The Shadow's Shadow s-23

by Maxwell Grant

  Was The Shadow mixed in the death of Dobie Wentz?

  ZIPPER had often heard mention of The Shadow. Well did he know the threat that the master of the night swung over the denizens of the underworld.

  The Shadow!

  Zipper had been informed that The Shadow could do anything. The Shadow was even reputed to be a master at opening safes.

  Was The Shadow a crook, himself—a lone wolf of crime? Zipper had heard that supposition. If it were true Zipper must regard The Shadow as a rival. As the king of all New York safe-crackers, Zipper could expect trouble from The Shadow.

  A coarse laugh came from Zipper's lips as he placed his fingers against the dial before him. The Shadow!

  Why fear him? The Shadow fought the greatest of mobsmen, not skulking rats like Dobie Wentz.

  When the small fry suffered doom at The Shadow's hands it was when they tried to protect the big shots; not when they were out to double-cross. Dobie Wentz was a double-crosser—too pitiful a figure to gain more than The Shadow's scorn.

  Zipper resumed his work; then paused as he heard a foreign sound. He recognized it in an instant—the chime of a clock telling the half hour. He had consumed thirty minutes in his work of opening the safe, for it was now half past two.

  Zipper turned to his job with new ardor, forgetful of all else. He was anxious to make this a half-hour proposition. He succeeded.

  Within a minute, the door of the safe loosened at his touch. Zipper opened the steel barrier. It moved silently on its heavy pivot hinges. The light of the table lamp showed the interior. Zipper reached forward and began a thorough inspection.

  Jewels! Here they were, packed in special boxes. Zipper laughed as he saw the sparkling gems. He laid the boxes, intact, upon the carpeted floor beside him.

  Now came documents. These appeared to be negotiable securities. Any items that seemed to have value were of intrinsic interest to Zipper Marsh.

  In the safe, Zipper discovered an empty metal box. He removed it, and padded it with a stack of bonds.

  Upon these he dumped the contents of the jewel boxes.

  He added more paper. He bent forward to continue the rifling of the big safe, but his shrewd glance showed him that the work was now complete.

  A good haul, thought Zipper, as he carefully wiped the jewel boxes and replaced them, empty, in the safe. He closed the heavy door, and the lamplight glistened upon it once again.

  With his silk handkerchief, Zipper polished off the surface of the door and the knob. No telltale finger prints would remain as evidence of to-night's operations.

  WHILE Zipper was engaged in this last bit of precaution, the metal box that contained the spoils was lying within three inches of his right knee. Finishing the shining touches on the safe, Zipper used his left hand and let his right drop to his side. His fingers grazed the cold top of the metal box.

  The gangster raised his right hand as though about to take the silken rag. Then he changed his mind and let his hand fall.

  Where it had rested upon the metal box a moment before, it now touched nothing!

  It was only a flash of sudden warning—one of those rare, untraceable impulses that made Zipper note the fact his hand had encountered emptiness where it should have met solidity. Acting upon quick thought, Zipper turned and stared directly at the spot where the box had been.

  A startled cry came from Zipper's lips. Scarcely more than a fierce gasp, that sound reflected the consternation that had struck the cracksman's brain.

  The metal box was no longer where Zipper had laid it! Instead, it was several feet away, rising slowly in the air, within the grasp of a black-gloved hand!

  Beyond that hand and its attached arm, just out of range of the lamplight's circled glow, was a solid patch of blackness that loomed above the floor. Raising his gaze upward, Zipper saw the flash of two sharp eyes that peered toward him like creatures of the outer darkness.

  There was no time for action. Zipper was helpless. In one brief instant, he knew all. He had planned this job, he had opened the safe, he had taken the spoils—only to be thwarted by a ghostly hand that had come from nowhere!

  Zipper Marsh sank back, snarling, his body quivering with fear. For in that flash of enlightenment, he had automatically guessed the identity of the strange being who had emerged to clutch the ill-gotten gains.

  He realized now that when he had entered this room, to carefully arrange the table lamp before employing it, he had overlooked the important detail of making a thorough inspection of the premises.

