It was not the bullet that made him grasp this choice. It was the instinct of the master fighter that was at work. With right arm crippled, with suction cups put away, The Shadow made a wild gesture just before another shot blazed forth. The second bullet was too late to reach the black-cloaked form.
Silently, with a reckless, hopeless swing, The Shadow lost his hold and toppled helplessly backward out into the night. His black cloak swished as it caught the breeze. Downward plunged The Shadow, into the alleyway below!
Chance had played its trickery upon The Shadow. The black phantom of the night had been beaten to the shot! A single bullet and the following threat of a second leaden messenger had sent him hurtling to the depths!
CHAPTER XVII
THE SHADOW’S FLIGHT
THE door of the office opened. In rushed Thibbel. The hard-faced servitor of Wendel Hargate was the man who had shot The Shadow.
Thibbel hurried across the room. He leaped over the forms of the two stunned battlers whose scrimmage had been ended by The Shadow.
Thibbel thrust his head from the open window. He uttered a cry to bring the watchmen from below. He peered into darkness and saw nothing. The mass of huddled blackness below the window was invisible in the gloom.
A shout came from the front end of the alleyway. Thibbel looked in that direction. He called an order. Then his eyes turned downward. Suddenly, Thibbel saw a slowly rising form that had drawn itself up against the wall of the house.
“Get him!” cried Thibbel. “Get him!”
The Shadow was escaping. Despite the fall that he had experienced, he had managed to regain his feet. He surged dizzily along the alleyway; then rolled inward behind a projecting corner just as Thibbel fired.
The servant’s shot clipped stone from the side of the building. It ricocheted and missed the mark that Thibbel sought. A watchman fired blindly, to no avail. The second guard was running up.
Thibbel caught a final glimpse of a tall figure that seemed to hurtle forward with a distorted bound. He fired a moment too late. The figure reached the rear of the house and disappeared from view. The watchmen, coming up together, took up the chase.
Thibbel turned back to the room. Wendel Hargate was rising. He was reaching dazedly for the revolver. He smiled as he saw Thibbel. Picking up the gun, Hargate covered Terry Barliss.
“I’m going down,” volunteered Thibbel. “If there’s any questioning by police, I’ll say we saw a burglar running away from the house.”
With that, the servant hurried to the doorway. Wendel Hargate smiled. He pocketed the revolver, picked up Terry Barliss and carried the young man bodily to a couch in the far corner of the room.
The Shadow’s strategy had missed its end. Terry Barliss was a prisoner, with Wendel Hargate waiting for him to recover his senses. The Shadow was a fugitive, wounded and unable to return. The tables had been turned on the master fighter who wore the garb of black!
IN the alleyway, Thibbel found the watchmen. The shots had not been heard. They had been muffled, seemingly, in this closed area. Thibbel had a flashlight, which he turned upon the paving while the bewildered watchmen stood by. In the light, Thibbel saw a pool of blood.
“Come along!” ordered the hard-faced man who had clipped The Shadow. “We’ll get the guy yet!”
Splashes of blood formed a trail. They led around the house and through a narrow entrance between two other buildings. Thibbel reached the street ahead of the watchmen. The bloody trail led to the right. As Thibbel headed in that direction, a coupe shot away from the curb.
It was too late to fire. The coupe was thirty yards away. Thibbel saw it swerve on a crazy course. Whirling in second gear, the car spun about the nearest corner. Brakes screamed as a taxicab shot onto the sidewalk to avoid a collision.
Thibbel ordered the watchmen to return to the house. He was growling because they had allowed the unknown fighter to escape. Yet he realized that the watchmen were not to blame. Thibbel had seen but momentary glimpses of a staggering figure. His outlook had been from above. Those in the lower darkness had been staring blindly against that gloomy side of the house.
IT was Thibbel’s growled belief that the escaped fighter could not travel far. In this expression, Thibbel was not far from wrong. The coupe was rolling dizzily along the avenue. Slumped on the cushions behind the wheel, his right shoulder oozing thick with blood, The Shadow was steering the car with his left hand.
His tall form seemed limp. Yet in his retreat, he was still fighting, using nerve alone. His right leg was managing the gear shift; his left hand gripped the wheel. His course, though undecided, seemed to be along a definite line.
Blocks rolled by. The coupe passed beneath red traffic signals, heedless of police whistles. It swerved into the darkness of a side street, emerged upon another avenue and sped along with momentarily steadied course. Another mile and the car seemed to twist of its own accord. It rolled down a side street and stopped with two wheels upon the curb.
The Shadow did not stir for a few moments. Then his left hand, still gloved; appeared beneath the tiny glare of the dash light. A piece of paper crinkled. With his fingers, The Shadow managed to inscribe brief sentences of coded words. His hand crumpled the paper into an envelope. The pen dropped to the floor.
Another pen. The Shadow’s weakening fingers wrote an address in ordinary ink. This inscription was a scrawl. The pen fell like the first.
Holding the envelope in his fist, The Shadow managed to open the left door of the coupe. He plunged outward to the street.
For a moment, his form lay prone. Rising with apparent effort, The Shadow limped into darkness. He found an opening between two houses. He staggered through the darkness with no attempt at concealment. He reached another street; there he turned to the right and arrived at the door of a small apartment building.
In the lobby, The Shadow leaned against the wall. No pool of blood now betrayed his course; the right arm, twisted into the cloak; seemed to have gained control of the escaping blood. With his left hand, The Shadow pressed several buttons on the name board.
There was a response. A voice sounded through the little telephone receiver by the names. A clicking sound came from the inner door of the lobby. Some one had thought the signal was from a friend.
The Shadow staggered up the steps, plunged against the door and toppled inward as the clicking lock yielded. He was in a short hallway. Swaying dizzily, he managed to reach a door at the left. On it was a card that read:
DOCTOR RUPERT SAYRE
Laboriously, The Shadow pulled out his black steel pick. He fumbled with the lock, using his left hand only. The work succeeded. The Shadow managed to open the door and stagger into a darkened apartment.
TURNING on a light, The Shadow spied a low-set couch. He managed to close the door; then, with painful effort, dropped his hat, cloak and gloves upon the floor. Two automatics clattered. The Shadow stood in the guise of Lamont Cranston. He was wearing evening clothes; the stiff white shirt front was smeared with blood.
Reaching to a table, The Shadow lifted the receiver of a telephone. When the operator responded, he managed to give a number, in a strained, but quiet voice. A girl’s response sounded, announcing the office of Doctor Rupert Sayre.
“Emergency patient,” stated The Shadow, in Cranston’s modulated tone. “Come at once — Doctor Sayre — to his apartment—”
The receiver fell from the limp hand. The Shadow staggered to the couch. Although his face wore the firm features of Lamont Cranston, its masklike surface was ashen. Keen eyes relaxed; then they spied the envelope which The Shadow had dropped on the floor with his garments.