Just as The Shadow neared the doorway, the room lights came on. With his left hand, the wounded man had found the light switch. Sinking down to the floor, he snarled an oath as he saw The Shadow. The crook's pained lips widened into a toothy grin.
Shouts came from the hall as four torpedoes aimed their revolvers. Almost to the doorway, The Shadow was too exposed to drop the four before they fired damaging shots. He made one of those remarkable shifts that had so often maddened hordes from gangdom.
With a quick spin, The Shadow was back in the room, away from the door, whirling toward the window.
When guns barked, he was gone from range.
In those split seconds, The Shadow remembered the triumphant leer that he had seen upon the face of the wounded thug. Three ceiling lights were glowing in the low-roofed room, showing The Shadow's cloaked form plainly, even though he had spun to a safe angle. Face to the window, The Shadow saw something else.
His figure had blocked the glow of the ceiling lights. His own silhouette was etched in blackness against the yellowish window shade.
One glimpse of that outline told The Shadow why the thug had grinned. An instant later, The Shadow had finished his whirl; he was turned toward the door, with his shoulders pressing the window shade behind him.
In that moment, The Shadow altered his plan. Instead of opening prompt fire toward the outer doorway, he plunged full length upon the floor.
The wounded crook was out in the hallway; his pals were gone from view. None had waited to see The Shadow's final move. They thought that he was still backed against the window. Then came the result that crooks awaited.
A terrific crackle shattered the window, ripping the shade into shreds. From outside came the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun as it rattled bullets into the lighted room. Those slugs slammed the wall of the hallway, past the opened door.
The Shadow had divined the double trap. He had made his drop just in time. The crooks attacking from the hallway had been sent there to reveal The Shadow in the glow of lights. Machine-gunners, waiting beneath the parapet atop the old garage, were waiting for the telltale blackness against the window shade.
THE drilling barrage ceased. Perhaps the outside crew thought they had finished The Shadow; possibly they were in doubt. The latter case was so likely that The Shadow could not afford to rise above the level of the sill. Propped on both elbows, he began to worm his way forward toward the hallway.
A lookout poked his head into view, dodged away to report that The Shadow was alive and on the move. The gunmen in the hall were none too sure of their own security. They knew, though, that The Shadow could not afford a hasty drive. They feared that he might eventually reach the light switch, still below the level of the outside machine gun. They wanted to offset that.
The crooks had the method. Their first approach had been cautious; but with time to spare, they could make all the noise they wanted. The Shadow heard a hoarse call from the hallway.
Something thumped up the stairs. Shifting slightly to his right, The Shadow craned his neck.
He saw the weapon that the attackers were about to assemble. It was a sub-machine gun, with a shield.
Given a few minutes longer, they would shove that death device into the doorway. It would completely fix The Shadow. His automatics could not riddle the shield. If he stayed close to the floor, the hallway gun would drill him.
Contrarily, if The Shadow made a dash to capture the new weapon, he would have no time to spike it.
Again, men from the garage roof would have a target. They would fell The Shadow through the open window.
The extent of The Shadow's future life seemed a matter of minutes. In that short interval, however, The Shadow saw a chance for exit; one that his adversaries had forgotten, because they thought it completely blocked.
That route was the door to the little room where Shark Meglo had gone. Bolted from the other side, the stout barrier looked impenetrable. With a head tilt, The Shadow eyed it. He edged toward that door; then waited the right moment.
Scraping of steel told that foemen were shoving the submachine gun toward the doorway. A lookout took another peek and dived away. The Shadow gave no further hesitation. With a quick spring, he came to his feet, took a bound forward and side-stepped toward Shark's door.
The move was too swift for the outside crew. When they started a new rattle of their machine gun, The Shadow was out of line. The bullets from the garage came zipping straight through the lighted room and pummeled the hallway wall. The gunmen in the hall yanked back their submachine gun and laid low.
