“Ricordo is right,” agreed the professor quietly. “Have no alarm, Jocelyn. I would prefer silent death; but violence is acceptable in this emergency. Thomas Jocelyn must die — and his rescuer with him.”
No further words came as the trio watched the studio. The Shadow was swinging Alfred Sartain to the chair beside the desk. The millionaire moved feebly. He lay, outstretched, his face staring upward.
PROFESSOR URLITCH was gazing through the opera glasses. He could not, however, sight the face of that mysterious being in black. Even in that enlarged field of vision, The Shadow’s head and shoulders were entirely a mass of darkness. The brim of the slouch hat cast an impenetrable gloom upon the features beneath it.
“I can’t see his face,” announced Urlich calmly, “but that does not matter. It is turned from the doorway — which is most favorable. If your men are capable, Ricordo—”
The scientist paused to lower the glasses and glance at Ricordo in the dim light by the window. The gang leader emitted a coarse laugh.
“They’re the best gorillas money can buy,” he affirmed. “But they’re up against The Shadow. Don’t forget that, professor! I tipped Slips, and he won’t miss a trick. The Shadow, professor! He’s the one guy that they’ve all tried to get.”
“Your men are coming now,” exclaimed Jocelyn suddenly. “I can see a motion through the windows of the outer room!”
“Right!” added Ricordo. “They’ll be at the door in a few seconds. Say — if they blot out The Shadow—”
“Look!”
Professor Urlich was pointing from the office window. His long forefinger indicated the blackclad figure of The Shadow.
Satisfied that Alfred Sartain was reviving, the blackclad rescuer was rising. His form became a tall, menacing shape; then, suddenly, it became motionless. A momentary pause. Black-gloved hands swung inward toward the shrouding cloak.
“They have reached the door by now,” asserted Jocelyn tensely.
“Yes!” agreed Ricordo, in an excited tone. “They’re at the door — and they’ve got The Shadow!”
As though proving the truth of the gang leader’s assertion, the tall form in black pirouetted suddenly toward the door of the studio. A cry of elation came from Larry Ricordo.
The Shadow, when he swung, was weaponless. He, with Alfred Sartain, seemed doomed!
CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW DEPARTS
THE three witnesses to the rare spectacle of The Shadow at work were totally unacquainted with the methods of the blackclad rescuer. Even Larry Ricordo, hardened denizen of the underworld, knew but little of The Shadow’s ways. Hence the rising motion of the black-cloaked form, the passage of the gloved hands toward the garment that shrouded the shoulders beneath; even the quick pirouette of the figure itself — were all accepted by the viewers as token of The Shadow’s unpreparedness.
But, within the studio where doom had failed to strike, The Shadow was acting with instinctive practice.
Although unaware that hidden eyes were observing him, The Shadow, master of desperate situations, had not allowed his interest in Alfred Sartain’s recovery to reduce his normal vigilance.
When he had suddenly stepped away from the reviving millionaire, it had been because his keen ears had heard a slight sound at the doorway of the studio. The momentary pause had enabled him to detect the turning of the knob. The motion of his hands toward his body was the beginning of the swift method whereby The Shadow encountered foes who sought to catch him off guard.
As the black form whirled to face the door, those gloved hands swept free from the folds of the cloak.
As The Shadow’s eyes stared directly at the portal, the firm fists beneath them were gripping the powerful automatics with which The Shadow warred against fiends of crime.
The action was a timely one. Simultaneously with The Shadow’s swing, the door came inward, and a pair of villainous gangsters plunged into the room. Each of Slips Harbeck’s gorillas held a leveled revolver.
The gunmen held the first advantage. They were actually in the room before The Shadow faced them. But they did not know the exact spot where they must attack, so precipitous had their entrance been. They were forced to swing their gleaming weapons in order to cover their foe.
The Shadow, on the contrary, had a definite objective — the doorway. His rapid turn ended in a deadly aim, whereas the gunmen acted with haste. It was this factor that turned the tide in The Shadow’s favor.
Two shots burst from the doorway — each from a gorilla’s revolver. One bullet missed The Shadow by a foot. The other burned through a waving fold of the black cloak — less than an inch from its mark.
A DOUBLE answer came a split second later. As both gunmen sought to deliver a second shot, The Shadow’s automatics roared together. The forward plunging mobsters hurtled to the floor. One sprawled crazily in a sidewise swing; the other somersaulted almost to The Shadow’s feet.
A bursting cry of mirth sounded from The Shadow’s unseen lips. No longer concerned with the enemies whom he had dropped, The Shadow advanced toward the door. His method was slow but constant — a scheme with definite purpose. From the first instant of the attack, The Shadow had kept himself as a shield for Alfred Sartain, helpless in the chair behind the desk.
Now, seeking to meet new invaders, The Shadow held to the same purpose. Blocking the path from the doorway, he gave no hidden enemy an opportunity to complete the job which had failed — the murder of the hapless millionaire.
Keen eyes glistened. The Shadow’s right-hand automatic roared another greeting. A scream came from beyond the doorway. A third gangster, more cautious than his fellows, had thrust forth a hand with a revolver. The Shadow’s prompt response clipped the trigger finger from the hand!
The maimed mobster fled. After him tumbled another who had also kept to cover. The Shadow’s guns barked a stern pursuit.
The fleeing men were heading across the living room, The Shadow following. Only one mark offered — an uncovered shoulder at the farther doorway. The Shadow found it; the man staggered, but kept on.
Beyond the outer door of the penthouse, the fleeing gorillas encountered their chief, Slips Harbeck. He had sent them into the attack, intending to follow after the first onslaught. For Slips, alone, had heard the identity of the enemy whom they must meet.
The leader of the gorillas was thrown back by his fleeing henchmen. He could not stop them now. They had met the menace of The Shadow. They had seen their companions sprawl within the first two seconds of the battle.
The flight would have proven futile, had The Shadow followed his advantage. But a new duty lay before the master in black.
Across the room, Duster Brooks was struggling with Hunnefield, the secretary. The false butler was holding a revolver in his hand; Hunnefield was gripping the wrist below that hand.
Brooks put forth a desperate effort just as The Shadow appeared. He wrested his wrist free, and struck a fierce blow at Hunnefield’s head. Fortunately for the secretary, it was a glancing stroke that failed in its murderous intent. But as the weapon thudded above his ear, Hunnefield collapsed. He would have fallen, but for the butler’s grasp.
BROOKS was facing the doorway toward the studio. He saw The Shadow. He recognized the menace.
With Hunnefield’s body as a shield, he thrust his revolver forth and fired. The swaying of the secretary’s form destroyed the aim. The bullet from the butler’s gun whisked the brim of The Shadow’s hat and lodged in the redecorated wall beyond.