As the first gangster came through the doorway, a shot at close range felled him. The other two turned as The Shadow sprang upon them. The first man dropped as The Shadow fired. The other dropped also, unwounded, falling instinctively to take advantage of the protection afforded by the body in front of him.
A revolver flashed upward to deliver a shot at that sweeping apparition.
The Shadow was too quick. In a mighty forward plunge, he cleared the body that lay between him and his enemy. A long, black arm, striking downward, knocked the revolver from the gangster's hand, metal clanking as the automatic hit the other weapon.
With a foul oath, the gangster grappled with his foe. Two forms sprawled upon the floor, away from the door. Then a long arm shot out and aimed its automatic directly into the other room—Mann's outer office.
THE quick eyes of The Shadow had caught a glimpse of a fleeing man - Squint Freston. The evil little gangster had heard the shots. He knew what was happening.
He had run out from Mann's inner office. Seeing the struggle on the floor, he was raising his revolver to make an end to The Shadow—even if such an action meant that he must kill his comrade also.
Now the automatic intervened. The Shadow's finger pressed the trigger as his hand aimed at Squint's heart.
Chance intervened to save the little gangster. The man struggling with The Shadow pressed against the black-clad arm. The automatic barked; the bullet seared Squint's wrist close to the butt of the revolver that was held in the gangster's hand.
With a frightened cry, Squint lost his grasp on the weapon. He dived for the door of the outer office.
Once again, The Shadow fired. The struggle of The Shadow's antagonist again saved Squint. The bullet from the automatic missed the fleeing form of Squint by the fraction of an inch.
Now, with the free gangster gone, The Shadow gripped the man who was seeking to overpower him.
The strugglers no longer remained upon the floor. They were rising upward, The Shadow providing motive power.
In the gloomy light, the body of the struggling gangster hung poised as though in space. The man was helpless in the grip of the seemingly invisible shape that held him.
Try as he would, the gangster could not grip the man below. His arms and hands waved wildly. The Shadow poised; then, with terrific power cast his enemy from him. The gunman's body whirled in air as it traveled across the room. It crashed upon a chair, smashing the piece of furniture against the wall. The body, itself, rebounded from the wall and rolled over and over as it reached the floor.
The Shadow stood silent, his glowing eyes surveying the body that lay a full ten feet away. The man who had begun the struggle did not move. The force of that terrible fling was as damaging as a bullet from The Shadow's deadly automatic.
Long minutes had passed since the beginning of the conflict. The building was not yet emptied of late workers. When The Shadow reached the hall, the sound of shouting voices indicated clearly the excitement that the pistol shots had caused.
Again, the odd contour of the corridor served The Shadow well. His tall form blended with darkness as two uniformed policemen came dashing past.
The Shadow went on. His figure showed near the elevator shaft, where a car was waiting, the operator leaning from the door, staring in the direction that the officers had taken. He did not see the long splotch upon the floor as the shape of The Shadow followed that weird silhouette.
The operator's first knowledge that a living being was close by came when long arms gripped him and sent him sprawling from the car, unable to catch a glimpse of the man who had attacked him.
By the time the operator managed to get to his feet, he saw the steel doors closing at the elevator shaft.
He uttered a startled cry; then stood helplessly as he observed the dial above the doors. The elevator was moving down to the ground floor.
A POLICEMAN was waiting in the lobby. He was not watching the elevator dial. The doors of the car opened slowly. The officer was not conscious of the sound until these barriers had reached their full width, when they clanged slightly. The policeman turned and looked into the car.
It was empty!
Vaguely, the watcher stared about the lobby of the building. He saw no one. He did not observe a shadow that had merged itself in an obscure corner— all that remained in view of a tall figure that had slipped through the opening elevator doors. Perplexed, the officer entered the elevator and started upward to learn what had happened to the operator.
The tall shape of The Shadow moved toward the passage to the street. It stopped and returned to darkness. A cowering creature was coming down the steps from the second floor, cautiously looking about him.