Even when the outside gun ended its brief drill, the men in the hall still waited. They wanted to make sure that the barrage would not resume. The Shadow had depended on that interval. He knew that he would need a few seconds at Shark's door.
THE SHADOW arrived at that barrier with one hand raised high. In his fist, he held an automatic by the muzzle. Using the big gun as a bludgeon, he sledged a titanic blow for the panel of the door.
No woodwork could have stopped that slash. The panes splintered. The Shadow's arm went through.
As The Shadow's hand stopped short, it gave a slight upward toss. The automatic flipped in his fist; he caught it by the handle. His hand swinging sideward, The Shadow pumped bullets into the room. Those were for Shark, if he happened to still be there.
His last shot given, The Shadow dropped the automatic. His fingers found the bolt and yanked it. His other hand had cloaked his second gun; free, that hand turned the knob.
Crooks from the hall had heard the crash, with the ensuing gunfire. As they sprang into the lighted room, they saw The Shadow wheel into the darkness of the little room beyond. The door slammed as they opened fire.
When they halted, momentarily, a fist poked through the broken door and stabbed shots back at them.
One thug toppled. The others dived for the hall.
The inner room was empty. The Shadow learned that as he glanced about. The slight shaft of light through the broken door gave him all the glow he needed. Shark Meglo had been too wise to keep himself boxed. The ceiling showed the route that Shark had taken - a trapdoor just above an old metal bed.
The Shadow clambered up to the trap. Shark had clamped it from above; but had done a hurried job, never thinking that The Shadow would travel this far. The trapdoor gave slightly.
Bracing himself, The Shadow heaved upward with both arms. The rusted clamp gave. The way was open.
Across the alleyway, crooks had risen from their machine gun. They heard a challenging laugh above.
Looking upward, they saw The Shadow at the roof edge of the house, a full story above their level. No longer was the garage parapet a protection. They had no time to tilt their machine gun. Savagely they yanked revolvers and began a hasty fire.
The Shadow's shots were quicker. He sprawled the thugs by their parapet. Grabbing the roof edge with one hand, he swung downward and outward; then, as he came inward like a pendulum. he released his grip.
The machine-gunners had done The Shadow a favor when they had so completely blasted away the window of Shark's living room. The Shadow came hurtling through that big opening at a downward angle. He hit the floor almost among the thugs from the hallway, who had entered to start a drive through the door that The Shadow had cracked.
To those gunners, The Shadow was a living nightmare, returned from blackness. He came from the one direction that they did not expect. There was a mad scramble for the inner room to escape the shots that The Shadow fired.
As his foemen finished their dive, The Shadow was at the hallway door, possessor of the submachine gun.
He slammed the outer door and locked it. The submachine gun went tumbling down the stairs, with The Shadow following it. Sirens from the outside air told that the law was answering the alarm that gunfire had produced. The police were at the front door when The Shadow reached the ground floor.
Choosing a rear exit, The Shadow was gone, slipping through a closing police cordon.
He had left the rest of Shark's followers as trophies for the law.
LATER, The Shadow reached the hidden, darkened abode that served as his sanctum. There, he reviewed the night's events. Shark Meglo had gained the loot he wanted, and that boodle had gone back to the master-crook. The man who engineered these crimes was still under cover. Nevertheless, his game was very badly bent.
In the sanctum, The Shadow received a telephone report from Burbank. Harry Vincent and Michael Chanbury were still at Silsam's. Both had testified that Hugo Silsam was just ready to tell the name of the man who sold the stolen gems when Shark had entered to prevent it.
That connection was too obvious even for the police to miss. They would recognize that the jewel seller was the brain behind crime. They would scour Manhattan for that master-crook.
Intervals of a few weeks had always intervened between the former crimes. Certainly, a similar lapse would again be necessary before the head of crime dared to move again. That prospect solved one problem that pressed The Shadow. That was the matter of a new identity to replace his impersonation of Lamont Cranston.
