The Shadow's Shadow s-23

by Maxwell Grant

  "A tip-off!" cried Burke, as he leaped to his feet to follow the detective. "Who's it from, Joe?"

  "You'll find out!" responded Cardona grimly. "You'll find out— maybe."

  That was the last statement Joe Cardona intended to make to any one regarding the identity of the man who had called. For the detective had received those tips before. Well did he know the sound of that spectral voice that he had heard.

  Hot work lay ahead to-night. This squad was going forth on business - not to be misled by a hoax. The ace detective knew that plenty of gun play lay ahead.

  Joe Cardona had recognized the voice of The Shadow!

  CHAPTER XXIV. SMOKE WAGONS

  THE door of the United Diamond Syndicate office fell inward as a powerful drive hurled it from its hinges. A group of gangsters surged into the room. The place was flooded with light as the glare of three powerful torches threw their rays toward the safe.

  "That's it!" screamed the voice of Gats Hackett. "Out of the way, you men -"

  His voice stopped suddenly. From the center of the room came a sinister, mocking laugh. A rising figure was revealed by the glare of the torches.

  Directly within the path of light, a perfect target for the guns of the furious mob, stood the spectral figure of The Shadow!

  There was no time for delay to-night. Trapped by the premature attack that Gats had launched, The Shadow was moving straight into danger.

  A new mission lay ahead of him. His presence was needed elsewhere than in this place. Stealth, surprise—both were discarded by the being in black as he deliberately met his enemies.

  The gangsters saw The Shadow, but he was ready for them. His form was visible; theirs were not. But while the gangsters held revolvers that they could raise, The Shadow's automatics were already up.

  There were no echoes to his sardonic laugh. The reverberations of The Shadow's mirth were drowned in the roar of his .45s as the controlling fingers loosed a stream of lead into the midst of the startled mobsters.

  Bodies thudded to the floor. Gasping oaths spattered from snarling lips that closed to speak no more.

  Shattered flashlights fell useless. With one fierce volley from his recoiling automatics, The Shadow cleared the way. Upon the floor lay the piled-up bodies of Gats Hackett's new band of killers—men who would never slay for their black-hearted chief.

  One shot alone responded to The Shadow's fusillade. It was Squint Freston who fired it. Downed with the others, the wolf-faced gangster had managed to discharge an answering bullet. But the hand that held the revolver was wavering. The single shot went wide.

  Squint rolled sidewise upon the form of another gangster. A ratlike squeal came from his fanged lips. That squeal was Squint Freston's death cry. He had been mortally wounded by a bullet from The Shadow's volley.

  The automatics disappeared beneath The Shadow's cloak. He had used every cartridge. The hands emerged, bringing forth another pair of pistols. With a forward spring, the black-clad figure swept over the mass of bodies that cluttered the doorway to the hall.

  GANGSTERS were running to escape The Shadow's wrath. The few reserves who had been behind were heading for the stairs, around the turn in the corridor.

  With them was the only man who had escaped the volley—the one who had been so anxious to go ahead, but who was now most eager to rush in the opposite direction.

  Gats Hackett, dropping away when he had glimpsed The Shadow, was scurrying to the safety of the street.

  The Shadow was behind them; yet Gats, despite his terror, regained an instinctive courage when he reached the head of the stairs. He shouted to his mobsters. At the commanding tone of his voice, they stopped at intervals along the stairs below.

  "Lie low!" cried Gats. "He's coming down this way! Get him! Get The Shadow!"

  The revelation of the enemy's name filled the fleeing gangsters with mingled rage and fear. Some fled on; but they were few. The others recognized the wisdom of their leader's command and prepared to attack.

  All the hordes of the bad lands hated The Shadow. Every member of that evil crew longed for the day when he might gain the glory of killing the terror of the underworld. A few seconds after Gats had given his order, men lay waiting on the stairs, each in readiness for the approach of a strange phantom shape.

  "Stay here"—Gats was whispering to a man beside him—"and cover while I take a look. Maybe he's back there where I left him."

  Gripping his smoke wagons, Gats crept forward with determination. Hate was dominating his dread. His boastful pride was coming to the fore. He would be the avenger whom all gangdom would acclaim. Gats Hackett—slayer of The Shadow!

