“Out here somewhere,” came the reply.
“Thought I heard something drop.”
The first man was moving onward with the bag. The second growled for him to wait. Both men set down their burdens.
The one nearest the door turned on a flashlight. Its illumination fell squarely upon the crumpled shape of Duffy Bagland.
“Say—”
The man’s gasp died as his turning light encountered a gliding mass of blackness. Stark terror caught this mobster’s heart. Then came the revealing light, from the other gangster’s torch. The crossing beams fell full upon The Shadow!
Each hand that projected from the folds of the black cloak now held a powerful automatic. From the moment that he had felled Duffy Bagland, The Shadow had expected imminent discovery of the gang leader’s stunned form. He had chosen to reserve attack until his enemies were spread apart and burdened with their spoils; chance had made it necessary to act at an earlier moment.
COVERED by a double glare of light, The Shadow boomed forth his leaden welcome. Both automatics spoke. So close were their separate shots that the roar seemed like the burst of a cannon.
The first bullet was aimed directly toward the flashlight which one gangster held. Shooting into the center of light at close range, The Shadow shattered the torch before its holder could extinguish it.
The shot from the other automatic was delivered with the same purpose — this time toward the second gangster. The bullet found its mark.
Plowing missiles not only smashed the flashlights; they found human flesh beyond. Snarls of agony came from the wounded gangsters. Neither man could attempt to return The Shadow’s fire. Both dropped to the floor.
Those shots meant action. Eight gangsters heard them from the other rooms. Bags of plate clattered to the floor. Flashlights shone as Duffy Bagland’s minions sprang forward to meet the unexpected invasion.
From behind the edge of the ballroom door, The Shadow opened his prompt attack. Automatics spat their blinding flashes. Gangsters pitched forward as they emerged from the treasure room.
Those behind them, seeing their fall, sprang for corners of the room. Dropping to the floor, they fired with their revolvers, using their flashlights to pick out the spot from which The Shadow had attacked. They shot at emptiness alone.
His first volley delivered, The Shadow had glided out of sight. His bullets had dropped three among a squad of eight; they might have taken greater toll but for the protection which the staggering men had given to those behind them. The remaining five were trapped. The Shadow was at the portal through which they hoped to flee.
Not one dared leap forward. The Shadow, hidden, was as great a threat as he had been when in view. The first instinctive thought in every mobster’s mind had been to gain safety for himself. It would be minutes now before the concerted attack. Five would spring forth upon one — but that one was The Shadow!
In the tense interim which followed the echoes of The Shadow’s automatics, and the futile, short-lived outbreak of replying revolver shots, vague, distant reports came in muffled outburst. From the silence of the ballroom, The Shadow’s laugh rang forth in mocking tones that made the scattered gangsters tremble.
The Shadow knew the meaning of those other shots. Their sound had come from the stairway that led down to the twenty-first floor. This meant that the two gangsters at the bottom of the stairs had heard The Shadow’s shots, and had started for the fire tower.
Cliff Marsland was stationed at that spot. A stanch fighter, waiting behind the protection of a heavy door, The Shadow’s agent held the advantage. Well did The Shadow know that those isolated minions could not escape by the path which they had chosen.
With Cliff in ambush, ready for the foe, The Shadow had deliberately intended to split the squad of gangsters. He knew their ilk; knew that they would flee. While The Shadow broke the ranks of trapped men, Cliff could halt the flight of others until The Shadow arrived upon their trail.
Circumstances, however, had eased Cliff’s duty to the minimum. Outside of the mobsters whom The Shadow had dropped, the entire squad accompanying Duffy Bagland was now held within The Shadow’s snare.
CONFUSED shouts came vaguely to the ballroom. The Shadow’s laugh issued forth in a sinister whisper that brought hollow echoes from the walls of the great room. The mass attack would be forced upon the gangsters now. The fire of guns had been heard throughout the floor.
The door between the second and third rooms of the tier burst open. A flood of light showed the figures of crouching mobsters. Three detectives, sensing that a raid was being made upon the Russian plate, were coming to investigate.
The skulking gangsters rose to action. Here was opportunity! Before them, they saw men whom they could fight; out through the tier was a chance for escape!
Taking advantage of the stupid mistake made by the detectives, the mobsters leaped forward, firing as they came!
Detectives leaped for cover; one staggered away with a bullet in his arm.
With mad cries of elation, the mobsters hurled themselves toward the opened outlet. Their shouts were murderous. The retreating detectives — only two able to resist — were faced by a desperate situation.
Of the five mobsters, only one had reckoned with The Shadow. He, alone, turned toward the ballroom door, while his companions hurtled toward the new avenue of escape.
As the gangster stared, he saw a black shape blot out the rays of light which now penetrated to the ballroom. He raised his hand to fire; an automatic blazed, and he went down.
Wounded, the gangster cried the warning. His companions turned as they heard the desperate cry.
“The Shadow!”
Four revolver muzzles swung toward the spot where The Shadow stood. The automatics roared a cannonade. Split seconds were the advantage which The Shadow held; but he had four marksmen to meet before his work would be done.
One gangster fell while aiming. Another staggered with his finger pressing the trigger. His shot landed in the wall above the door.
The form of The Shadow seemed to dwindle; a third gangster faltered momentarily in his aim. A bullet from one of the deadly automatics clipped his arm, and he dropped his weapon. The fourth man, however, blazed with venomous fury.
A bullet whistled through the black slouch hat. A second shot, directed lower, whisked the folds of The Shadow’s cloak, just above the left shoulder. The black form seemed to waver; the hand trembled. The desperate mobsman aimed for The Shadow’s heart.
He never fired that final shot. Often had enemies delivered a single bullet toward the black-clad fighter; rarely had they sent a second; never a third.
The Shadow’s right hand shot back from a heavy recoil as its automatic spoke. The aiming mobster staggered away, shrieking as he dropped his gun. His clawing hands went to his body; his shoulders struck against the wall, then slipped sidewise. Crumpling crazily, the man fell dead.
Duffy Bagland’s mobsters were not yet through. A few of them, wounded, were still capable of weakened battle as they crawled to pick up their dropped weapons. But as they rose to make a last hopeless battle, the figure of The Shadow vanished before their eyes.
There was a reason.
THE two detectives had seen the falling forms of mobsters. They knew that some one was fighting in their behalf, even though the black-clad image of The Shadow was beyond their vision.
Unscathed, the sleuths dashed into the room. They fell upon the beaten, crippled mobsters, and ended the resistance before the wounded men could renew the battle.
The Shadow had traveled from the range of light. His searching eyes, however, swept to the floor. They viewed the position — now illuminated — where Duffy Bagland had lain.