  Some one had guessed his game. Some one had come here before him. Some one had lain beyond the fringe of light. Some one had been watching!

  A master hand had foiled Zipper Marsh to-night; had outguessed him; had used him, and now held him within its power. It was the hand of some one whom Zipper feared.

  That some one was The Shadow!

  CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW FIGHTS

  BEFORE Zipper Marsh could make a single move, before he had been able to do more than discern the bulking shape that stood before him, The Shadow acted in a manner that left no doubt regarding his identity.

  The rays of a powerful, narrow-circled flashlight sprang from the spot where The Shadow stood.

  Cowering before that glare, Zipper Marsh was helpless. The glow of the lamp on the floor seemed insignificant when compared with the sharp rays that were directed toward the gangster.

  Zipper made no attempt to act. Well did he know that behind that light a hand was covering him with a deadly weapon. He was at The Shadow's mercy, and a single miscue would mean his death.

  Zipper trembled. He knew well The Shadow's repute. Never had The Shadow compromised. Never had he asked quarter of the underworld; and the underworld asked none of him. Those who had faced The Shadow were many; those who had remained to tell their story were strangely lacking.

  Now came a whispered voice that cleaved the gloom. The sinister tones of The Shadow were commanding. Zipper understood them perfectly.

  "Stand up!" The Shadow ordered. "Back into the corner. Hands above your head."

  Zipper obeyed. Fuming, despite his fear, he was the portrayal of a cornered rat as he moved in response to The Shadow's bidding. Facing the glaring torch of The Shadow, Zipper realized full well the futility of his carefully adopted precautions.

  It was only as seconds dragged slowly by that the shrewd cracksman suddenly realized that he had unwittingly managed to interfere with The Shadow's plans. The invisible being had obviously entered here beforehand, with the intention of secretly taking the spoils that Zipper might remove from the safe.

  Had The Shadow gained a few minutes' leeway before Zipper noted that the metal box was gone, those minutes would have proven vitally precious. In them, The Shadow could have attempted the difficult task of passing the guards outside the room before Zipper discovered the absence of the box.

  Now, The Shadow, like Zipper, was in an unenviable position. He had two logical courses ahead of him.

  One was to attempt a rapid escape, leaving Zipper in the corner. That would be difficult. As soon as The Shadow had started into the cordon of guards, Zipper would cry out the warning.

  The other course was to kill Zipper where he stood. That, in itself, would be an alarm. The noise of a pistol shot would bring in all the gangsters who were guarding beyond the door. The Shadow would encounter a mass attack.

  Despite his precarious position, Zipper allowed a writhing sneer to increase the ugliness of his sordid lips.

  The Shadow, too, was boxed. The fact that each succeeding second brought no new action was proof of that single fact.

  THE only motion on the part of The Shadow was the movement of the electric torch that held Zipper bathed in a circle of light. The glare wavered, moving up and down; then stopped to hold itself in one definite spot scarcely eight feet from the cringing gangster.

  Five seconds—ten seconds—still the glare was unyielding. The Shadow spoke no word. Zipper decided that he was still deliberating.<
br />
  It was then that a sudden, wildly hopeless plan suggested itself to the gangster's fear-ridden brain.

  To escape, The Shadow must kill. Zipper, alive, would be a menace behind him, acting the moment that The Shadow might withdraw. To kill by a revolver shot, The Shadow would give a certain alarm. There was only one alternate course that suggested itself to Zipper.

  The Shadow—Zipper was sure—had decided to kill the man before him, but he would do it by a surprise attack, striking silently from the dark!

  That was the game! Any moment now, The Shadow might leap forward, to down his quarry before Zipper could respond.

  How could such an attack be stopped? Only by a previous attack on the part of Zipper himself!

  Hopeless though it was, that plan on his own part could be the only way whereby Zipper had a chance to live. Seized by sudden impulse, the cracksman uttered a fiendish shout to allay his own dread. As he shouted, he pounced forward, directly toward the glaring light!