  Peering from the edge of the stairs, Gats spied The Shadow! He caught only a fleeting glimpse of the man in black; then The Shadow was gone.

  In that split second, Gats had seen the head and shoulders of the phantomlike being disappearing over the edge of a window sill at the end of the corridor. He knew now how The Shadow had arrived here.

  He knew that the master of the night was leaving by the same route, thinking himself unperceived.

  Springing forward, Gats reached the window. He leaned outward. Below was a courtyard, its bottom a white mass of paving. Between the window and the court, Gats saw a blurred splotch of blackness.

  The Shadow was moving downward, his hands and feet finding purchase in the rough stone surface of the building's walls.

  This would mark the end of The Shadow! Leaning far out, Gats Hackett aimed both his revolvers straight downward. His famous aim could not fail. The Shadow, helpless upon the wall, could not fire in return!

  Gats sought the triggers with his fingers. Staring downward, he saw a slight motion; then, from the blotch of black, two shining eyes burned upward.

  The eyes of The Shadow! They would be Gats Hackett's targets!

  The fingers were resting on the triggers. Within the fraction of a second, Gats Hackett's smoke wagons would end the life of the man whom all gangdom dreaded.

  The Shadow's form was still. Gats was laughing. This was like picking a tin bird off the rack of a shooting gallery.

  Resting batlike on the side of the wall, The Shadow made a motion which Gats Hackett did not see. As his eyes stared upward, The Shadow had released the hold of his right hand. Beneath the black cloak, that hand was moving upward. It stretched upon the wall just as Gats aimed his smoke wagon toward the eyes that he saw below.

  Thirty feet apart—a duel upon the vertical wall of a building— The Shadow against the greatest shot in the underworld! That was the scene. Gats, with two revolvers, aiming downward; The Shadow, with a single automatic stealing upward along the wall to which he clung.

  A LOUD report reverberated throughout the depths of the courtyard. It was the sequel to a brilliant flash that burst upward along the rough stone wall. The whole figure of The Shadow trembled and wavered from the force of the recoil as he fired from his automatic.

  Gats Hackett was pressing the triggers of his smoke wagons when The Shadow fired. Instantaneously, the gang leader's arms shot outward, like the limbs of a string-pulled marionette. The revolvers thundered, but their bullets sped wide of their intended mark. The leaden missiles flattened themselves upon the courtyard paving.

  The Shadow did not fire again. His form swayed; then caught itself to retain its hold upon the wall.

  Gats Hackett's body, projecting from the window, behaved in an odd manner. First, the arms dropped.

  The hands lost their hold upon the big revolvers, and the weapons fell—one on each side of The Shadow's form.

  As the .45s clattered and bounced on the paving, Gats Hackett's twisting body poised with drooping head. Mortally wounded by The Shadow's bullet, the gang leader could not save himself. He plunged head-forward from the window, a dying cry of terror coming from his swollen lips.

  The Shadow made a complete turn as Gats Hackett fell. Instead of remaining face toward the wall, the black shape swung as on a pivot. The long left arm caught the ledge of a window. Ba
ck to the wall, The Shadow hung precariously while the sprawling, revolving body of Gats Hackett hurtled by.

  One of the gang leader's helpless hands dragged against the flowing folds of The Shadow's cloak. The nerveless fingers gained no clutch. Down to his doom went the evil killer who had fought his last fight with The Shadow, invincible master of the night!

  Into the now silent courtyard, the tall shape moved downward, its black-clad form merging with the lower gloom. New sounds broke through the night—the strident siren of a police car, followed by shrill blasts from warning whistles.

  The outside gangsters were fleeing. Cliff Marsland, stationed at a corner of the building, alone had seen the grim struggle on the wall, his eyes attracted there by the sound of The Shadow's automatic.The Shadow was safe, Cliff knew. His own duty demanded that he leave the danger zone so as to avoid trouble at the hands of the police.

  A black-clad figure glided from the entrance to the courtyard. A moment later a policeman dashed into the vacated area. The officer stopped short as his flashlight revealed the figure of what had once been a man.