It was Squint Freston, who had chosen this method of escape. Seeing no one, the little gangster slouched toward the door and reached Broadway, where he huddled himself among the passing crowd.
The Grandville Building was near a corner, and Squint made quickly for the dark obscurity of a side street. Here he discovered a drug store, with a row of phone booths located just within the door. He slipped into the nearest booth.
Had Squint suspected that The Shadow was near, he would have dropped helpless from fright. Yet The Shadow was there—less than three feet from the gangster. The tall, black-cloaked being had picked up Squint's trail, and had kept close behind him. Now, The Shadow was in the phone booth next to the one which Squint was using.
Squint dropped a nickel in the slot and dialed a number. The clicks of the turning dial were clearly audible in the next booth. The eyes of The Shadow were upon the dial of the phone before him; his hand was busy in the dark, making notations which resolved themselves into a telephone number.
"Hello," said Squint, in a low tone which The Shadow heard. "That you, Gats?... Say—he got into the office... Yes... No, we didn't get him, least I don't think so... Well, I nearly plugged him, and he may be up there yet... The rest of the crowd? They musta got the works... No, they can't squawk; they don't know nothin'; I'm the only guy knows where you are.
"No, I'm safe. Got away from the coppers. I'm goin' to lay low where I am for a while. I don't want to run into that guy again... Say, have you given those stools the works? No? They're goin' to get it soon?
All right, Gats... Sure thing, I'll scram."
Squint hung up the receiver. He sauntered from the telephone booth and joined the crowd at the soda fountain. The protection of a crowd felt good to Squint, after that encounter with The Shadow.
DESPITE the fact that Squint must know the location of the place where he had called, The Shadow made no move in the direction of the little gangster. His own hand was dialing a number. The voice of Burbank came across the wire.
In a low, whispered tone, The Shadow gave the telephone number that he had learned by listening to the clicks of Squint's dial.
"Westbar six—three—four—nine—seven"—the tones were deliberate and clear—"give location immediately."
"Immediately," responded Burbank.
A short interval followed. Somewhere, in the secret spot where he was located, Burbank was consulting a special telephone book which listed numbers in rotation, with the names as information. The task was performed with promptness.
"Pay station," announced Burbank. "Located at Spica Garage."
"Location," whispered The Shadow.
Burbank gave an address on Tenth Avenue. The Shadow uttered a short response. His hand hung up the receiver. The door of the telephone booth opened softly.
Three minutes later, a taxicab driver, stopped by Broadway traffic, was surprised to hear a voice speaking from the back seat. A hand, reaching through the window, thrust a ten-dollar bill in the driver's hand as the voice announced an address.
The driver made no comment. He had believed that his cab was empty. Ordinarily, he might have challenged the unexpected passenger how and where he had entered. But the ten-dollar bill was sufficient reason to avoid an argument.
Traffic was clearing. The cab shot for
ward.
A minute later, a speeding taxi was traveling like mad toward Tenth Avenue, carrying one passenger, whose shape remained invisible in the back seat.
The Shadow was riding to a new adventure!
CHAPTER XVII. THE ORDEAL
A GROUP of men were assembled in a stone-walled room. Before them were two prisoners. Harry Vincent and Rutledge Mann, bound with sturdy cords, were in the power of Gats Hackett.
The chunky gang leader was master of the situation. The men about him—a full dozen in number—were the members of his brutal mob.
With lips that punctuated his sentences by oaths, Gats was speaking in demanding tones. The two men before him were silent and obdurate. When forced to replies, they made them briefly. The grilling instituted by Gats had been futile so far.
"So you don't know who The Shadow is, eh?" questioned Gats. "Well, I'll make you know—you rats!
The Shadow's stools; and yet you don't know who he is! A great guy, eh, The Shadow? Holler for him now. See where it gets you!"
Gats turned to his supporters. His words had brought evil leers to their toughened faces. In the midst of this approval, Gats turned again to the prisoners before him.
