THE LAST STROKE
LUCK had come to Dale Jurling. His lucky clip to Cardona’s chin; his metallic slash at Verne; now the great opportunity. Pure chance had given him a bead upon the enemy who had brought end to his evil plans.
Death to The Shadow. That was Dale Jurling’s thought as he held his revolver steady, at full arm’s length. Half crouched, he formed a fiendish figure with the leer he wore. And dangling from his aiming wrist was the symbol of frustrated capture; that handcuff which had been clamped in vain.
The Shadow, swinging in from the door, had automatics in his fists. He had launched all but a single bullet in that torrent of scattered shots along the corridor. He had reserved one slug for a pinch; yet the emergency had caught him at a disadvantage.
For Dale Jurling had The Shadow covered; and Jurling was out to kill. Upon the floor lay Montague Verne, half-unconscious, while Joe Cardona had come to his feet beside the wardrobe trunk. Jurling would take care of him after The Shadow.
To Joe Cardona, the scene was one of dire circumstance. Jurling on the point of pressing trigger, glaring with a venom that told he would not miss. The Shadow, squarely in the center of the doorway; too far in to fade back, not near enough to spring upon his foe; with automatic too low to cover before Jurling fired.
The Shadow, more than once, had brought aid to Joe Cardona. He had saved the detective’s life tonight; but that favor was no more than a repetition of previous deeds of rescue. It was Joe’s instinctive knowledge of all he owed The Shadow that brought about the amazing stroke that followed.
Joe was swinging up as Jurling aimed. Half dazed from Jurling’s fist, the detective was acting in mechanical fashion. While his eyes were viewing the conflict that threatened death to The Shadow, Joe’s limbs were hurling him forward in a wild effort to stay Jurling’s shot.
Jurling had not forgotten that Cardona might be in the game. With finger on trigger, the crook shifted his body, but not his aiming hand. With the shift he dropped straight backward, holding the perfect level of his gun. Cardona’s leap was straight into an empty space. Moreover, it was short.
But as Jurling’s finger snapped the trigger, Cardona performed the frantic action of a man bound on a futile plunge. He shot his right hand upward to grab the only object that he saw. Too short to grip Jurling’s arm; Cardona’s stretch was long enough to seize a mass of metal that sparkled before his bleary eyes.
The detective caught the dangling bracelet of the handcuff. He clutched it with a grip that death alone could have loosed. And with that grab, Cardona went sprawling headlong to the floor.
JURLING’S revolver barked. His shot came hard upon Cardona’s grab. The crook’s right wrist was jostled. His shot, wide and low, sizzled through a space no more than two inches in width — the gap between The Shadow’s body and the right side of the doorway.
As he fired, Jurling went spinning to the floor, carried along by the weight of Cardona’s heavy-set body. The two men were whirled in an amazing dive that came as The Shadow fired. Like Jurling, The Shadow missed. His aim, coming up toward the spot where Jurling was, found space where the sprawling crook had been.
That was not all. Neither Jurling nor Cardona had yielded grip. While Joe still clutched the handcuffs, Jurling retained the gun. The two rolled into the wall; grappling, they came up to their feet and staggered in a lopsided lurch toward the far end of the room.
The Shadow sprang forward to end the fray. A table was in the way. He seized it and swung it crashing to the wall. As the fighters whirled toward the wardrobe trunk, The Shadow picked his spot. Sweeping forward, he shot his gloved hands straight for Jurling’s neck.
Again, luck saved the desperate crook. Verne, coming to his feet, was almost in The Shadow’s path. As the cloaked rescuer swept to Cardona’s aid, Verne stumbled forward. His body blocked The Shadow’s drive.
Half-sprawling, The Shadow went staggering to the wall.
He had dropped his automatics beneath his cloak while watching the first action of the grapple between Cardona and Jurling. Unencumbered, The Shadow spun about to make a new leap for the crook. But Joe and Jurling had missed the big trunk; instead of striking it, they went plunging into the inner room of the suite.
The Shadow followed, seeking surging forms in darkness. He could see the splash of shining metal — gun and handcuffs — as the sweeping objects caught glimmering light from the living room. Then came a crash. Together, the two men drove head-on against the connecting door that The Shadow had left open to the farther suite. Cardona’s head took the blow against the barrier. The detective slumped from the thump; his fingers lost the bracelet that they had clung to with such fierce tenacity.
Jurling, free and with gun, went driving on, while The Shadow followed, half a room’s length behind.
Jurling was dashing through the empty suite. The Shadow, leaping over Cardona, saw the crook swing into the door beyond. There, as Jurling plunged forward with high-raised gun, a man came up to meet him. It was Harry Vincent, stationed here to guard The Shadow’s exit.
HARRY held an automatic. He swung it hard for Jurling’s shining gun — all that he could distinguish in the darkness of this outer living room. Metal clicked metal. Then came a new and furious grapple, with Jurling battling in renewed frenzy.
The Shadow, close upon the fray, could not distinguish which spinning man to take. A revolver shot burst the darkness; its stabbing flame directed upward. Jurling had fired. His bullet, deflected by Harry’s clutch upon his wrist, found lodgment in the ceiling.
Then came an avalanche of blackness. The Shadow, like the thickness of the room itself, sprang forward in one gigantic leap that brought him squarely upon the shoulders of the struggling pair. Men slumped downward; then, as their bodies shifted, both Harry and Jurling reeled headlong to the darkened floor, The Shadow coming with them.
It was The Shadow’s only course to end the fray. He had picked both combatants — his agent and his foe — as one.
In the roll, The Shadow was pinioned at the bottom of the heap. His swift fist caught a gun and clutched it. Twisting, The Shadow heaved upward and sent the two men staggering in opposite directions.
On hands and knees, The Shadow clutched the gun that he had grabbed. He felt the flat side of an automatic. The snatch had given him Harry Vincent’s weapon. Gripping the handle with a swift move, The Shadow swung about. Off toward the end of the room, he saw two forms silhouetted against the row of windows in the wall.
Reflected glow of Manhattan lights showed two stubborn combatants leaping forward for new fight. And from beneath the wide slashing arm of the rising figure on the left was dangling the telltale clue: the handcuffs that Dale Jurling was still wearing.
Coming in with fiendish zest to kill, Jurling was pouncing upon Harry Vincent. The Shadow’s agent, game to the finish, was springing up to meet him. Alike in the darkness, the only quick guess to which was which lay in Jurling’s telltale bracelet.
THE SHADOW fired a split-second before the two men met. His aim was for the wrist above the dangling metal; a shot intended to cripple Jurling’s gun hand. The Shadow’s aim was true.
A sizzling slug found metal. Jurling’s arm went sweeping up. He sprawled to the floor with Harry upon him — losing his gun as he fell, regaining it as he groped madly on the floor. Felled by the force of The Shadow’s shot and Harry’s lunge, Jurling still had chance to use his gun.
For The Shadow’s bullet had struck the one spot of protection upon Jurling’s wrist. It had ricocheted from the band of steel that formed the bracelet of the handcuff.
Jurling’s rolling twist had swung him to one side. Harry was fighting to bear him down. Jurling, half free, aimed across the room, knowing where The Shadow was located. He fired a blind shot.