A bullet sizzled the side brim of the slouch hat as one mobster delivered his shot from the center of the room. The Shadow’s tall form seemed to telescope toward the floor just as the second mobster pulled the trigger of his revolver. The second bullet whistled inches above the dropping hat.
The automatics roared amid the echoes. One mobster clapped hand to breast and plunged gasping to the floor. The second sagged; snarling, he managed to raise his revolver and press the trigger. His faltering aim was wide. A second bullet from one automatic crumpled the mobster.
Cliff Marsland, still clutching the automatic which he held, had clapped his gun hand to the counter. With a valiant effort, he raised himself and flopped forward. His elbow on the counter, he aimed for the corridor straight across the room, where flashing revolvers were aiming toward The Shadow.
With steadied marksmanship, Cliff loosed his last bullets. One revolver dropped to the floor as a gangster screamed. The other disappeared as its owner dived for deeper cover farther down the corridor. Cliff’s teeth gritted beneath his grim smile.
The Shadow had seen his agent’s action. Taking advantage of Cliff’s well-given effort, The Shadow, with a sweeping movement to the right, picked the other corridor simultaneously. His automatics blazed; the rats who had scurried to that hole were caught as they tried to aim.
Bullets, ricocheting from the stone walls of the corridor, dropped even those who had thrown themselves to a spot which they thought was beyond The Shadow’s range. The only mobsters who remained unscathed were a trio who had dodged down the corridor at which Cliff had blasted.
From their point of safety, they could not see The Shadow; but they were able to view the dropping forms of those who had taken the opposite corridor. That was enough. These three who had eluded The Shadow’s wrath, were unready to emerge in the face of deadly fire.
THE efficiency of The Shadow’s surprise attack had lain in the master fighter’s quickness in handling his living targets. The mobsters, while they had aimed to kill their dreaded enemy, had given The Shadow time to deliver quick shots.
Some of The Shadow’s toll had been fatal. For the most part, the men whom he had dropped, as well as those for whom Cliff had accounted, were still writhing on the floor.
As the quick staccato ended, the wounded ruffians saw Cliff Marsland stagger toward the door that led to the street. The Shadow, apparently, did not see Cliff’s escape. That was part of The Shadow’s game.
He had played the part of one who had come to end a fray, not of a rescuer. He wanted his agent’s status in the underworld to remain unchanged, so far as these survivors were concerned.
As Cliff escaped from Red Mike’s, The Shadow’s work was ended. His automatics were still covering men upon the floor. Their ceaseless swing brooked no answer. It was not until The Shadow swept suddenly toward the door that snarling, wounded men grasped guns anew to hurl a last futile reply to the fighter who had mastered them.
The challenge was too late. The Shadow, stopping, delivered his final bursts of thunder. Hands dropped as impartial bullets ricocheted along the floor. Each fuming mobster thought himself to be the target. All sprawled away and dropping gun hands fired wide as a sinister cry of taunting mirth sounded from The Shadow’s unseen lips.
Then, with a twisting motion, The Shadow blotted himself from view. Only the outer door of Red Mike’s dive remained as a target where the enemy of gangdom had effected his quick disappearance.
OUTSIDE Red Mike’s, Cliff Marsland was gripping the corner wall beside an alleyway. He heard the shrill call of a police whistle. Weakened, Cliff was scarcely able to move as he heard the pound of distant feet coming down the street.
A sweeping figure emerged from the darkness of the steps that led down to Red Mike’s entrance. Before Cliff realized the presence of that form, a firm arm caught him in its powerful grasp. Staggering, Cliff found himself being swept into the side alleyway, carried away from the direction where the police whistle had sounded.
When the officers reached Red Mike’s the outside steps were deserted. One man bounded down into the entrance. As he opened the door, rising mobsters saw a new enemy whom they recognized. It was that of a swarthy man in plain clothes, who waved a big police revolver in the faces of those whom he had encountered.
Detective Joe Cardona had reached Red Mike’s. Behind him, half a dozen uniformed police were brandishing their weapons. Trapped, the wounded gangsters dropped their guns and sank back to the floor. Crippled by The Shadow’s bullets, they were too weak to offer new resistance.
Red Mike came scrambling from the corridor where he had taken to cover. He tried to explain what had occurred — a gun fight following the discovery of Birdy Zelker’s true purpose in the underworld. As policemen invaded the dive, Cardona observed the crumpled form of the stool pigeon. Two officers picked up Birdy’s inert form. The man was still alive, but unconscious. Cardona followed as Birdy was carried from Red Mike’s.
OF all the original combatants, one alone had managed to depart from Red Mike’s, before the arrival of the police. That one was Cliff Marsland. He owed his complete escape to The Shadow’s aid.
Blocks from the vicinity of the beleaguered dive, Cliff found himself resting against the cushions of a coupe, beside a black-garbed driver whose form was obscure in the darkness.
Hazily, Cliff realized that he was with The Shadow. True to his service, the agent uttered disjointed sentences — his recollections of the statements which Birdy Zelker had made when cornered.
“Pug Hoffler.” Cliff uttered the name with much difficulty. “To-night. Eleven o’clock. Pug — and his mob — going to home of—”
A pause; Cliff caught himself with an effort.
“Home of Folsom Satruff. Folsom — D. — Satruff. Place at Garport, Long Island. Pug — Pug is going there to — to rob. Satruff — Satruff” — the final statement came in a gasp — “Satruff is Dorand.”
With a deep sigh of relief, Cliff Marsland sank into the cushions. A whispered laugh sounded softly within the darkened coupe. It was The Shadow’s response to his agent’s statement — a token of commendation which Cliff Marsland, lapsing into unconsciousness, heard but faintly.
The coupe gathered speed. The Shadow was carrying his wounded agent to a place of safety. He knew that Cliff had weakened from the strain; that his gritty henchman would be due for swift recovery once he had been taken to a place where his wound could be attended.
Ample time lay ahead. The evening was young. The Shadow could complete the present task; with Cliff in capable hands of a physician, The Shadow would be free to follow his own quest. There would be one objective for to-night.
An hour after Cliff Marsland had quietly subsided, the trim coupe was crossing an East River bridge. This time the driver was alone.
The Shadow had departed on his quest at the home of the philanthropist who called himself Dorand.
CHAPTER VI. AT SATRUFF’S
TWO men were seated in a magnificent second-story living room. Paneled walls of solid oak, massive furniture of the same rich wood, oriental rugs of thickly woven texture betokened worldly wealth.
The men, ensconced in front of a glowing fire, seemed fitted to their surroundings. One, who bore the air of ownership, was a dignified, gray-haired gentleman past middle age. His face, though stern, showed a quiet sympathy.
This was Folsom D. Satruff, a millionaire whose name was widely known in New York. He was seated here in his fine residence; a house which, outside as within, constituted the show place of Garport, Long Island.
Satruff’s companion was a younger man; one who also bore an air of affluence. His glistening black hair was smoothly combed. His pointed black mustache added distinction to his sallow features. There was a keenness in his attitude that gave him a professional appearance. One would quickly have recognized him as a physician.