Harry Vincent and Rutledge Mann afforded a striking contrast. Harry had long been an active agent of The Shadow. Time and again, he had encountered situations such as this. Now, his mind was filled with recollections of the past; how The Shadow had intervened in the face of tremendous dangers, to effect an amazing rescue of his faithful operative.
But to Rutledge Mann, this was a new experience. His work for The Shadow had been of a passive sort.
He had never believed that he would encounter a situation like this.
Harry Vincent glanced toward his companion. He saw that Mann's face was pale; yet that full countenance possessed a firmness that brought new courage to Harry's heart.
Rutledge Mann was bearing up. Like Harry, he would die before he would tell what he knew about The Shadow!
"So you guys know nothing, eh?" quizzed Gats. "Well, it's time you did know something! So I'll let you in on it. The Shadow has got his! What do you think of that? Up in your office, Mann—that's where he took it on the chin. I had my gang laying for him, and they bumped him off."
These words were well calculated. First, they were spoken to give Gats, himself, new courage. Five minutes ago, he had left these close-mouthed prisoners to answer a phone call from Squint Freston.
From that message, he had learned that The Shadow was still at large. That had been discouraging news.
Again, Gats was thinking of his men. He had told them that these prisoners were agents of The Shadow.
The fact had made them worry. To let them believe that The Shadow had been blotted out was, indeed, a wise policy.
The proof of this belief was indicated by grunts of approval from the gangsters who heard Gats Hackett's statement.
Lastly, Gats felt sure that his expression of self-confidence would convince Vincent and Mann that their own lives could be saved by speaking; now that The Shadow was supposedly dead, they would surely talk.
Harry Vincent, however, was not deceived. He threw a warning look toward Rutledge Mann. He realized then that the glance was unnecessary. The investment broker, too, knew that Gats Hackett was lying.
SEEING that his words had failed of their final effect, Gats became sullen. The knowledge that The Shadow was at large was disturbing; still, he was confident that The Shadow could not know where his men were prisoners.
This underground den was located beneath an old garage. It had been an unknown hideout of the notorious mob known as the Hudson Dusters, and Gats had fitted it up for his own purposes.
Nevertheless, he felt that there was no use waiting longer before he came to the climax of his endeavors to make these cold-faced prisoners speak. Gats was an ingenious man for a mobster; and it had long been his desire to test a method of ordeal which would produce remarkable results.
He surveyed Vincent and Mann. His plan required different treatment for each one. He wanted to choose the proper subjects. Gats grinned as he compared the two.
"You, handsome," he said to Harry, "you're the guy that knows the most about The Shadow. Well, we'll make you squeal. How do you like that?"
Gats paused; then turned toward Mann. He laughed as he saw the frigid expression of the investment broker's face.
"You, fatty," he remarked, "you'll squeal, too—not to me, maybe, but to this pal of yours. I've had enough of foolishness. We'll give you the real works this time!"
Gats spoke to a pair of mobsmen, and the two gangsters became immediately active.
The room in which the ordeal was taking place was lighted by one huge incandescent. The helping henchmen went out into the edges of darkness, and came back, dragging an upright rack that stood some six feet in height.
The purpose of this instrument was obvious. It formed a crude guillotine, with a sharp-edged cleaver suspended above a slotted pillory. Two wooden channels marked the path down which the blade would fall when released.
Gats ordered a demonstration. He pressed a lever, and the blade dropped. It sped through the pillory, and stopped with a heavy thud.
Any object placed within that pillory would have been demolished by the falling cleaver, which was a huge, broad-edged device.
"Put fatty in it," ordered Gats, with a malicious laugh.
The guillotine was dragged to the center of the stone-walled room. Mobsmen affixed it to clamps that projected from the floor.
They pulled Mann from the wall and stretched him, face upward, with his head through the pillory, the upper part of which was raised momentarily. When the pillory was clamped down, it held a tight grip on the neck of The Shadow's agent.