  It was the body of Gats Hackett—a shattered hulk that lay in a twisted heap. Close beside the gang leader's corpse were two shining objects that glittered as the flashlight spotted them.

  They were the smoke wagons with which Gats Hackett had sought to slay The Shadow.

  CHAPTER XXV. THE DEATH ORDER

  "WELL, Milbrook, let's see the diamonds."

  There was an impatient tone in Stanford Devaux's voice. Shelton Milbrook had arrived later than expected. It was half past nine.

  In reply to Devaux's request, Shelton Milbrook looked about the room. He studied the entire arrangement. There were two doors; one leading to the hall; the other to a side room which also opened into the hall.

  Stanford Devaux, his daughter, and Douglas Carleton were all here. In addition, Milbrook had brought a man of his own choosing—a private detective who was standing silently by.

  "Monroe"—Milbrook spoke to the detective—"see that the door to the hall is locked."

  The detective, a short, light-haired fellow, obeyed. He announced that the door was locked. Milbrook ordered him to stand beside the door, and to cover the doorway to the adjoining room. Monroe drew a stubby revolver.

  "These precautions are necessary," declared Milbrook, in a businesslike tone. "Remember, please, that these diamonds are worth millions."

  Stanford Devaux seemed unimpressed. Douglas Carleton stared in hostile manner. Virginia Devaux was seated in a chair, leaning forward intently. Her eyes were bright as she watched Milbrook.

  The diamond agent opened his coat and vest. This action revealed a pair of revolvers hanging beside his shoulders. He lifted the weapons and placed them on the table in front of him. Then his hands went to his back as he loosed a belt which stretched across his shirt front. This belt contained the wealth of uncut diamonds.

  "Quite an arrangement," remarked Douglas Carleton.

  Milbrook glanced toward the speaker. He detected something in Carleton's eyes that made him immediately suspicious. He freed the belt just as Carleton spoke again.

  "Two million dollars?" questioned Carleton. "You mean to say that you have diamonds there of that value?"

  "Yes," replied Milbrook as he placed the belt upon the table and began to open it. As the gems came into view, Milbrook was still watching Carleton.

  The knob of the door from the hall was turning. Milbrook did not see it; nor did Monroe. Some one had silently unlocked that barrier. Now the door was opening. A hand entered the room; the muzzle of a revolver pressed against Monroe's ribs.

  "Up with your hands!" commanded a voice.

  MONROE wavered. Another hand struck the revolver from the detective's grasp. Helpless, Monroe raised his arms. Every one in the room had instinctively performed the same action. Shelton Milbrook, hands above his head, was staring with hostile glance toward the men who had entered.

  They were obviously gangsters—three of them. But the man who stood behind the others had a more impressive appearance. Across his face, he wore a black cloth mask. Only Douglas Carleton recognized the features below it.

  Felix Zubian was the leader of these raiders.

  The room became an unmoving tableau. The purpose of the invaders was apparent. Within a few minutes, the diamonds that Milbrook had brought here would be gone. That fact gripped Virginia Devaux as she glanced toward Shelton Milbrook. The girl was amazed to see that Milbrook no longer faced the invaders. Instead he was staring at the spot where Douglas Carleton stood.

  The young clubman was smiling. To him, this climax was the culmination of a coveted desire. His argument with Milbrook had been the signal for Zubian's entrance. All had worked to perfection.

  To Shelton Milbrook, Carleton's treachery was apparent. In his anger, Milbrook was eager to shout the truth that all might know it. Whatever Carleton's alibi might be, it would be shattered forever by Milbrook's denunciation.

  "This is your work, you crook!" cried Milbrook defiantly. "You are in back of this; you will pay for it! I call you to witness, Devaux -"

  Milbrook's tirade ended as he saw the face of Stanford Devaux. The millionaire had adopted an indifferent attitude.

  A sudden understanding came over Shelton Milbrook.

  Douglas Carleton was leering fiendishly at the man whom he had betrayed. But when Carleton caught a glimpse of Virginia Devaux, he realized suddenly that the farce was going too far. The girl did not quite understand; but if Milbrook mouthed further denunciations, she would know all.

