The Silent Death s-27

by Maxwell Grant

The puzzled glimmer that came in Sartain's eyes was noted plainly by Professor Urlich, who was peering

  through the opera glasses from the office across the street. The scientist, studying each fading gasp of the

  doomed man as he might have examined a germ cell in a microscope, detected instantly that something

  had happened.

  A peculiar grunt escaped the professor's lips as he lowered the opera glasses to view the studio instead

  of the face upon the desk. Jocelyn and Ricordo heard the ejaculation. With one accord they delivered

  questions of surprise, wondering what Urlich had seen.

  "Something has happened from above!" exclaimed the professor. "I could tell it from Sartain's eyes. Our

  victim is reviving. What is there, above him? Can you see?"

  The three men were crouching close to the sill of the opened office window, trying to gain a view of the

  space above Sartain's head. They were seeking the answer to the riddle. It came with unexpected

  suddenness.

  A MASS of blackness dropped downward from the top of the studio. It spread out momentarily upon

  the floor; then rose upright to become the tall figure of a being clad in black, a sinister shape beneath a

  flowing cloak, a hidden head covered by a broad slouch hat.

  "Through the skylight!" blurted Jocelyn.

  "Some intruder," snarled Urlich, "come to spoil my plan of death — "

  "The Shadow!"

  The final cry came from Larry Ricordo. The gang lord was trembling with excitement. His companions

  turned toward him. They could see the whiteness of his face beside the window.

  "The Shadow!" Consternation filled Ricordo's voice. "He stops at nothing! He will save Sartain! He is our

  enemy!"

  To Jocelyn, the very tone of Ricordo's voice was alarming. The financier did not know the ways of the

  underworld, he did not share the common fears of gangsters who dreaded the power of The Shadow.

  But he sensed the menace from Ricordo's words.

  To Professor Urlich, the gang leader's fright was also evident. Urlich, like Jocelyn, knew that Ricordo

  had sighted a potential menace. The Shadow was leaning over Alfred Sartain, raising the millionaire's

  body toward the reviving air currents that came from above.

  Silent death had failed. Urlich, however, viewed The Shadow as an ordinary human, who had somehow

  bungled into this situation. He gave no thought to the weird impressiveness of The Shadow's garb. His

  one theme was his anger at the unexpected failure of his plot to end Alfred Sartain's life.

  "Our victim is saved!" he snarled. "He will recover now — to live — "

  "To live!" cried Jocelyn. "Then my efforts will be of no avail! Unless Sartain dies to-night, the Universal

  deal will be accomplished. My holdings will lose instead of gaining!"

  Larry Ricordo was leaning from the window. Venom showed in the gang leader's puffy lips. In his hand,

  he gripped a large revolver, which he was aiming toward the studio across the street.

  "It's a long shot," he growled grimly, "but I'll try to plug them both. We've got to get Jocelyn — and if we

  can get The Shadow, too — "

  "Stop!" hissed Professor Urlich, seizing Ricordo's arm. "Your shots will be useless! They may lead to our

  discovery in this office!"

  "Useless?" echoed Ricordo. "Watch me blast them through that window! They're set right where I want

  them!"

  "The glass is bullet-proof," interposed Urlich. "Have you forgotten that, Ricordo?"

  The gang leader snarled as he let his arm fall helplessly. He had forgotten. The very feature of the

  trap — the unbreakable window— which had been designed to insure Alfred Sartain's life, had now

  become a protection for both the millionaire and his mysterious rescuer!

  PROFESSOR URLICH stared spitefully at the scene; Thomas Jocelyn groaned. The Shadow was still

  working to restore Alfred Sartain to consciousness. Larry Ricordo, gripping his gun with frenzy, was the

  one who suddenly supplied the way of action.

  "We can get him yet!" he snarled. "You'll see how I work now, professor. Those men of mine can turn

  the trick. The Shadow is a tough egg; but he's going to have trouble getting out of this mess!"