The Shadow needed a guise that would serve him through the future; one which no one, even in wildest fancy, would ever link with The Shadow. The Shadow had long reserved such an identity for the right time; and that time was the present.
Agents could handle details of the immediate future. Knowing that, The Shadow gave instructions to Burbank, in detail. The sanctum light clicked off. A strange laugh sounded in the darkness. That mirth betokened The Shadow's departure. He was leaving New York.
When The Shadow returned, he would come openly, without his garb of black. Often had he appeared in public, using borrowed guises such as that of Cranston. This return would be unique.
At last, The Shadow had decided to arrive as himself. The Shadow would be unmasked at last!
CHAPTER VII. WESTON WORRIES
FOUR days after the robbery at Silsam's, two men were discussing the details of that crime. One was Commissioner Ralph Weston; the other, Inspector Joe Cardona. They were holding their conference in Weston's office.
Usually, the police commissioner was wont to argue with his ace inspector. Weston's brisk, military manner conflicted with Cardona's style. Where Weston tried to be dynamic, Cardona maintained a poker-faced calm.
Swarthy of countenance, stocky of build, Cardona had a way of listening to Weston's ideas without committing himself. That was something that often irked the self-important commissioner.
Today, however, all was different. Weston's stare was far away. He sat silent while Cardona did the talking. The opportunity was too good a one for Joe to miss.
"We've gotten some results," voiced the detective ace. "We've linked the robberies at Silsam's with the past ones. We found the place where Shark Meglo headed, after he got away with Silsam's gems. There was a hole in the wall, where he shoved the swag."
Weston was nodding, without vocal comment.
"Somebody picked up the gems from the house next door," continued Cardona. "Whoever he is, he's the big shot. The only fellow who could name him is Shark, and Shark's made a dive for some new hideaway."
Weston's nods continued. It was Cardona's opportunity to drive home the wedge he wanted.
"I've got a hunch," spoke the ace. He paused, expecting a glower from Weston, who invariably disputed his ideas. No objection coming, Cardona added:
"My hunch is that the big-shot is the fellow who sold the jewels to Silsam. They're the same gems that were stolen three times before, because the big-shot has been selling them over and over. Shark's job is to bring them back to him -"
Cardona stopped. For the first time, he realized that Weston hadn't heard a word. Something was wrong with the commissioner, and Joe couldn't figure what it was. Settling back in his chair, Cardona waited.
After a minute, Weston suddenly realized that Joe had stopped talking. With a shake of his head, Weston jerked his senses back to normal. He made a grimace which was his best attempt at a smile.
"I'm sorry, Cardona," apologized Weston in a humble tone that was new to Joe. "My thoughts were elsewhere. I'm worried, Cardona. Badly worried! I won't be myself until this trouble is off my mind!"
Joe looked puzzled. He had noticed that Weston had been in a hazy state, but had not supposed that the commissioner's brain was overburdened.
"There will be a visitor in a few minutes," informed Weston. "After I've talked to him, I'll feel better. You know the chap, Cardona. His name is Burke, reporter for the New York Classic."
"Clyde Burke?" demanded Cardona. "Say, commissioner, you aren't letting that news hound in on this jewel stuff, are you? We've been trying to keep what little we've got, strictly to ourselves. If Burke -"
"No, no!" interjected Weston. "Burke is aiding me in another matter. I shall let you hear the details when he arrives."
A BUZZER sounded as Weston spoke. Answering the call, the commissioner learned that Clyde Burke was outside. He ordered that the reporter be sent in. Soon, a wiry, lean-faced chap appeared in Weston's office.
Cardona knew Burke well, and liked him, even though there were times he didn't want the reporter around. Hence Joe and Clyde exchanged friendly handshakes.
Weston was quick with a query:
"Tell me, Burke - what have you learned?"
"Lamont Cranston is definitely in England," replied Clyde. "He left the London hospital yesterday and is coming home next week, aboard the Queen Mary."
"You are positive of that?"
