This man was a tool. He had all the makings of an underling. Some one higher up had directed him. He was the type of crook who would squawk when beaten. The Shadow laughed. His whispered tones were chilling.
With his free hand, The Shadow bolted the sheathed door behind him. He had entered by the back; he wanted no one else to do the same. He thrust his gun hand forward.
Hothan backed away. He went in the direction that The Shadow wanted — toward the gas jet by the window.
While old Tobold stood staring at his weird deliverer, The Shadow reached his free hand to the counter and picked up the skull ring. Hothan quivered as he saw the accusing death’s-head shining from between the gloved fingers. He backed closer to the light.
The murderer was in the spot where The Shadow wanted him. With sallow face paling in the light, Hothan was where he would betray any emotion that seized him. He was a fit subject for a grueling inquisition.
“YOU are Homer Hothan,” announced The Shadow, his stern eyes upon the killer’s face. “Speak, in answer to my statement.”
“Yes,” gulped Hothan.
“You murdered Hildrew Parchell,” continued The Shadow, in his sinister tone. “You sought to learn the secret of his hidden wealth.”
Hothan hesitated.
“Speak!” ordained The Shadow.
“Yes,” gulped Hothan. “I–I killed Parchell! But — but it was because I wanted—”
He stopped again, trying to withhold the words that The Shadow commanded. A taunting laugh was the cloaked inquisitor’s next urge.
“Speak,” repeated The Shadow. “Name the man who put you to this task.”
“It — it was” — Hothan broke, pleadingly — “I–I can’t speak. He — he would kill me! I found out what he wanted — as much as I could. The — the paper was half burned; but — but I found out about — about—”
He paused, staring at the tiny skull that showed between The Shadow’s forefinger and thumb. With one half-upraised hand, Hothan tried to point to the ring. The Shadow laughed again. He dropped his hand and let the ring fall upon the counter.
The black cloak swished as The Shadow stepped forward. A crimson lining flashed as the folds swung wide. Then blazing eyes came closer to Hothan’s. Preliminaries were ended. A threatening gun muzzle, a sinister voice; both brooked no more hesitancy.
“Speak,” hissed The Shadow. “Lose no time. Tell the details of your evil deeds.”
Hothan quivered; he dropped back helplessly, almost against the window. Completely a victim to The Shadow’s will, this cringing criminal was ready to tell everything. The whole truth was to be The Shadow’s. Then came the intervention.
Before Hothan could respond to The Shadow’s bidding, a sound made the cloaked avenger swing. It was from the front door of the little room. Wheeling, The Shadow was just in time to see the barrier swing open. Revolvers glimmered in the flickering light.
A cry from old Tobold. A gasp of relief from Hothan. A fierce laugh from The Shadow. Sweater-clad ruffians were in view. A squad of mobsmen, denizens of this district, had come as cover-up men to back Homer Hothan.
WITH his swing, The Shadow had thrust his free hand beneath his cloak. A second automatic swung into view beside the first. Both weapons belched flame as mobsmen opened fire. With the roars of his guns, The Shadow faded, twisting, toward the center of the room.
It was that move that tricked the mobsters. Revolvers fired wide in swinging toward the wall. But automatics did not fail. Two thugs sprawled inward from the doorway. The others dropped back to the steps that ran straight down from the door.
A crash came from the window. The Shadow whirled to see Hothan diving straight through the glass. The rickety frame crashed from its moorings as the killer took this wild opportunity to escape. A thud sounded from a spot below the window. Hothan had landed on the roof of an old shed.
Pounding footsteps sounded on the paving below. Hothan was keeping on, mad in his desire to get clear of this vicinity. By a lucky break, the desperate murderer had eluded The Shadow for the time being.
The Shadow had let Hothan wait for the moment, in order to meet the crooks from the door. He knew that Hothan would not have time to regain his gun. The Shadow had figured correctly; but he had not expected Hothan to take that desperate plunge.
Ordinarily, The Shadow could have reached the shattered window in time to drop Hothan as he fled. But again, the killer’s allies were coming to his aid. Those steps outside the doorway were a barricade behind which they had dropped to fire new shots.
Revolvers blazed at The Shadow’s swinging figure. As The Shadow whirled toward the front wall, old Tobold dived beneath the counter.
With hoarse shouts, mobsters leaped to their feet. They were out to get The Shadow; ready to riddle the counter; determined to seize the gems that lay in view.
They had taken The Shadow’s move for flight. They thought they had their enemy trapped. Three gunmen sprang into view. Two turned to look for The Shadow; the third aimed for Tobold’s counter. Another pair of sweatered fighters bobbed up in the rear.
THE SHADOW’S counterstroke came with terrific suddenness. As gorillas swung to find him, The Shadow came springing forward from the gloomiest corner of the room. Automatics blazed. Aiming mobsters keeled over.
The rogue who was aiming for the counter turned suddenly to find The Shadow full upon him. Wildly the man grappled. The rear guard came piling up to aid him. The Shadow lost no single instant.
Though he might battle it out with these enemies, trusting to his quickness and his aim, The Shadow had thought of old Tobold’s safety. In dropping behind the counter, the pawnbroker had rendered himself helpless. Thin boards could not stop bullets.
To save Tobold again, The Shadow had to carry the fight from this room. His prompt action had been for that purpose. Blazing at two who had tried to stop him, he had grabbed the one aiming for Tobold.
With a helpless mobster swaying in his grasp, he swung to thwart the next two.
Swinging the gorilla’s body like a mighty bludgeon, The Shadow hurled himself squarely upon the pair at the head of the stairs. There was no half measure in his stroke. He was out to clear the way completely.
The weight of the man he had hurled was not sufficient. The Shadow came plunging through behind his human weapon.
Hurtling bodies crashed. Two mobsters staggered on the stairs, then went plunging headlong to the lower entry, uttering fierce shouts as bodies pounded down upon them. Their fellow mobsters went jouncing heavily along with them. Like a cluster of rolling sacks, the group went tumbling downward in long bounds.
Plunging hard in their wake came The Shadow. Unlike the mobsters, he did not seek to stay his plunge.
Instead, he was driving onward, adding impetus to the combined plunge, breaking each shock by using the forms before him as buffers.
One mobster pitched squarely on his head at the bottom of the steps. The fellow sprawled crazily. The second kept on; his unobstructed dive sent him skidding through the opened door, out across the sidewalk and into the gutter past the curb.
The third hit the first man, bounded forward and lay flat. The Shadow, ending a mammoth dive, landed with elbows squarely on the third mobster, while his body broke its fall upon the first. The other two gorillas lay motionless. The Shadow arose, his fists still clutching his automatics.
Oddly, the gorilla who had hit the sidewalk was the one who suffered least. Rolling to his feet, the fellow let out a wild snarl as he yanked out a gun. He aimed for the opened door. Before he could fire, an automatic roared.
As the gangster sagged, The Shadow’s form came into view from the doorway. The gorilla, though sinking, fired wild shots in return. The barks of his gun came almost as a signal. Bursts of flame broke loose from across the street.