  The gang leader leaped to a corner of the darkened office. He gripped a telephone, and swore roundly

  as he was forced to use a flashlight to see the dial. While muttered oaths came from his lips, he spun the

  number that he wanted.

  "That you, Slips?" came his low voice. "Good… Yes, this is Larry… Yes, get going. Up to Sartain's.

  Crash right through… Hurry… Listen, there is another guy with him… Yes, you'll know him all right… The

  Shadow… No… No… Don't tell the others. Get going… It's the one chance, and I'm watching. Get me?

  I'm looking on!"

  The receiver dropped on the hook. Ricordo turned toward the window, where Urlich and Jocelyn were

  still staring at the building across the street.

  "Still there?" Ricordo demanded anxiously.

  "Yes," responded Professor Urlich.

  "We'll get him, then!" snarled Ricordo. "I tipped Slips Harbeck. He's going up with the gorillas. Duster

  Brooks will help them. They'll get Sartain and The Shadow both!"

  "It will mean a terrible commotion," interposed Thomas Jocelyn nervously. "It will be murder,

  Ricordo — the police will investigate."

  "What of it?" growled the gang leader. "I've got my trail all covered. Only Slips Harbeck and Duster

  Brooks know that I'm in back of it. They won't squeal; they'll scram. As for you and the professor,

  there's no link between me and you bozos. What we want is to see Sartain dead."

  "Ricordo is right," agreed the professor quietly. "Have no alarm, Jocelyn. I would prefer silent death; but

  violence is acceptable in this emergency. Thomas Jocelyn must die — and his rescuer with him."

  No further words came as the trio watched the studio. The Shadow was swinging Alfred Sartain to the

  chair beside the desk. The millionaire moved feebly. He lay, outstretched, his face staring upward.

  PROFESSOR URLITCH was gazing through the opera glasses. He could not, however, sight the face

  of that mysterious being in black. Even in that enlarged field of vision, The Shadow's head and shoulders

  were entirely a mass of darkness. The brim of the slouch hat cast an impenetrable gloom upon the

  features beneath it.

  "I can't see his face," announced Urlich calmly, "but that does not matter. It is turned from the

  doorway — which is most favorable. If your men are capable, Ricordo — "

  The scientist paused to lower the glasses and glance at Ricordo in the dim light by the window. The gang

  leader emitted a coarse laugh.

  "They're the best gorillas money can buy," he affirmed. "But they're up against The Shadow. Don't forget

  that, professor! I tipped Slips, and he won't miss a trick. The Shadow, professor! He's the one guy that

  they've all tried to get."

  "Your men are coming now," exclaimed Jocelyn suddenly. "I can see a motion through the windows of

  the outer room!"

  "Right!" added Ricordo. "They'll be at the door in a few seconds. Say — if they blot out The Shadow — "

  "Look!"

  Professor Urlich was pointing from the office window. His long forefinger indicated the black-clad figure

  of The Shadow.

  Satisfied that Alfred Sartain was reviving, the black-clad rescuer was rising. His form became a tall,

  menacing shape; then, suddenly, it became motionless. A momentary pause. Black-gloved hands swungr />
  inward toward the shrouding cloak.

  "They have reached the door by now," asserted Jocelyn tensely.

  "Yes!" agreed Ricordo, in an excited tone. "They're at the door— and they've got The Shadow!"

  As though proving the truth of the gang leader's assertion, the tall form in black pirouetted suddenly

  toward the door of the studio. A cry of elation came from Larry Ricordo.

  The Shadow, when he swung, was weaponless. He, with Alfred Sartain, seemed doomed!

  CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW DEPARTS

  THE three witnesses to the rare spectacle of The Shadow at work were totally unacquainted with the

  methods of the black-clad rescuer. Even Larry Ricordo, hardened denizen of the underworld, knew but

  little of The Shadow's ways. Hence the rising motion of the black-cloaked form, the passage of the

  gloved hands toward the garment that shrouded the shoulders beneath; even the quick pirouette of the

  figure itself — were all accepted by the viewers as token of The Shadow's unpreparedness.