  Instead of encountering a resisting, human body, Zipper landed forcibly against an object that overturned and sent him sprawling on the floor, the flashlight bounding a few feet away from him.

  The fraction of a second later, the ceiling lights of the room came on, in response to an outside switch in the adjoining room. Some henchman, stationed by the switch, had heard Zipper's cry.

  In the new light, Zipper saw what had happened. The still glowing flashlight was equipped with a metal clamp. The Shadow had attached it to the back of a chair. Silently, the mysterious being of the dark had moved away, leaving Zipper convinced that the torch still rested in a black-gloved hand.

  It was the chair that Zipper had encountered. The force of his spring had sent it scudding. Here he was on the floor, half bewildered, staring toward the door that led to the outer room.

  That door was partly opened. Wedged nearly through the space was a shape of black. The Shadow was passing into the outer room, using his cloak to cover every inch of space that he had opened to let his tall form through, thus preventing men outside from knowing, by the light, that the door had opened.

  Only a portion of The Shadow's form was visible to Zipper, for the black shape was nearly through the door. But to the alarmed gangsters at the further door of the outer room, The Shadow was an approaching menace. The man at the switch had performed a double function. He had pressed two knobs, and had illuminated both the inner and the outer rooms.

  There, directly before them, three of Zipper's henchmen saw The Shadow. Both his hands had passed the barrier. They saw nothing of the metal box, for that had been hooked beneath The Shadow's cloak.

  They recognized The Shadow as their enemy. Revolvers were in their hands. They raised their weapons to wipe out this personage whom they detested as greatly as they feared him.

  NO one ever caught The Shadow totally unready. Although he had been feeling his way through the dark, The Shadow was prepared. Dark metal glinted in his right hand as he brought his automatic into play.

  With instinctive skill, he chose as his target the gangster whose aim outled the others. A spurt of flame—a cannonlike roar—the first of the three henchmen sprawled headlong on the floor.

  With swinging aim, The Shadow delivered a second bullet. Another gangster plunged forward; his glistening revolver hurtled across the room impelled by the upward swing of a hand that suddenly lost its muscular functions.

  Split seconds separated the first two shots; another fraction of time heralded the third. This was directed at the man farthest away— the one who controlled the light switch. He, like his fallen comrades, was bringing a revolver into play; and he possessed an advantage that had not been theirs.

  His gun was pointing toward The Shadow, his finger was upon the trigger. Rapid though the fire of The Shadow had been, the last of the trio had aimed while The Shadow's automatic was still swinging toward him.

  At the precise instant that the gangster fired toward The Shadow's form, the black-clad shape dropped backward into the inner room. The gangster's bullet smashed against the door, striking the very spot where The Shadow had been.

  Then came a flashing response. In falling away, The Shadow had continued his aim. His body wholly within the inner room, he shot from the very edge of the doorway. The foiled gangster staggered, clutched his left shoulder, and slumped to the floor.

  To Zipper Marsh, sprawled on the floor of the inner room, the quick succession of shots came with unexpected suddenness. They had begun the moment that he had viewed the form of The Shadow halfway through the door. He saw The Shadow's backward step, and caught the flash of the final shot.

  Rolling over and drawing himself to his knees, Zipper uttered a venomous cry as he whisked a revolver from his pocket and aimed it at the man within the door.

  The Shadow had expected this. Timing all his actions with uncanny precision, the black-cloaked battler had reentered the inner room with full assurance that Zipper would be the least prepared of all his foemen.

  The Shadow's backward step, his steady hand moving away from the third gangster as it fired—both were the beginning of a conscious action. The Shadow swung inward, turning directly toward the spot where Zipper, crouching, sought to fire.

  The safe-cracker might have rivaled The Shadow in safe-opening; as a marksman, quick on aim and swift with the trigger, he was no match.

  The automatic blazed its fourth message of terror. Zipper wavered. His sneer turned to a hideous leer.

  The revolver fell from his nerveless fingers, flipping as it fell. Then Zipper's body tottered forward and rolled sidewise.

