At that instant, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Senov turned to meet new enemies. He fired point-blank at the first one who appeared. The man dropped at the report of the gun, and Senov, like a huge bull, crashed through the others. His heavy form went charging down the stairs.
Cliff, unheeding what was going on about him, had gained a certain hold on Motkin. He was pinning the Red agent to the floor. Then, one of the men who had staggered back from the door came to the rescue.
Leaping forward, he dealt a hard blow with his revolver. Cliff collapsed upon the floor.
Motkin, half choked by Cliff’s furious grip, rose to his feet. He looked about to see that Senov had gone.
He paused as he heard shots from the street below.
“Watch him!” he exclaimed, in Russian, as he pointed to Cliff. “I shall need him later!”
With that, he hurried to the street in pursuit of Senov. Motkin was sure that the Czarist could not escape.
A few guards had been watching earlier in the evening. The Bolshevists had captured them. A score of Red agents were about the house.
But when he reached the street, Motkin encountered two of his breathless men.
“He went that way,” one exclaimed, “into the little restaurant.”
“Come!” shouted Motkin.
THE leader and a dozen men attacked the door of L’Aigle d’Argent. The crowd surged through, with Motkin at the rear.
They were met by a volley of shots. Three Bolsheviks fell. The others returned the fire.
Senov and three men, evidently Czarist reserves, were backed against the far wall of a passage. Wild, quick shots echoed through the corridor. It was a battle to the end. More of Motkin’s men were entering.
In the midst of the smoke-filled passage, men were slumping and pitching headlong. Six Bolshevists were down. Senov’s companions were lying in a huddled heap. Only the big Russian remained.
His reddened eyes saw Motkin. Senov raised his revolver, but Motkin fired first. Senov toppled forward.
He was the last of the defenders. Motkin dashed forward ahead of his men. He found Senov dead.
Leaving his shock troops to drag away the bodies, Motkin, sputtering oaths, hurried from the corridor.
He had wanted to hear Senov talk. That was impossible, now. One other informant remained— the American whom his men had overpowered.
Reaching the upstairs room, Motkin discovered Cliff bound and propped against the wall. Savagely, the Russian spoke to him in English, demanding an answer.
“The Gasconne!” he cried. “Who is on the Gasconne! What is on the Gasconne!”
White-faced, Cliff Marsland met the challenge.
“You will never know!” he answered the inquisitor.
Venom marked Motkin’s scowl. He stepped away and stood across the room. He knew that Cliff Marsland would never speak. Motkin’s blood-maddened brain turned only to thoughts of death.
“Then you shall die!” snarled Motkin.
With the air of a critic about to witness a rare drama, Motkin motioned to one of the half dozen men who stood about the room. The fellow, grinning with a toothless leer, approached.
“Let him taste the knife, Kolsoff,” ordered Motkin.
The underling drew a sharp blade from a sheath at his side. He approached Cliff Marsland, and waved the dirk above the helpless man. At a word from Motkin, he stood slightly to one side, so that his leader could witness the bloody work.
Motkin emitted a chuckling snarl. His lips paused as the word to kill trembled upon them. This moment was sweet to him. This would be the second of the intruding Americans to perish by the knife. One in Moscow — one in Paris.
Motkin thought of Senov. He had slain the leader of the Czarist invaders, and had annihilated his men.
Now his command would bring death to a member of another faction.
“Strike!” cried Motkin.
CHAPTER XVI. THE LAST SHOT
KOLSOFF poised the knife. The weapon was in his right hand; with his left he pointed to the exact spot where he was about to drive the sharp-tipped blade. His finger indicated Cliff Marsland’s heart.
Kolsoff’s back was toward the door; the men standing there drew into the room to witness the death blow. The poised hand wavered; then commenced its downward swing.
At that precise moment, a shot sounded from the open doorway. Motkin and the others were amazed as they saw Kolsoff’s body twist. The downcoming arm fell short in its driving stroke.
Some one, from the darkness at the top of the stairs, had drilled the brute’s shoulder with a perfect shot, saving the intended victim!
Motkin was the first to realize who had performed the deed. That bullet had struck the only spot of Kolsoff’s body that could possibly have ended the thrust of the knife.
A shot through the head would have killed, but might not have stopped the sweeping blade. With Kolsoff’s arm obscured beyond his body, the bullet in the shoulder was the only way. Now, Motkin, staring toward the door, saw and recognized the marksman.
There, at the entrance to the room, stood a figure in black. A rip in the surface of his somber cloak revealed a flash of crimson lining. His face was hidden beneath the brim of a bullet-riddled hat.
Motkin recognized both man and garments. This was that amazing personage whom he had seen at the upper window of the old house on the Gostinny Ulitza! This was the one whom his aids had carried from the car! This was the mysterious person who called himself Henry Arnaud, the one whom Motkin believed had perished at the hand of Prensky!
The Shadow, flying in pursuit of the Red agent, had reached Paris just in time to forestall the last tragic act of Motkin and his men!
Motkin saw the flash of The Shadow’s eyes as the figure in black still watched the writhing form of Kolsoff. Then others, responding to the situation, also turned toward the door. It needed no word from Motkin to start the attack.
With one accord, the Bolshevist forces threw themselves at The Shadow in the doorway. They leaped without their leader. Motkin, instinctively wary, dropped to the floor behind the table in the corner of the room.
Shots blazed from the darkened hall. The Reds were firing in return. They were six against one, but the odds did not suffice them. The Shadow’s weaving body seemed to fall away into the darkness as futile bullets whistled past his black-clad form. His barking automatics delivered metal messengers of death.
The surging crew toppled forward, one upon another. Screaming, wounded men pitched headlong as their comrades clambered over them.
UP over a writhing pyramid of human beings rose the last of Motkin’s band, a powerful man whose gleaming revolver was swinging downward for the aim. The gun barked once — a high shot.
It was lowering as the man was poised almost at the top of the doorway. Motkin saw the finger on the trigger. He heard a shot, but not from the revolver.
This last report came from the hall. The Shadow’s automatic had spoken. The man who towered on the mass of bodies threw his arms wildly to the sides of the door, in a desperate effort. Screaming, he fell backward and fell flat upon the floor, his arms spread out, his evil face distorted.
As his henchman fell, Motkin acted. He leaped from behind the table, and sprang toward the side window of the room. He lacked the courage to face that indomitable foe. Mad flight was his only desire.
Scrambling from danger, Motkin reached his objective. The Shadow, no longer on the defensive, was pressing forward, thrusting his way through the crawling, gasping heap of men who had fallen before his fire-spitting weapons.
It was that delay that gave Motkin his opportunity. Smashing through the drawn shade, the Red agent crashed the window beyond, and flung himself through the broken pane. He caught himself upon the sill, and, with a mad purpose of vengeance, thrust his revolver back through the broken glass.