that the man had shown a complete ignorance of the Russian language. Slowly, Prensky repeated the statement in broken English, the best that he could command. Henry Arnaud nodded and smiled to show that he understood.
Weakly, he attempted to rise from his chair. The effort was sufficient for him to observe the clock; then he slumped back into the seat and lay exhausted.
“I am to leave before eight o’clock,” he said, in slow tones. “You understand that? Eight o’clock.”
Prensky nodded.
“You would like to leave more soon?” he questioned.
“Yes,” said Arnaud wearily.
“You may leave now,” declared Prensky, in a friendly tone.
He folded the black cloak and laid it on a chair. Upon it, he placed the slouch hat. He advanced to the chair and placed his left hand upon the wounded man’s shoulders. He brought Arnaud up to a sitting position.
“Rest a moment,” said Prensky, in a mechanical tone. “You are still too weak.”
Arnaud nodded. He raised his right arm, and placed it over Prensky’s shoulders. The Russian could feel the weakness of the grasp. With his left hand, Arnaud gripped Prensky’s right shoulder. He seemed to be gathering all his strength for an effort to rise to his feet.
Prensky’s right hand slipped beneath his own coat. He raised his body slightly; then relaxed and let Arnaud slide back into the chair. The man’s hands still rested on Prensky’s shoulders, but their grip was weak.
“Rest a moment,” repeated Prensky.
Arnaud nodded wearily and closed his eyes. Prensky withheld a grim laugh. His lips were grimacing as he appreciated the ease with which he could now accomplish his fell purpose. His right hand stole from beneath his coat, bringing forth a long, sharp knife.
PRENSKY was noted as a swift, efficient killer. He was one who struck coldly and with calculation. His shrewd gaze sought a spot by his victim’s heart. His hand poised with the blade. He forgot the closed eyes of the weary prisoner who was to die.
Prensky’s hand tightened for the thrust. A quick drive of that sharp-pointed blade would mean quick death. As Prensky drew slightly away with his right arm, he felt Arnaud’s hand slip from his shoulder and slide slowly downward.
This was the time to strike. But as Prensky’s hand responded to his thought, the slipping hand upon his arm worked with amazing swiftness. The knife thrust stopped suddenly as Arnaud’s hand caught Prensky’s wrist with a viselike clutch.
Simultaneously, the arm that hung over Prensky’s left shoulder became active. The man in the chair was no longer playing the part of weary Henry Arnaud. He was fighting with the skill of The Shadow!
With iron clasp, The Shadow bore Prensky downward to his right, while his left hand still gripped the intended assassin’s wrist. As Prensky lost his foothold, he tumbled to the floor and rolled away from the chair. The Shadow fell upon him, never once losing his clutch.
Prensky, with grinding teeth and snarling lips, struggled like a demon. The Shadow, his fierce eyes burning, held his adversary at bay, while he uttered mocking words in Russian.
The helpless quarry had tricked the would-be killer. Prensky realized this with mad dismay. Coldly taunting as he fought, The Shadow was telling how he had foiled his enemy. For four days he had feigned helplessness while he gathered information, and his strength returned for such a fray as this!
Now, The Shadow threw all his strength into the fight. He had been prepared for this encounter — for he had overheard Motkin’s instructions to his aid. The Shadow’s hold placed Prensky at a hopeless disadvantage. But while The Shadow strove with increasing power, Prensky resisted furiously.
The Shadow’s left hand began to waver. He had evidently overtaxed himself. His endurance reached an unexpected limit.
Prensky sensed the change. He wrested his hand free and drove a swift knife blow toward his enemy.
The Shadow’s arm swung sidewise as the point of the blade had almost reached his neck. The Shadow’s blow hit Prensky’s wrist, and the knife shot by, a fraction of an inch from the vein which it had been aimed to sever!
Prensky, knocked off balance by the force of the thrust which The Shadow had so narrowly avoided, lost precious moments as he sought to recover himself. The Shadow’s waning strength was spurred. He threw his adversary sidewise, and managed to press his entire weight upon that free right arm.
Off behind The Shadow’s back, Prensky’s hand was waving wildly as it sought some way to drive the point into the unguarded back. The Shadow, grimly battling for life, prevented the opportunity which the Russian needed.
Locked in a firm hold, neither could gain a new advantage. Prensky’s arm was becoming numb from the pressure that rested upon it. The quivering fingers lost their hold upon the knife. The steel blade clattered on the thin rug near the fireplace.
The Shadow heard that noise. It gave him a new opportunity. With a sudden twist, he rolled free from Prensky’s clutch. His body revolved safely over the flat blade of the knife.
With his left hand, The Shadow caught an ornamental pillar at the side of the fireplace near the window.
With his right he turned to seize the knife.
Here, fortune favored Prensky. He was rising to his knees when he saw The Shadow reach. The knife lay upon the end of a small, matlike rug. Prensky, thrown back by the recoil from The Shadow’s quick action, was a full yard from the gleaming blade. His hands were upon the nearer end of the rug.
With remarkable quickness of mind, Prensky snatched the end of the rug and yanked it toward himself.
The knife came along, eluding The Shadow’s desperate clutch.
PRENSKY caught the handle of the weapon. The Shadow, seeing his effort fruitless, was drawing away.
He gained his feet and stood clinging to the mantelpiece as Prensky rose for a new attack. Triumphant hatred was gleaming in the Russian’s face.
Untired by the grueling conflict, Prensky thought he had the advantage over the wounded foreigner. The Russian poised his body and flung himself forward, intent upon downing his foe at once. In that tense moment the chimes of the clock upon the mantel began to strike the hour of eight.