  The time had come to put an end to the man he hated. Carleton swung his eyes away from Milbrook's defiant gaze and glanced at Felix Zubian. A smile flickered beneath the black cloth mask.

  The three gunmen were covering the room. One was pointing his revolver directly at Shelton Milbrook. It was to this gangster that Zubian spoke. He leaned forward and uttered a low command.

  "Kill him," he said coldly. "Kill the man by the table."

  The gangster grinned and nodded. He had come, expecting difficult work to-night. This was an easy task, the shooting of a helpless man. Shelton Milbrook, still glaring at Carleton, did not know the danger that threatened him.

  "You—you dirty crook!" he cried. "You're not the only one -"

  He stopped, sensing the menace of the gangster's gun. Staring along the barrel, Milbrook saw the finger that was quivering on the trigger. He knew that he was to be shot down helpless because he knew the truth.

  Calmly, the finger of the gangster moved backward, drawing the trigger with a squeeze that insured perfect aim. The gun was aimed directly toward Milbrook's heart.

  A shot resounded through the room. With it came the crash of breaking glass. The entire pane of the window hurtled inward as a black-gloved hand discharged its automatic.

  The gangster who was about to slag Milbrook never fired the fatal shot. Instead, he toppled forward, felled by a bullet loosed by an unseen hand.

  A wild cry came from Douglas Carleton. He had recognized the figure that was coming through the window—a black-cloaked form before which the invading gangsters fell away.

  "The Shadow!"

  That was the name which burst from Carleton's frenzied lips. Only The Shadow could have performed this daring deed! Only The Shadow could have discovered the plans of those who sought to thwart him!

  CHAPTER XXVI. THE BREAK

  A TIMELY comer to this desperate scene, The Shadow, tall and imposing, dominated the group in Stanford Devaux's study. The presence of this superman held an awe-inspiring effect over all.

  To Douglas Carleton, it meant an end to fiendish schemes; to Shelton Milbrook, it signified an amazing deliverance from certain doom.

  The wounded gangster lay writhing on the floor; his gun a dozen feet from his helpless clutch. No one noticed him. All were staring at The Shadow. The two other gunmen had dropped their weapons. They stood with upraised hands, and Felix Zubian had joined them.

  A low laugh cam
e from hidden lips, as the glowing eyes of The Shadow seared the startled minds of the guilty men who had sought to kill. Those eyes turned upon Douglas Carleton. They moved to Felix Zubian. The Shadow laughed again.

  "Felix Zubian," declared The Shadow in an ominous whisper, "you are guilty because you planned this crime."

  The face beneath the mask turned white. Zubian's frame trembled as The Shadow approached the center of the room. Turning his withering glance, the being in black surveyed Douglas Carleton, who sought to evade those burning eyes.

  "You, Douglas Carleton," came The Shadow's eerie whisper, "are a traitor. You have stooped to the lowest form of crime!"

  The Shadow paused. His eyes swept searchingly about the room. His automatics, looking huge in his gloved hands, were weapons that no one dared defy. The Shadow laughed as his eagle gaze fell upon Stanford Devaux.

  "There is one," declared The Shadow, in a cold, shuddering tone, "whose crime is greater than that of all the others. One man has plotted to rob; to kill; to betray—and at the same time retain his garb of high respectability.

  "One man here has stooped to the lowest of all crimes. One would sacrifice his daughter to marriage with another crook in order to further the schemes of pillage and bloodshed that he has financed.

  "That man stands before me now. You are that wretch, Stanford Devaux!"

  The truth of The Shadow's words were apparent. Devaux, his eyes wild, his raised hands clawing, showed his guilt. Shelton Milbrook was staring coldly; this truth had come home to him. Virginia Devaux was sobbing.

  The Shadow's words had explained a fact that Felix Zubian had guessed the night before: that Douglas Carleton was but a tool in the hands of a plotter who schemed to accomplish nefarious deeds with no danger to himself.

  It was plain why Devaux had favored his daughter's engagement to Carleton; it was clear why Devaux had told Milbrook to bring the diamonds here to-night; it was obvious from what source the funds had come to aid Carleton in his plans for international crime.