  But, within the studio where doom had failed to strike, The Shadow was acting with instinctive practice.

  Although unaware that hidden eyes were observing him, The Shadow, master of desperate situations,

  had not allowed his interest in Alfred Sartain's recovery to reduce his normal vigilance.

  When he had suddenly stepped away from the reviving millionaire, it had been because his keen ears had

  heard a slight sound at the doorway of the studio. The momentary pause had enabled him to detect the

  turning of the knob. The motion of his hands toward his body was the beginning of the swift method

  whereby The Shadow encountered foes who sought to catch him off guard.

  As the black form whirled to face the door, those gloved hands swept free from the folds of the cloak.

  As The Shadow's eyes stared directly at the portal, the firm fists beneath them were gripping the

  powerful automatics with which The Shadow warred against fiends of crime.

  The action was a timely one. Simultaneously with The Shadow's swing, the door came inward, and a pair

  of villainous gangsters plunged into the room. Each of Slips Harbeck's gorillas held a leveled revolver.

  The gunmen held the first advantage. They were actually in the room before The Shadow faced them. But

  they did not know the exact spot where they must attack, so precipitous had their entrance been. They

  were forced to swing their gleaming weapons in order to cover their foe.

  The Shadow, on the contrary, had a definite objective — the doorway. His rapid turn ended in a deadly

  aim, whereas the gunmen acted with haste. It was this factor that turned the tide in The Shadow's favor.

  Two shots burst from the doorway — each from a gorilla's revolver. One bullet missed The Shadow by a

  foot. The other burned through a waving fold of the black cloak — less than an inch from its mark.

  A DOUBLE answer came a split second later. As both gunmen sought to deliver a second shot, The

  Shadow's automatics roared together. The forward plunging mobsters hurtled to the floor. One sprawled

  crazily in a sidewise swing; the other somersaulted almost to The Shadow's feet.

  A bursting cry of mirth sounded from The Shadow's unseen lips. No longer concerned with the enemies

  whom he had dropped, The Shadow advanced toward the door. His method was slow but constant — a

  scheme with definite purpose. From the first instant of the attack, The Shadow had kept himself as a

  shield for Alfred Sartain, helpless in the chair behind the desk.

  Now, seeking to meet new invaders, The Shadow held to the same purpose. Blocking the path from the

  doorway, he gave no hidden enemy an opportunity to complete the job which had failed — the murder of

  the hapless millionaire.

  Keen eyes glistened. The Shadow's right-hand automatic roared another greeting. A scream came from

  beyond the doorway. A third gangster, more cautious than his fellows, had thrust forth a hand with a

  revolver. The Shadow's prompt response clipped the trigger finger from the hand!

  The maimed mobster fled. After him tumbled another who had also kept to cover. The Shadow's guns

  barked a stern pursuit.

  The fleeing men were heading across the living room, The Shadow following. Only one mark offered — an

  uncovered shoulder at the farther doorway. The Shadow found it; the man staggered, but kept on.

  Beyond the outer door of the penthouse, the fleeing gorillas encountered their chief, Slips Harbeck. He

  had sent them into the attack, intending to follow after the first onslaught. For Slips, alone, had heard the

  identity of the enemy whom they must meet.

  The leader of the gorillas was thrown back by his fleeing henchmen. He could not stop them now. They

  had met the menace of The Shadow. They had seen their companions sprawl within the first two seconds

  of the battle.

  The flight would have proven futile, had The Shadow followed his advantage. But a new duty lay before

  the master in black.

  Across the room, Duster Brooks was struggling with Hunnefield, the secretary. The false butler was

  holding a revolver in his hand; Hunnefield was gripping the wrist below that hand.

  Brooks put forth a desperate effort just as The Shadow appeared. He wrested his wrist free, and struck

  a fierce blow at Hunnefield's head. Fortunately for the secretary, it was a glancing stroke that failed in its

  murderous intent. But as the weapon thudded above his ear, Hunnefield collapsed. He would have fallen,

  but for the butler's grasp.

