He fired one shot at Cliff Marsland. In his hurry, Motkin missed. Then, with a wild gasp, he dropped the weapon and leaped to the ground below.
Motkin had seen the figure of The Shadow — a looming form of mighty vengeance — pressing itself clear from the struggling pile of fallen men.
Two waiting men grasped Motkin as he staggered from the ground. They recognized him in the dim light that came from the second floor. They were other Red agents who had been stationed outside. They were part of a cordon through which The Shadow had passed unseen.
Limping away hurriedly from the danger zone, Motkin shot words of explanation to the men who accompanied him. They passed an order hastily. In a trice, guards were watching the windows, while Motkin summoned cohorts to attack the door.
Six stalwarts raced up the stairs in an effort to trap the figure in black. The Shadow appeared before them. He held two revolvers, which he had snatched from wounded men to replace his emptied automatics.
One shot came from the onrushing men. Motkin, below, saw The Shadow’s form drop to the floor at the head of the stairs. He shouted in triumph as the men dashed onward.
Then came consternation. The Shadow was unscathed. He had fallen purposely. Prone upon the floor of the passage above, he was protected by the angle of the steps — protected behind a perfect bulwark.
Two leading raiders were side by side. Flashes of flame burst from the topmost step. With arms extended, The Shadow blazed from close range, his guns finding their targets.
The first men flung their arms high and toppled backward like dummy figures. They plunged squarely into the arms of those who followed them. Others slipped and fell. More shots resounded from above.
Down the steps came staggering men, falling men, rolling men. Wild fugitives, sprawling cripples, dead forms — all plunged in a mass, accompanied by a fusillade of revolver fire.
As Motkin leaped away to avoid this terrible stampede, he heard a strange, uncanny sound that rippled after the routed hordes.
It was the laugh of The Shadow! In the stillness that followed the last echoes of his deadly shots, the figure in black was uttering his triumph cry!
THOSE sinister, mocking tones made Motkin tremble. He knew that the strident laugh was meant for him to fear. Cowering, the man from Moscow clung against the wall of the little cafe. Fierce Ivan Motkin, slayer of Michael Senov, was trembling with fear!
Off from the house where The Shadow had found security, other men stood like living statues. They, too, had heard that laugh. Their minds were thinking of flight. Only the weird echoes of that terrible mirth withheld them. They were afraid to move!
Minutes more, and the remaining invaders would have scattered, leaving The Shadow in full control. But at that tense moment, a cry came from a distant watcher. It was a signal that awoke these startled men.
Like rats, they scurried to cover as a squad of police and gendarmes appeared from the nearest corner.
The officers spotted the house of doom. Motkin, crouching under the bay window across the street, grinned in relief.
Now, the police would attack. They would find that figure in black, striving to rescue his bound comrade, Cliff Marsland.
Let him fight the police! They would be too many! Whistles from the distance told that reserves were on the way to meet the mad riot that had disturbed this part of the Montmartre.
Crawling to a more distant refuge, Motkin encountered a cluster of his men. They recognized their leader.
They listened, with him, to shots that came from the old house. Motkin uttered a cry of evil satisfaction.
His enemy was doomed to death! For well did Motkin know that the man in black would resist capture to the last.
Then came another thought. Half aloud, Motkin uttered vaguely coherent words:
“The steamship Gasconne!”
The Red agents had been scouring the premises where Senov had been slain. They had found nothing.
Where was the stolen pelf? On the Gasconne?
Despite the slaughter that had taken place here, there were many Red agents still available. The principal undercover men in Paris had not entered this fray. It was their task to locate the Romanoff gems if Paris was the hiding place. Motkin’s course lay elsewhere.
He uttered brief commands to the men about him. Quietly, the little band began a retreat. Soon they were away from the embattled district.
Motkin, hurrying onward with his men, pictured that scourging figure in black, his back to the wall as the police attacked.
IN this impression, Motkin was not far wrong. Police and gendarmes were surrounding the house. Some had attempted to ascend the stairs, but had been stopped by warning shots. The Shadow was in the passage at the head of the stairs.
In the room where men lay dead and wounded, Cliff Marsland was leaning against the wall, completely restrained by his tight bonds. He knew, from the whistles that he had heard, that the police were here. He wondered what the outcome would be.
The tall form of The Shadow suddenly appeared, and Cliff stared upward with inquiring eye. He saw the gleaming eyes of his chief, and listened as he heard low, whispered words.
“Stay here,” warned The Shadow. “Do not struggle with the ropes. You will be safe with the police. You are an American, brutally waylaid in the Montmartre. A battle among your captors prevented your death.”
Cliff nodded. He understood the wisdom of The Shadow’s plan. Cliff’s present plight would prove his alibi. His passports were in his pocket. His head bore a huge, bruised bump, where he had received a blow from a revolver. The police would believe his story.
But what could The Shadow do?
Cliff watched as the black-clad figure turned out the light. He saw the vague form moving through the dim passage. He could hear footsteps coming up the stairway. A revolver flashed. The Shadow was firing warning shots to hold back the officers.
Now, The Shadow was sweeping in from the hall. His tall form was lost in the darkness of the room where Cliff lay. Cliff heard a slight, rattling noise at the window through which Motkin had plunged.
Silence for a minute; then wild shots from below the window. Cliff understood. The Shadow had gone up the wall, not down! He must have reached the roof of the lowlying building!
Now, new footsteps were beating on the stairs. A surge of men came into the room. The gaslight came on. Cliff quickly closed his eyes and let his head lean helplessly against the wall. He was the perfect picture of an unconscious man.
Police and gendarmes were talking in excitement. Cliff felt his body being raised. He kept his eyes closed. He knew that his plight had been recognized; that he was in the hands of men who would prove his friends.
They were carrying him down the stairs — out into the street. There, helping arms were about him. Still Cliff played his part. His shut eyes saw nothing.
But his ears could hear. To them came the sound of wild shots from high above. Then, in response, Cliff heard the long peal of a mocking laugh that seemed to echo from the housetops.
The laugh of The Shadow!
Its derisive tones spelled triumph. Again, they sounded, seemingly in the distance.
Cliff understood the meaning. That cry meant that The Shadow had escaped across the housetops. Lost among the odd-shaped roofs of the Montmartre, the avenger from the dark had shaken off his pursuers and returned to the security of night.
Senov — Motkin — The Shadow. The leaders of three groups had met here. Senov’s forces had been slaughtered. Motkin’s had been routed, leaving their dead behind them.