“It’s the best way, Crofton,” Trip was saying. “Chuck’s told the gang that you’re going out with us. You do go out with us. They’ll remember it.”
“But without the hideout?” questioned Crofton. “It’s going to be tough for me—”
“We’ve got a better place,” interposed Trip. “With two new guys to keep watch.”
“These other mugs were getting stale,” put in Chuck. “Squawking about their job. Said it gave them the willies, looking out for a guy they never saw.”
“This is the first chance we’ve had to talk together,” reminded Trip, again speaking to Crofton. “I know you’ve been doing some worrying, even though you’re sitting pretty.”
“Not so pretty as you think,” retorted Crofton’s voice. “Try it yourself if you don’t believe me. Listen, Trip, there’s plenty to talk about right here, before we start.”
“The car’s out front,” explained Trip. “The sooner it moves away the better. We can talk while we’re riding. Listen, Crofton: I wised Chuck to the real lay, over at the apartment. The two guys that we picked to go to the new hideout are no dummies.
“We’ve got to talk about a lot of things in a mighty short space of time. So let’s get going and chin about it while we’re on the way. Come on — you head downstairs first and go right out to the car. Chuck and I will follow.”
Crofton grunted an agreement. Footsteps creaked and bodies jostled as they reached the head of the stairs. The Shadow was close against the wall as he heard the trio pass. Then came Trip’s voice from the head of the stairs.
“Blink a light, Chuck,” ordered Trip. “Just to make sure it’s all clear up here. Shoot it when—”
Before Trip could complete his sentence, instructing Chuck to wait for a few moments, the lieutenant obeyed the order. He clicked the button of a flashlight and shot the rays toward the edge of the window, intending to sweep it along the wall until it revealed the door that they had just left.
A chance action; but one that produced a startling result. A gasp came from Chuck Galla’s lips. His flashlight stopped short, revealing a form against the wall.
Trip, staring into the gleam, put words to his henchman’s cry.
“The Shadow!”
THE response was a shuddering laugh. A second flashlight clicked in The Shadow’s hand. Trip and Chuck were carrying revolvers ready. They swung their weapons upward. The muzzle of an automatic loomed from The Shadow’s fist.
Glare to glare; gun to gun; The Shadow was dealing with murderous fighters. It was a battle to death — two to one in favor of the foe. The Shadow’s automatic thundered. Quick shots stabbed toward the crooks as the tall black form whirled sideways.
Revolvers answered. Bullets zimmed amid the crackles. Fast, at close range, the battle was a grim one.
Trip and Chuck were dropping toward the steps as they fired; but their action was less timely than The Shadow’s swift twist. By split-second precision, The Shadow had outdone his foemen. Chuck Galla gave a venomous cough and went sprawling to the floor. A cry came from Trip Burgan as the gambler staggered on the stairway.
A fierce laugh; burst from The Shadow.
While revolver shots had whistled wide, slugs from the automatic had taken toll. The Shadow had dropped Chuck Galla with a death bullet. He had clipped Trip Burgan. Yet Trip was still a fighter.
Staggering crazily down the stairs, clutching at the rail with a wounded left arm, Trip kept on firing toward the top. Chuck’s light had fallen.
The Shadow’s had clicked out. It was a battle in the darkness. Stabs from the revolver; flashes from the automatic.
Half sprawling at the bottom of the stairs, Trip managed to dive into the cigar store. He staggered toward the front, bearing up despite new wounds, determined to give the alarm.
From above, The Shadow was sweeping downward, hot on Trip’s trail.
OUTSIDE, men had heard the shots. The two gorillas in the front of the touring car had swung toward the cigar store. They were trying to make out what was happening. Then, before their eyes could distinguish objects in the thick darkness, they heard some one scramble into the car beside them.
“Get going!”
It was Miles Crofton’s voice. The order was given with fervor. A mobster turned; then his fellow crook grabbed his arm. Some one else was coming from the cigar store. They could barely see a man who faltered toward the car.
“Get him!” It was Trip. “Get him — The Shadow! Get going before he comes—”
Trip sprawled. The driver of the touring car shot the car into gear. It started from the curb. It did not go far. At that instant, a big man came bounding from across the street. It was Jericho. Wrenching open the front door of the touring car, the huge African yanked the driver from behind the wheel.
The fellow swung a gun, viciously. It whizzed an inch past Jericho’s ear as the big man hoisted the gorilla over his shoulder. Then, with a powerful lurch, Jericho sent the gangster head-first to the paving. The gorilla rolled over and lay still.
The second man was at the wheel, aiming for Jericho. The African was an open target. He was springing forward to deal with this new enemy. Jericho might have been too late to stop the shot; but some one else was in time.
A gun barked from the old truck across the street. The gorilla slumped by the wheel. Jericho yanked him clear as two men came bounding from the truck. The first was Cliff Marsland; the other Harry Vincent.
The two had come up in Jericho’s truck. They had been waiting, hidden, for this moment. Cliff had dropped the second gorilla with a well-aimed shot. Two mobsters eliminated, he piled into the darkened rear of the touring car.
Instantly, Cliff was locked in a terrific struggle. Some one had risen to meet him. Harry could see Cliff’s shoulders lunging against a foe beyond. To aid Cliff, Harry piled in through the door.
All this in brief seconds. Astounded watchers, lurking in doorways, had been nonplused by the rapidity of action. Coming to life, they opened fire toward the touring car; toward Jericho.
The African dived for his truck. It was the best move. As he reached cover, he drew the fire. Then, before the marksmen could spot their quarry, they learned of a new enemy. A fierce laugh sounded from a spot just outside the cigar store. Flashes appeared with the booms of automatics.
The Shadow!
CROOKS accepted the challenge of the hidden foe. They fired for those stabbing targets. The Shadow, on the move, was drawing their fire. Close by darkened building fronts, he was eluding the evil sharpshooters.
He was doing more. He was picking living targets. He was pulling shots away from the touring car where Harry and Cliff were still wrestling with a foe that grappled as fiercely as a fiend.
Then, whirling rapidly up the avenue, came Moe Shrevnitz’s cab. Speeding in zigzag fashion, Moe lay half crouched behind the wheel. With a terrific skid, the taxi whirled about in the middle of the street, while crooks began to aim toward it. Moe leaped from the cab and gained the front seat of the touring car.
Crooks leaped from their hiding places. Maddened, they wanted to get The Shadow. They wanted to stop the departure of the touring car.
They were too late. The rakish machine shot forward. Moe looked quickly over his shoulder, to see Cliff and Harry struggling with an enemy who was obscured beneath them. He kept on, while bullets whistled through the top of the car.
The Shadow was again drawing the shots of crooks. Men were sprawling from his bullets.
Hobey, still in a doorway, shouted a wild command. He wanted to concentrate the fire; for The Shadow had dropped back to a doorway of his own. Crooks wheeled. As they met the challenge of the automatics, a new fire came to The Shadow’s aid. A wizened face thrust itself from the interior of Moe’s abandoned cab. Hawkeye had joined the jehu before Moe’s mad arrival. A sharpshooter in his own right, Hawkeye was gunning for crooks.