With outstretched arm, he fired two random shots that served as false targets for the aim of his opponents. With the echoes of his shots, he was on the move toward a spot of better choosing. From there, he blazed quick bullets toward the thugs who were firing at the place where he had been.
All was unreal and fantastic in the darkness. The atmosphere was that which The Shadow himself would have chosen. Only the flashlight, lying on the floor against the wall, gave a small, unoccupied area of light.
Flashing guns, thudding bodies, groans and cries of wounded gangsters; these were the accompaniment to the staccato melody of The Shadow’s .45s.
Furious though the combat sounded, its duration was amazingly short. Silence, disturbed only by occasional groans, formed the finale that came after the last echoes of roaring gun play.
The rising crescendo of The Shadow’s laugh seemed to sound a warning to those who might still be able to give combat. That laugh died sharply. Its weird tone gave no inkling as to the spot where The Shadow stood.
No further shots were fired. Yet The Shadow, ever wary, was a being of utmost stealth. He sensed that one or more might still be lurking unharmed. He had done heavy damage in the direction of the alcove; still, it was possible that some one might have either gained that safety spot or have crawled away to the open front of the shop.
The Shadow headed toward the alcove, so silently that not even the swish of his cloak could be heard. A full minute passed before he reached the door to Compton Salwood’s office. He encountered no one on the way.
The door was closed — tight shut. The Shadow, needing no light, probed the lock with his steel pick. His action was unheard, for he had learned the secret of that lock before.
Slowly, The Shadow began to ease the door open, to obtain a slender view. In this action, he raised his left arm above his head, so that his hand touched the top of the doorway. The opening crack was thus completely obliterated so that no light could come from within the room to attract the attention of any lurking member of the mobster band.
DARKNESS greeted The Shadow’s peering eye. The office light had been turned out.
Had Compton Salwood fled?
That seemed possible, yet doubtful. If Joe Cardona had encountered the fleeing interior decorator, it was likely that the detective would have returned to learn the cause of the gun play.
The Shadow entered the office. He closed the door behind him. His flashlight formed a circling ray of light. It stopped short near the farther door. There, on the floor, lay Compton Salwood. The man was dead. He was flat upon his back; buried to the hilt was the knife that had caused his death.
Some evil enemy had trapped Salwood while The Shadow had been battling the invaders. The struggle had come to a quick ending. Compton Salwood, tool of a supercriminal, had been murdered in cold blood.
The Shadow’s light swung to the desk. The drawers were open. They had been rifled. The package containing the stolen book was gone. So was Salwood’s index file. The envelope with its postage stamp sheets had been taken also.
A buzzing sound was coming in short jerks. Some one was at the rear door, signaling for entrance. That had been the situation some minutes before, when The Shadow had seen Compton Salwood alive.
There was a button on the desk; the one that Salwood had been about to press when The Shadow had sensed invaders in the front. The Shadow pressed it with a gloved finger. He extinguished the flashlight, then opened the front door of the office and eased out into the alcove that led to the shop.
Footsteps sounded as The Shadow peered through the crack of the door. Men were coming into the office from the rear. A growl sounded; then one of the arrivals found the light switch.
It showed Joe Cardona and two detectives with him. Cardona uttered a sharp exclamation as he saw Salwood’s body on the floor.
The Shadow closed the front door and turned, toward the shop. He reached the end of the alcove; then merged suddenly with the wall as the door of the office was flung open. Joe Cardona appeared.
The detective shot the rays of a flashlight along the floor. He did not see The Shadow. His attention was attracted by the bodies of wounded gangsters on the floor.
With a shout, Cardona leaped into the shop and turned his light about the room. By the window, he caught a glimpse of a crouching man.
Cardona raised his revolver to fire. He backed away as he did so; and he was just in time. A gun barked in his direction. The other detectives came piling into the alcove to aid their leader. Like Cardona, they sprang past the spot where The Shadow stood.
A man was clambering through the widow that The Shadow had opened. Cardona fired at his fleeing form and missed. This was where The Shadow’s aim would have been of good avail; but the big automatics were silent. The Shadow had decided to leave the lurking invader to the three detectives. He had other plans of his own.
While all attention was centered toward the window and Cardona was ordering one of his men to take up the chase, The Shadow moved swiftly back into Salwood’s office. He lost no time when he reached that spot.
He passed through the farther door, entered a short corridor and arrived at the back door beyond. This was the door with the automatic catch; the one which The Shadow had opened to allow Cardona’s entrance.
From the door, The Shadow stepped into an alley. He was on his way to double around and cut off the flight of the man whom Cardona and the detectives had chased. Once again, The Shadow’s plan was balked. Lights were showing from the end of the short alley. Shouts were rising.
Police had arrived. Evidently they had been informed of the first gun play and had come to investigate. The later shots had given them the exact location. The Shadow glided into darkness as uniformed men rushed past him and pounded at the door through which he had come.
Then, with amazing swiftness, The Shadow passed through the alley. His phantom form was but momentarily visible as it flitted along the rear street.
It was too late now to forestall the man who had gone toward the front street by way of the window. The police were on the job; it was their task to catch him if they could.
HALF an hour later, Lamont Cranston appeared in the reading room of the Cobalt Club. Tall, calm of demeanor, he appeared to have been in the place all evening. There was nothing in his manner that linked him with the episode that he had just experienced in his guise as The Shadow.
Wearing the physiognomy of the multimillionaire, The Shadow sat in meditation. Tonight, he had experienced one of the oddest situations of his strange career. He was assembling mental facts to gain the answer.
At the time The Shadow had left his observation post, Compton Salwood had been alive. The Shadow had been forced to battle mobsters. He had entered Salwood’s office to find the man dead. He had admitted Joe Cardona, the detective who had come to talk with Salwood.
What of the man who had lurked in the front shop? What part had he played? Had he gained the office and returned while The Shadow had battled with the mob? Had he decided to escape by the front because some one was buzzing for entrance through the rear?
Compton Salwood was dead; only one man of all the mobster crew could have killed him. That man had managed to escape The Shadow’s vigilance.
There were perplexing points about this episode. They were puzzling even to The Shadow. Yet in his mental calculations, this fighter who wore the guise of Lamont Cranston was considering the time element involved. His keen brain was picturing all possibilities.
Another half an hour passed before club members saw Lamont Cranston arise and stroll from the reading room. Outside the Cobalt Club, the tall millionaire entered his waiting limousine. At his order, Stanley headed the car for the Holland Tunnel.