Gray Fist s-48

by Maxwell Grant

  Two gangsters fell. The third pressed the trigger of his gun. His shot sizzled past The Shadow's shoulder just as the black-garbed master fired another shot. The mobster dropped prone as two more arrived to aid him.

  Another shot—the last that The Shadow could deliver. Then, with all the force that a powerful arm could give it, the glistening .45 came whirling through the air, straight at the head of the final enemy. For that mobster stood alone; his companion had crumpled with The Shadow's final bullet in his heart.

  Aiming, the last man ducked as he saw the empty revolver hurtling toward him. He was too late. The massive weapon thudded against his skull. The gangster sprawled and rolled over in the short alleyway.

  From atop the high wall came the strident tone of The Shadow's laugh. A rising burst of merriment, it mocked those who had sought to slay him. Here, in the heart of gangdom, The Shadow flung forth his challenge to all who might seek to stay his wrath!

  More men were coming to the scene. They were scattered shooters from the ranks which The Shadow had thinned in the neighborhood of the Black Ship. Lights glimmered into the alleyway of death. They showed one final glimpse of a fleeting, dropping form. The Shadow had gained the other side of the wall.

  ONCE again a quick-thinking enemy was in the game. Snakes Blakey had taken nothing for granted. He had seen the power of The Shadow. Even while shots had resounded from the cul-de-sac, Snakes was screaming exhortations for the ears of skulking mobsters.

  The Shadow was in the midst of the foe. Gangsters were sliding into every alleyway around the entire block where The Shadow had disappeared. One sight of the being in black would be the signal for a mass attack.

  A car was coming down the street. From it came Ruff Shefflin's growl. Snakes Blakey leaped aboard.

  He heard Ruff's sullen order to the driver.

  "Cruise around!" The gang leader was fierce in speech. "We'll get The Shadow! Spread the word!"

  The car encircled the block. Ruff's order was repeated. Snakes Blakey, peering from within the car, was on the lookout for the phantom being whose death he had ordered for to-night.

  There was no sign of The Shadow. Somewhere, amid the labyrinth of narrow streets and hidden alleys in this section the weird lone wolf had found a temporary refuge. Other cars were circling the district. From all came the same order:

  "Get The Shadow!"

  All sound of conflict had ceased. The original battle-ground had been abandoned, although watching eyes were back in the old buildings near the Black Ship. The police had been called to the scene; all that they would find were bodies of those who had failed in their conflict with The Shadow.

  Seething turmoil lay suppressed throughout the underworld. Gang rivalries had been forgotten. One quest alone excited all. That was the desire to meet and defeat The Shadow. Death to a brave fighter whose shots had done mighty work, yet whose arsenal was now exhausted: such was the wish of gangdom.

  Ruff's car had circled blocks from the spot where The Shadow had disappeared. As it swung a corner, the headlights threw their gleam upon a windowless wall. Snakes Blakey, his sharp eyes on the lookout, gave a sudden cry.

  In bas-relief against the wall, the sneaky gangster had seen the figure that all were seeking. In the momentary flash of the headlights, he had viewed The Shadow!

  The car came to a sudden stop. Mobsters sprang from its doors. Others along the street heard their cry.

  All caught one short glance of The Shadow as the hunted warrior sprang from the spot where he had been standing.

  Directly into the area of illumination beneath a street lamp leaped The Shadow. Guns barked as the black form disappeared beyond. Then came a fleeting glimpse of the tall shape as it shot into the doorway of an old three-story building. With fierce shouts, the gathering mobsters took up the chase.

  THE SHADOW had arrived at some destination which he had evidently sought. Here, near the outskirts of the underworld, he had gained the entrance to a stronghold which he must have reserved for just this situation.

  Ruff Shefflin was at the head of the pursuing mobsters. As he reached the doorway, the gang leader saw The Shadow disappearing at the top of a dimly-lighted stairway. Ruff fired—a fraction of a second too late. There was no answering shot.

  With mobsters at his heels, Ruff dashed up the stairs. He made a turn to another flight. Again, he saw signs of The Shadow; this time a splotch of blackness that showed against the wall. Ruff fired foolishly as he headed for the third floor.

  A door was closing at the end of a hall as the gang leader reached the top. With a cry to his followers, Ruff dashed forward and threw himself against the wooden barrier. It held. Other mobsters were with their leader. Two stalwarts plunged into the locked door. It shook from the shock.

  Another cooperative burst ended the barrier. With a crash, the door smashed inward from its hinges. The gangsters sprawled and raised themselves to their feet as others flashed loaded revolvers. Ruff found a wall switch and pressed it.