  So sure was The Shadow of his ability that he did not wait to see the fate that his bullet had delivered.

  Sensing that new dangers lay ahead, he sprang forward to meet them, following the only path that led to safety—across the outer room to the hall on the second floor.

  The striding, black-clad figure came to an abrupt stop as it reached the farther door. Coming from the opposite direction was a man who had headed up the stairs.

  The two sighted each other simultaneously. One gun flashed—The Shadow's. Delivered at close range, the bullet found the heart of the gangster who had sought to block The Shadow's path.

  Now, at the head of the stairs, The Shadow stood cold and sinister, his form no more than a darkish outline in the gloom beyond the sphere of light that he had left. Like a huge phantom, he wavered back and forth, affording an elusive target for any who might be waiting. A gun flashed from the first floor; then another from a different spot.

  The Shadow, now wielding two automatics, responded. He had outwitted his enemies. The waiting gangsters had fired first, and both of them had missed their mark.

  Their shots had betrayed their positions. The Shadow needed no more. His bullets sped through the dark to their now-hidden targets. Screams of anguish followed from below.

  Now came The Shadow's triumph cry—a mocking laugh that rang out in ghoulish tones while sullen echoes awakened to hurl back the taunting cry. That laugh accompanied The Shadow as he sped down the stairs, a fleeting form of inky hue. A few moments later, he stood upon the porch above the foggy lawn, his burning eyes seeking new targets for his deadly aim.

  A man came hurrying from a clump of bushes. The Shadow never moved. Like a shade of night, he stood beside a post, invisible to the other man until the fellow came full upon him.

  The gangster's startled gasp died as The Shadow's right hand delivered a stunning blow. The force of the hand that swung the steel automatic was timed to perfection.

  A second later, The Shadow was a moving shape upon the lawn, while the huddled form of his last opponent lay upon the porch.

  A parked automobile stood in the obscurity of the driveway. One man was standing beside the car; another was at the wheel. The motor of the machine was throbbing softly.

  "What about it?" growled the man at the wheel. "Think we'd better go inside?"

  "Stay here," was the response. "If Zipper's in a jam, he'll need us; he'
s got to make a get-away -"

  The sentence was not completed. The man beside the car toppled forward as something crashed against his skull. Before his companion could do more than utter a surprised exclamation, a tall, dark figure sprang from the mist and gripped him by the throat. With waving arms, the gangster-chauffeur struggled wildly; then his body was hoisted from behind the wheel as though lifted by a derrick.

  The Shadow, by a swift surprise attack, had stunned the first of the two who were waiting for Zipper Marsh; now he held the second of these mobsters within his grasp.

  After he had pulled his victim from the car, The Shadow lost no further time. His tall form whirled, and the ex-chauffeur shot through the air as though propelled by a catapult. He struck the edge of the drive headforemost. His body somersaulted and lay still.

  Again, The Shadow laughed; this time the sound of his sinister mockery seemed stifled by the fog. A being whose very existence seemed incredible, The Shadow might have been materialized from the fog itself. Silent, tall, and indomitable, he remained for a few brief seconds at the scene of his latest triumph over men of the underworld.

  Inspired by new impulse, The Shadow turned directly toward the car. There, he took the place of the man whom he had just ejected. Behind the wheel, his very form became invisible. The automobile moved forward under the guidance of his unseen hands.

  The lights of the car flashed on as the vehicle sped along the driveway toward the road beyond. A tone of shuddering mirth marked the departure of The Shadow!

  CHAPTER VIII. INTO THE NIGHT

  THE car which The Shadow had appropriated was a trim, four-passenger coupe, ideally suited for the purpose required by Zipper Marsh. It was not a speedy vehicle, and for that very reason it was adapted to an unsuspicious get-away. As it rolled from the driveway by Adolph Grayson's home, its lack of haste added to its innocent appearance.

  But those who viewed the departure of the car were not deceived. A sedan filled with listening men had heard the muffled shots preceding The Shadow's quiet get-away. They had hoped to hear such shots, but they were puzzled by the silence which now existed.