"That's right," mocked Gats. "Keep looking upward. That's the idea. You'll see plenty if you keep watching."
He made a motion toward Harry Vincent. Mobsmen dragged Harry forward.
Directly opposite the guillotine were rings that protruded from the wall. Harry was placed against these.
The cords that bound him were cut. Harry offered no resistance; that would have been hopeless.
His body and his legs were now bound by straps to the wall. The body strap was slightly looser. A gangster gave Harry a push; he found himself leaning forward, staring down into the face of Rutledge Mann.
The two men gazed at each other with firm, set expressions. They were determined not to yield, no matter what might occur.
The position of Harry's arms made it impossible for him to reach the guillotine; but now Gats placed a chair close by Harry's right hand. Unconsciously, Harry tried to reach it. His fingers just failed. Gats Hackett laughed.
"Right where I want it," he sneered.
Upon the chair, Gats placed a flat block of wood, upon which was clamped a clock marked in sections.
The block also held a box of small proportions, topped by an electric switch.
"See that?" questioned Gats. "I'm going to explain it to you."
The gang leader made an attachment between the box and the lever that controlled the guillotine. Harry shuddered as Gats toyed with the release. A slip would mean the death of Rutledge Mann.
"Here's the way it works," explained Gats, with an ugly chuckle. "When I press that switch, she's all set.
Twelve minutes to go; then the big knife plops. Great idea—I got it from a chink, who used it in the tong wars.
"You can't quite reach it, handsome. Try all you want; but you can't. When the twelve minutes are up, down will come the knife, and fatty here will get it in the neck.
"So keep watching fatty, handsome. He'll be squealing like a rat, and you won't be able to help him except by squawking to me. He'll holler to you, and when the going gets too tough, you yell to me that you'll tell all you know about The Shadow. If you don't tell after you squawk—well, fatty will get it in the neck anyway."
Gats made a motion to the gangsters. They walked away. Harry watched them. They closed a me
tal grille about fifteen feet from the guillotine. All the gangsters but one stood beyond; that particular mobster remained with Gats.
The leader walked in the other direction, followed by the one remaining henchman. Another grilled door began to close. Gats laughed. He returned and pressed the electric switch from right to left. The clockwork began to operate. Gats walked to the closing grille and joined his one companion.
THE openwork door closed. Harry Vincent and Rutledge Mann were in a cage. Scowling, sordid faces were mocking them like evil demons as they watched this grim scene.
Harry stared down at Rutledge Mann. He saw the look of instinctive dread that clouded his companion's face. Spurred to action, Harry strained at the strap which held his body, in a hopeless effort to reach the electric switch and shove it from left to right. Hard though he tried, he found the task was impossible.
The ordeal was terrific. The hand on the clock dial was moving steadily. One minute had nearly passed.
Harry, with beads of sweat forming on his brow, looked again at Mann.
"I can't let it go!" gasped Harry. "I can't do it, Mann! I'm going - going —to tell all I know! I—I can't see you take it -"
Mann's head moved slowly in the necklace of the pillory. It was forming a negative rejoinder. His lips framed words that were low, but audible.
"Let it go, Vincent!" he said grimly. "I'll—I'll take it! Let it go— and—don't give in—even—after it falls!"
Harry nodded. Mann's brave spirit was encouraging; yet the ordeal continued. To Harry's fevered brain, this was the most terrible situation that could possibly exist. To see a brave friend die before his eyes!
Harry shut his eyes, but he could not keep them closed. He stared steadily at Mann, who remained as firm as ever. Harry wondered if he could maintain his composure to the end. Then he wondered what would happen after the end!
The thought of Mann's head rolling disembodied on the floor—that very thought was maddening. It was meant to shatter Harry's nerve. Would it succeed? —Harry wondered.
The death clock ticked on. Rutledge Mann's eyes were closed. He was facing death blindly. Harry Vincent strained again, hopelessly trying to reach the switch.
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