"Yes. Here is a radio photo that I ordered from our London representative. The shot shows Cranston, back at his hotel."
Weston studied the photograph. It was Cranston, sure enough, with his head bandaged as a result of the airplane crash. Weston sank back in his chair. His voice was hollow as he declared:
"But I saw Cranston! With my own eyes - outside the Cobalt Club! And when Silsam called the club, he said that he had talked with Cranston -"
Weston's voice trailed to a worried mutter. For the first time, Cardona began to understand. He remembered that the commissioner had made hazy comments regarding Cranston. He also recalled a conference between Weston and Clyde, not long after the Silsam robbery.
It was obvious that the reporter had learned what bothered Weston and had promised to look into the matter. After all, it was something that a reporter could handle better than the police. In fact, Clyde apparently proved that with his next statement.
"It was Vincent who called Silsam's," explained Clyde. "He introduced himself as a friend of Cranston's; but when Silsam called the club, he still thought that Cranston had been on the telephone. Vincent hadn't reached Silsam's at that time."
"But the man outside the club -"
"Was Cranston's nephew. The one that Stanley, the chauffeur, said was in New York."
"But he was the image of Cranston -"
Clyde shook his head. He produced another photograph. It showed a face very much like Cranston's, but younger.
There were slight points of difference, that Clyde pointed out.
"Leroy Cranston," named Clyde. "From California. Nephew of Lamont. This picture was in the Classic files."
"Then this was the man I saw?" queried Weston. "But he recognized me, outside the club, and I had never met him!"
"He may have known who you were," smiled Clyde. "You mistook him for his uncle, but he did not have a chance to explain who he was."
"But why did he disappear?"
"Probably because he saw his uncle's photograph on the newspaper you handed him. He was alarmed; he must have dashed for the telephone at the corner drug store."
"But he didn't return to New Jersey. I called there repeatedly. The servants mentioned Cranston's nephew, but did not know where he was."
Clyde produced a clipping that gave the names of passengers on a liner that had sailed from New York at midnight on the same evening that the robbery had struck at Silsam's
"Leroy booked passage immediately," declared Clyde. "He
wanted to reach his injured uncle. By this time, he has just about reached England."
WESTON'S smile was genuine. At last, the commissioner was satisfied. He called his secretary, to cancel an appointment that he had made with a psycho-analyst. Weston had actually believed himself a victim of hallucinations, and had decided that he needed the attention of a physician who specialized in treatment of mental disorders.
"You have my full thanks, Burke," commended the commissioner. "If there is anything that I can do in return -"
"There is," put in Clyde. "You can save me the trouble of taking a trip to Guatemala."
"To Guatemala?"
"Yes. You remember Kent Allard, the aviator, who was lost a dozen years ago? On that flight to South America?"
"Of course! Have they found a clue to his lost plane?"
"Better than that. They've located Allard himself! He landed in the Guatemalan jungle, and became the white god of a tribe of Xinca Indians. A Xinca messenger has just shown up in Puerto Barrios, on the Caribbean, with word that Allard is on his way back to civilization. The Classic wants me to go to Guatemala and meet him."
"An excellent assignment, Burke!"
Clyde smiled. Cardona saw it and scowled. Joe knew what was coming, even though Weston did not.
"A good assignment for some one else," said Clyde to the commissioner. "I'd rather stay here in New York and handle a job that I consider much better."
"He means the Silsam case, commissioner," put in Cardona. "I saw what he was driving at. Listen, Burke" - Joe swung to Clyde - "when we're ready to break these jewel robberies, you'll be in on it! But until then -"
"Until then," inserted Clyde, "I'd like to be getting some advance dope. You know me well enough, Joe. I wouldn't spoil an exclusive story. Let me in on it and I'll hold everything until you say the word go."
Ordinarily, Cardona would have returned a flat refusal. Joe was willing to take Clyde at his word; but he preferred to work without a reporter at his elbow. Joe realized though, that he did not have the final say.
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