  BROOKS was facing the doorway toward the studio. He saw The Shadow. He recognized the menace.

  With Hunnefield's body as a shield, he thrust his revolver forth and fired. The swaying of the secretary's

  form destroyed the aim. The bullet from the butler's gun whisked the brim of The Shadow's hat and

  lodged in the redecorated wall beyond.

  Still keeping covered, Brooks thrust the barrel of his revolver under Hunnefield's armpit. Again he sought

  to shoot The Shadow.

  All the while, the black clad fighter was weaving his way across the room, his burning eyes looking for an

  opportunity to clip Brooks without harming Hunnefield. Constantly, The Shadow's gaze roved toward the

  outer door.

  A revolver muzzle gleamed at that spot. It was handled by Slips Harbeck, who had remained despite the

  flight of his crippled minions. One of The Shadow's automatics spoke — once — twice — thrice.

  The first bullet splintered the woodwork; the second struck the revolver barrel and sent the weapon

  spinning from Slips Harbeck's grasp. The third was delivered to catch any portion of the gangster's body

  that might have revealed itself.

  But Slips, by amazing good fortune, had managed to stagger back. Fearing that The Shadow was coming

  his way, he took the last shot as a sign of sure doom, should he remain. Staggering from dread, the leader

  of the defeated gorillas dashed madly toward the stairs.

  Another shot sounded in the living room. Duster Brooks, nerviest of the evil crew, had hoped to get The

  Shadow this time. His second shot, like the first, went wide. With the burden of Hunnefield's protecting

  form, the false butler could not gain certain aim toward that elusive form of black.

  Even now, The Shadow was circling to deliver a return shot. Brooks, dropping toward the floor with

  Hunnefield's body, again tried to fire through the perfect loophole formed by the secretary's arm and

  body.

  The Shadow's task seemed impossible. Brooks showed the revolver muz
zle as the only target. To shoot

  that tiny spot would surely cause injury to the one brave man who had tried to foil the invaders.

  Hunnefield, still unconscious, was under The Shadow's protection.

  The revolver muzzle turned. As it spat flame, The Shadow's tall form hurtled to the floor. Brooks cried

  out in exultation. In his excitement, the false butler did not realize that The Shadow's drop had begun

  before the shot was fired. It was a ruse — not a sign of good aim by Brooks.

  As the butler instinctively shifted, believing that he had wounded his opponent, The Shadow's right band

  fired from the floor. The bullet from the.45 struck the first portion of the butler's body that was

  uncovered — his left shoulder.

  Brooks, anxious to put a sure end to The Shadow, was aiming his revolver just as the bullet from the

  automatic clipped his shoulder. With a frenzied cry, the man toppled sidewise and struck upon his right

  elbow. Hunnefield's body flattened in front of him.

  Though wounded, Brooks was not through. Had he desisted then, the false butler might have received no

  further token of The Shadow's power. But Brooks was determined to fight to the end.

  Flopping forward upon Hunnefield's form, he dropped his right fist upon the secretary's chest and, with

  glowering eyes directly above the sights of his revolver, aimed to kill the one who menaced him from the

  floor.

  Glowering, Duster Brooks was staring straight into the burning eyes that shone from beneath the hat brim.

  Like The Shadow, he was facing a gun muzzle, for the menacing automatic had turned to cover him.

  Brooks had a life-sized target — the entire figure of the black-garbed fighter.

  The Shadow, in opposition, had only one mark at which to aim. The butler's revolver muzzle was the

  center point, with the human face behind it. It was a race for the first shot.

  If Brooks won, woe to The Shadow! If The Shadow won, his aim would have to be perfect, for if he

  missed the slender opportunity, Brooks would fire a shot that would wound, even though it failed to kill.

  Fingers pressed upon triggers. The shots barked almost with simultaneous sound.

  But The Shadow's missile was delivered a split second before Brooks sent his shot. No time watch could

  have calculated that fractional difference. It could be measured only by the space of time required for the