Alone, however, he had no reason for disguise; unless the hideous make-up of his visage could have been a disguise, itself. It could well be one, for Gaspard Zemba had an iron hold on Paris’s crookdom; and he was in a district where thugs were certainly present. Such men would show respect for evil; a leader whose face was livid with a gloat would be the sort to gain their vicious loyalty.
Whatever thoughts gripped Zemba at this unexpected meeting with The Shadow, the supercrook did not give facial indication. His distorted countenance remained the same. His glare merely stiffened as his eyes met the burning gaze of The Shadow.
To Zemba, this being who obstructed his path was a living shape of blackness. The master rogue, however, had heard of this superfoe. Rigid, he snarled his recognition.
“L’Ombre!”
An automatic loomed directly before Zemba’s eyes. A whispered voice commanded him to turn about. Slowly, Zemba’s arms came up; the bundle that he carried went plopping to the sidewalk. Obeying The Shadow’s command, the crook turned toward the corner, ready for the march to The Shadow’s taxi.
Zemba’s own cab was on the move, pulling away from the glow of the lamplight, the driver oblivious to his passenger’s fate. The Shadow, stepping side wise was blending back into darkness, when a sudden cry came from across the street.
The moving of the taxi had cleared the way to a view that The Shadow had not gained. Lurking on the other side of the alleyway, a pair of sweatered thugs had also profited by the outward move of the cab. Luck was with them, they chanced to spy The Shadow. With the motion of that blackened form, they caught a glimpse of Zemba’s upraised left hand. They saw the space where a finger should have been, for Zemba’s hand was outlined against the blackness of the building wall.
THE SHADOW half turned at the shout. His left hand jabbed its gun muzzle into Zemba’s back; his right whipped out a second automatic. The Shadow glimpsed the challengers; he knew them for Apaches, the sort who frequented this section. As the rogues opened fire with revolvers, The Shadow stabbed answering shots from his automatic.
The big .45 was perfect in its aim. The Shadow clipped the Apaches while they fired wide. But while their figures sprawled, he knew that another attack could be expected. Shoving Zemba to the wall, The Shadow turned toward the steps that led up from the basement of the building close beside him.
He knew what lay beneath those steps: a hidden caveau, a den held by Apaches. That cave had been Zemba’s goal. These shots in the street would bring new fighters. A door pounded open. The Shadow saw leering faces framed in a dim light. He issued a challenge; a mocking laugh that halted Zemba’s would-be rescuers.
For the moment, The Shadow held the upper hand. One gun was ready for downward fire; the other covering Zemba. If no other interference came, The Shadow’s cause would be won. But such luck was not in the making. There were other lurkers, in alleyways close by. As if by a signal, they appeared to open battle.
Wild yells. Quick shots. Even Zemba’s cab had stopped; its driver had leaped to the street and was aiming a glistening revolver. A man came plunging squarely across the street, a sweatered attacker with a long-bladed knife, diving directly for The Shadow’s right hand, the one which at present covered Zemba.
The Shadow blasted into action. His automatics stabbed long tongues of flame. The Apache with the knife received the first bullet from The Shadow’s right. He had arrived in time to block the shot at Zemba. The man dropped his blade. Clawing wildly, he jolted The Shadow’s aim while Zemba made a mad dash from the wall, out to the safety of the street.
Apaches were firing up from below; but The Shadow’s right hand was already aimed toward them. With his wrist moving sidewise, he was pumping bullets into the ranks of excited foemen. Apaches were wild in their hurried aim. They sprawled in their pit. The man who had gripped The Shadow went slumping to the pavement.
Though momentarily the victor, The Shadow stood alone, with foemen everywhere about. Apaches were aiming for their shrouded target. Zemba had wheeled when he reached the stalled taxi.
The driver was grabbing up the crook’s package, carrying it to the cab; while Zemba, snarling an order to all about him, was aiming for The Shadow with a revolver of his own.
There was only one course; and The Shadow took it. With the first burst of hostile guns, he faded into a sprawling dive. Shouting Apaches thought that they had clipped their lone adversary. They were wrong.
Resorting to the unexpected, The Shadow had deliberately chosen a path to safety. His dive carried him directly down the flight of steps into the Apaches’ den.
The Shadow had already dropped three enemies who had lain in that ambush. Others had fallen back; then surged out to new battle. The Shadow’s plunge came just as they arrived. Before a new trio of would-be killers could fire a shot, The Shadow was upon them. Sprawling beneath the weight of his driving body, they tried vainly to jab their guns against their cloaked opponent.
His fall broken, The Shadow again held the advantage. Saving bullets, he was dealing flaying strokes with his automatics. Apaches thudded at the foot of the stone steps. The Shadow sprang up to the level of the sidewalk and thrust his guns above the topmost steps, to meet all comers.
Oddly, revolvers were still crackling above. As The Shadow bobbed his head into view, he saw an Apache spin about, then sprawl in the center of the narrow street. Zemba and the others had wheeled about. They were leaving The Shadow to the men below; for they had encountered another unexpected adversary.
IT was the man who had seen The Shadow pass the corner. He had watched proceedings. Creeping up, he had opened battle at the moment of The Shadow’s dive. The Shadow caught a glimpse of him, a huddled, quick-darting marksman, who paused every other instant to jab quick revolver shots at Zemba and the Apaches.
Guns were training on that valiant fighter. This time, it was The Shadow who blasted an interruption. His automatics boomed. Crooks began to topple. They wheeled again toward the steps. The man at the corner rallied to The Shadow’s aid. Apaches went scurrying for cover, fleeing from the field like rats.
The Shadow turned to deal with Zemba. The scowling crook had guessed that the move was coming. He had nearly-emptied his revolver; and the top of The Shadow’s hat was too difficult a target. Zemba, too, had urge for flight, once his followers had deserted. He was diving into the cab when The Shadow spied him. The taxi shot away along the narrow street.
The Shadow leaped out from cover. He fired quick shots toward the departing cab. One clipped a tire. The taxi keeled and the driver came tumbling to the street. The man from the corner was thudding after him; but it was too late to stop Zemba. The master crook had dived from the other side of the cab, to scurry away behind the corner.
The Shadow saw the lone invader who had aided him. The man was plunging toward the taxi driver, who in turn was diving for cover. Then came shrill whistles. The running man stopped short; then dived off through an alleyway at the left. Up by the corner, a pair of uniformed agents came charging into view.
The taximan unwisely opened fire. The agents stopped and riddled him with bullets. Another whistle sounded from a second quarter. New agents came bobbing from an alleyway. The Shadow turned swiftly and hurried back to the corner from which he had originally come.
Passing along the narrow way that his taxi driver had termed “a street of death,” The Shadow reached the next thoroughfare. There he found the driver waiting with the cab. Looming suddenly into lamplight, The Shadow sprang aboard and delivered a whispered command. Teeth chattering, the driver shot the cab forward, bound to a new destination.