He held high confidence in the resourcefulness of Parker Noyes. Silent and elated, he pressed his feet against the box upon the floor.
Frederick Froman was triumphant. After years of plot and counterplot, he had gained the greatest horde of wealth in all the world.
He was the possessor of the Romanoff jewels!
But, waiting in New York, Ivan Motkin had not given up the chase. New forces were there to aid him.
And The Shadow knew! The Shadow would not be so easily thwarted!
CHAPTER XXI. IN NEW YORK
A GROUP of hard-faced men were gathered in a sordid room, beneath the level of the street. Their surroundings marked their meeting place as a hidden dive in New York’s underworld.
Upon the floor lay a bound prisoner, a cowering, dull-faced man whose eyes were turned bleatingly toward his captors. His parched lips were muttering words of pleading.
The door opened, and another man joined the insidious crew. He came with the attitude of a superior — a man who felt himself to be the leader.
The newcomer was Ivan Motkin.
The Red agent’s attention was turned immediately toward the man on the floor. Disdain showed on Motkin’s evil features. He gloated at the sight of this prisoner.
“He has told?”
Motkin’s words were in Russian. All members of the group nodded. Motkin laughed as his companions poured forth words of explanation.
The prisoner had been in the service of Frederick Froman. He had been recognized by one of the Red agents in New York. They had seized the man and had made him tell what he had learned. From his lips they had gained sufficient information.
Motkin grinned mirthlessly as he heard the details. The Romanoff jewels had somehow been acquired — the prisoner was not sure of the method. They were being brought by ship to a place on Long Island.
Here, again, the word was vague. But the vital point was this: the store of vast wealth would be brought by automobile to Froman’s home tonight. There it would be stored in the underground strong box which Frederick Froman had erstwhile used as a torture chamber.
Motkin heard all this. He addressed the prisoner personally. Under his sharp questioning, the man repeated all he knew. He looked to Motkin for mercy.
Ivan Motkin was merciful, in his way. Michael Senov would have stamped brutally upon the man’s face.
Motkin was less cruel. He looked about the group and asked a question. One man stepped forward.
At Motkin’s command, this stalwart drew a knife and flung himself upon the bound prisoner. The helpless man screamed as the dirk descended. Then the sharp knife had performed its work. Motkin gloated as the blood gushed on the floor.
With a leering glance about the room, Motkin gave orders to the gang. Alone, he left the place and ascended a flight of steps. He came out into the night, and strode hurriedly along a dark, narrow street.
MOTKIN was familiar with New York. He had lived here, prior to the Russian Revolution. He had been to America since. Tonight, he was confident.
Immediately upon his arrival in Manhattan, he had aimed for obscurity. Motkin was sure that he had eluded the man in black, who had so frequently crossed his path.
Nevertheless, the shrewd Russian was playing safe. Two men swung from the darkness and followed him as he headed westward. They were his bodyguard. Motkin reached a well-lighted street, and hailed a taxicab. His companions joined him.
Riding along, Motkin asked a question.
“Is there a man here in New York,” he asked, “who garbs himself in black, and fights with the strength of a thousand?”
“The Shadow!”
The exclamation came in a hushed voice, uttered by the man on Motkin’s right.
“The Shadow?” questioned Motkin.
“Yes,” replied the bodyguard. “He comes from the dark to kill. Those who see him, die—”
As the man burst forth with dread tales of The Shadow’s prowess, Motkin smiled inwardly. He had met The Shadow. He was still alive. He was ready, now, to meet The Shadow again!
Yet as the account continued, Motkin began to feel ill at ease. The blackness of the streets through which they were riding seemed weird and filled with lurking danger. The Shadow — pictured — might not terrify.
The Shadow — in reality — was an unconquerable foe.
The cab was driving uptown. It stopped at a corner, and Motkin and his men alighted. The trio stole forward until they reached a house which one of the men pointed out. This was the home of Frederick Froman. The place appeared deserted.
Motkin proposed a foray. The three stole to the back of the house. There they attacked a grated window. Under the action of a smooth-cutting saw, the bars were torn away.
Motkin, imbued with a bold plan, entered. He knew the interior of this place. His companions were to wait outside, to follow when he gave the word.
Had Motkin been more intent upon the terrain outside the house, he would not have felt so secure.
Scarcely had the three men begun their silent attack before a grim figure appeared in the front street.
The Shadow emerged from a secret hiding place. His keen eyes followed the path that the trio had taken.
When next The Shadow appeared, he was standing before the entrance of a little store, a block away from Froman’s home. There his tall figure glided unseen into a telephone booth just within the door.
The Shadow called a number. He spoke whispered words to Burbank. The penetrating tones were understood by the man at the other end of the wire.
Then The Shadow was gone. His gliding silhouette appeared momentarily beneath a light near Froman’s home. After that, nothing could be seen.
HALF an hour went by. Dim shapes began to appear in the neighborhood of the house that The Shadow was guarding. No words were spoken. Motkin’s new henchmen were assembling.
Still, time drifted on. Then an automobile rolled up to the front of Froman’s house. Hardly had it stopped before a group of hidden men leaped into view. With one accord they burst loose with revolvers and automatics, attacking the occupants of the car.
Then came surprise. The fusillade was stopped by bulletproof glass. The car started away, followed by wild shots. It was a decoy. Another car came whirling up the street. A searchlight shone, revealing the scattered attackers. The rattle of a machine gun burst through the night.
Frederick Froman had not been caught unawares. With vast millions in his control, he was taking no chances. He had hired a mob of gangsters for tonight, paying them well to clear the way along this thoroughfare!
Now came a new surprise. Sirens were whining from the avenue beyond. Police cars rolled down the street. A flying squad had been summoned here. That was the purpose of the mysterious call that The Shadow had made. Burbank had sent an anonymous message to headquarters!
THE threefold conflict was short-lived. Had the police arrived on schedule, they would have prevented most of the battle. Motkin’s men had started an ambush. They in turn had been mowed down. Now, their attackers were in mad flight, with the police in pursuit. Gangsters were earning their pay tonight — earning it in lead to match the gold that they had been promised!
A squad of police were spreading out on foot. The last remnants of Motkin’s crew were scattering.
Others, wounded and dead, were picked up by the police.
Soon the fighting zone was cleared. Motkin’s hordes were eliminated. Froman’s forces had fled. The police, believing that they had completed their work, had departed. This street had resumed its silence.
A large automobile slid up to the door of Froman’s home. Four men carried a large box into the house.