The fingers were resting on the triggers. Within the fraction of a second, Gats Hackett’s smoke wagons would end the life of the man whom all gangdom dreaded.
The Shadow’s form was still. Gats was laughing. This was like picking a tin bird off the rack of a shooting gallery.
Resting batlike on the side of the wall, The Shadow made a motion which Gats Hackett did not see. As his eyes stared upward, The Shadow had released the hold of his right hand. Beneath the black cloak, that hand was moving upward. It stretched upon the wall just as Gats aimed his smoke wagon toward the eyes that he saw below.
Thirty feet apart — a duel upon the vertical wall of a building — The Shadow against the greatest shot in the underworld! That was the scene. Gats, with two revolvers, aiming downward; The Shadow, with a single automatic stealing upward along the wall to which he clung.
A LOUD report reverberated throughout the depths of the courtyard. It was the sequel to a brilliant flash that burst upward along the rough stone wall. The whole figure of The Shadow trembled and wavered from the force of the recoil as he fired from his automatic.
Gats Hackett was pressing the triggers of his smoke wagons when The Shadow fired. Instantaneously, the gang leader’s arms shot outward, like the limbs of a string-pulled marionette. The revolvers thundered, but their bullets sped wide of their intended mark. The leaden missiles flattened themselves upon the courtyard paving.
The Shadow did not fire again. His form swayed; then caught itself to retain its hold upon the wall.
Gats Hackett’s body, projecting from the window, behaved in an odd manner. First, the arms dropped. The hands lost their hold upon the big revolvers, and the weapons fell — one on each side of The Shadow’s form.
As the .45s clattered and bounced on the paving, Gats Hackett’s twisting body poised with drooping head. Mortally wounded by The Shadow’s bullet, the gang leader could not save himself. He plunged head-forward from the window, a dying cry of terror coming from his swollen lips.
The Shadow made a complete turn as Gats Hackett fell. Instead of remaining face toward the wall, the black shape swung as on a pivot. The long left arm caught the ledge of a window. Back to the wall, The Shadow hung precariously while the sprawling, revolving body of Gats Hackett hurtled by.
One of the gang leader’s helpless hands dragged against the flowing folds of The Shadow’s cloak. The nerveless fingers gained no clutch. Down to his doom went the evil killer who had fought his last fight with The Shadow, invincible master of the night!
Into the now silent courtyard, the tall shape moved downward, its black-clad form merging with the lower gloom. New sounds broke through the night — the strident siren of a police car, followed by shrill blasts from warning whistles.
The outside gangsters were fleeing. Cliff Marsland, stationed at a corner of the building, alone had seen the grim struggle on the wall, his eyes attracted there by the sound of The Shadow’s automatic.The Shadow was safe, Cliff knew. His own duty demanded that he leave the danger zone so as to avoid trouble at the hands of the police.
A black-clad figure glided from the entrance to the courtyard. A moment later a policeman dashed into the vacated area. The officer stopped short as his flashlight revealed the figure of what had once been a man.
It was the body of Gats Hackett — a shattered hulk that lay in a twisted heap. Close beside the gang leader’s corpse were two shining objects that glittered as the flashlight spotted them.
They were the smoke wagons with which Gats Hackett had sought to slay The Shadow.
CHAPTER XXV
THE DEATH ORDER
“WELL, Milbrook, let’s see the diamonds.”
There was an impatient tone in Stanford Devaux’s voice. Shelton Milbrook had arrived later than expected. It was half past nine.
In reply to Devaux’s request, Shelton Milbrook looked about the room. He studied the entire arrangement. There were two doors; one leading to the hall; the other to a side room which also opened into the hall.
Stanford Devaux, his daughter, and Douglas Carleton were all here. In addition, Milbrook had brought a man of his own choosing — a private detective who was standing silently by.
“Monroe” — Milbrook spoke to the detective — “see that the door to the hall is locked.”
The detective, a short, light-haired fellow, obeyed. He announced that the door was locked. Milbrook ordered him to stand beside the door, and to cover the doorway to the adjoining room. Monroe drew a stubby revolver.
“These precautions are necessary,” declared Milbrook, in a businesslike tone. “Remember, please, that these diamonds are worth millions.”
Stanford Devaux seemed unimpressed. Douglas Carleton stared in hostile manner. Virginia Devaux was seated in a chair, leaning forward intently. Her eyes were bright as she watched Milbrook.
The diamond agent opened his coat and vest. This action revealed a pair of revolvers hanging beside his shoulders. He lifted the weapons and placed them on the table in front of him. Then his hands went to his back as he loosed a belt which stretched across his shirt front. This belt contained the wealth of uncut diamonds.
“Quite an arrangement,” remarked Douglas Carleton.
Milbrook glanced toward the speaker. He detected something in Carleton’s eyes that made him immediately suspicious. He freed the belt just as Carleton spoke again.
“Two million dollars?” questioned Carleton. “You mean to say that you have diamonds there of that value?”
“Yes,” replied Milbrook as he placed the belt upon the table and began to open it. As the gems came into view, Milbrook was still watching Carleton.
The knob of the door from the hall was turning. Milbrook did not see it; nor did Monroe. Some one had silently unlocked that barrier. Now the door was opening. A hand entered the room; the muzzle of a revolver pressed against Monroe’s ribs.
“Up with your hands!” commanded a voice.
MONROE wavered. Another hand struck the revolver from the detective’s grasp. Helpless, Monroe raised his arms. Every one in the room had instinctively performed the same action. Shelton Milbrook, hands above his head, was staring with hostile glance toward the men who had entered.
They were obviously gangsters — three of them. But the man who stood behind the others had a more impressive appearance. Across his face, he wore a black cloth mask. Only Douglas Carleton recognized the features below it.
Felix Zubian was the leader of these raiders.
The room became an unmoving tableau. The purpose of the invaders was apparent. Within a few minutes, the diamonds that Milbrook had brought here would be gone. That fact gripped Virginia Devaux as she glanced toward Shelton Milbrook. The girl was amazed to see that Milbrook no longer faced the invaders. Instead he was staring at the spot where Douglas Carleton stood.
The young clubman was smiling. To him, this climax was the culmination of a coveted desire. His argument with Milbrook had been the signal for Zubian’s entrance. All had worked to perfection.
To Shelton Milbrook, Carleton’s treachery was apparent. In his anger, Milbrook was eager to shout the truth that all might know it. Whatever Carleton’s alibi might be, it would be shattered forever by Milbrook’s denunciation.
“This is your work, you crook!” cried Milbrook defiantly. “You are in back of this; you will pay for it! I call you to witness, Devaux—”
Milbrook’s tirade ended as he saw the face of Stanford Devaux. The millionaire had adopted an indifferent attitude.
A sudden understanding came over Shelton Milbrook.
Douglas Carleton was leering fiendishly at the man whom he had betrayed. But when Carleton caught a glimpse of Virginia Devaux, he realized suddenly that the farce was going too far. The girl did not quite understand; but if Milbrook mouthed further denunciations, she would know all.