  A single light came on. The invaders—half a dozen—were standing in an empty room. The poorly painted walls were divided into panelings. On the opposite side, however, was the spot which showed where The Shadow must have gone.

  A steel door blocked farther passage. It was a huge, formidable barrier, with triple locks. Ruff Shefflin mingled his anger with curses. This portal stood between the mobsters and The Shadow. Beyond, The Shadow might be in a stronghold. Nevertheless, Ruff was not willing to give up the chase.

  Gangsters were stamping into the hallway. Ruff stopped them as they neared the little room in front of the steel door. He barked his orders to this horde that was ready to obey his bidding.

  "The Shadow is in back of that door!" growled Ruff. "We're going to blow him out. Scout up some guy that can hurry a load of soup. When the door goes down, there's two grand waiting for the bird that bags The Shadow!"

  Snarls of approval greeted Ruff's decision. The gang leader wore a sullen smile, as he surveyed the situation. There could be no other entrance to the stronghold beyond the steel door. Perhaps The Shadow had new weapons there; perhaps he had plenty of ammunition. But the offer of two thousand dollars for The Shadow had done its work. Ruff knew that the score of mobsters who had arrived would risk their lives to get The Shadow.

  This was one time when force of numbers would prevail! Already scurrying mobsters had sallied out on the mission which Ruff had ordered. The Shadow was trapped. Five armed gunmen were watching the steel door.

  Gangsters were moving in and out. None paid attention to their fellows. The hallway was cluttered with the eager throng. Some were breaking open doors of empty side rooms. These unoccupied spots were forming places for the overflow.

  Ten minutes passed. Ruff was getting impatient. Snakes was moving in and out, studying the gathered throng with beady eyes. He, too, was anxious for the finish.

  "Here comes the soup!"

  MOBSTERS moved aside and entered the rooms at the side of the hallway. Ruff Shefflin recognized two expert safe-blowers who had arrived with their equipment. He ordered them into the room where the steel door was located and watched them prepare their job.

  Gangsters edged back into the hallway. The safe-crackers hurried with them. The hallway cleared as every one, Ruff included, sought the security of side rooms. Momentary silence reigned—the lull before the crash.

  Then came the roar of the explosive. The old building shuddered. A terrific clamor arrived as the steel door crashed. The soup had done its work. As fumes billowed down the hallway, gangsters broke forward through the smoke.

  Ruff was with the mob. He was one of those who stopped short as they reached the spot where the steel door had crashed. He was the first to voice his cursing amazement when he saw the result that had been obtained.

  The steel door was down. But there was no room beyond it. Instead of an empty space, the gangsters saw a solid brick wall—the end wall of the building.

  The steel door was a dummy. It had been planted a
s a blind. The Shadow had placed it here to deceive any who might follow him to his pretended stronghold. With that formidable barrier in view, all had thought that it must indicate the way which The Shadow had gone.

  Instead, The Shadow had chosen some other exit. With wild imprecations, gangsters leaped to the side door. One of the panels broke loose as hands ripped at it. Beyond was a small closet. A doorway at the side opened into one of the abandoned rooms that adjoined the hallway.

  Snakes Blakey, who had joined the invaders, was the first to realize The Shadow's strategy. The Shadow, when he had entered the first room, had gone through the panel. In the closet, he had doffed his cloak and hat. A full dress coat, shirt, and collar were hanging in the closet; but the cloak and hat were gone.

  "I seen a guy in a black sweater!" The cry came from one of the mobsters. "He was here in the side room. He was wearin' black trousers -"

  "Yeah," interrupted another voice. "His sweater was bulgy, too."

  "What became of him?" demanded Ruff.

  "I seen him go out," informed a wheedling gangster. "Some of the guys scrammed when the soup come in. He was along with them -"

  "Dat was de Shadow, right enough," added a pasty-faced mobsmen. "Dat was him, all right."

  "We'll get him!" snarled Ruff, as he pushed men aside and headed for the stairs. "Come along, you guys!

  Spread out before the bulls get here. We're not through yet!"

  MOBSTERS were on the street below. Again, patrolling cars took up their quest. With so many abroad, the odds still indicated that The Shadow must be within the confines of the bad lands. But Ruff Shefflin knew that the search had been foiled for to-night. Snakes Blakey held the same opinion, though he, like Ruff, failed to voice it.

  The Shadow's stronghold had been a blind. By using it, The Shadow had drawn the most relentless of his pursuers to a useless task. While they had been engaged upon what they considered a sure effort, The Shadow, in the guise of a lesser mobsman, had walked out through the midst of those who thought him trapped.

  Somewhere in the underworld The Shadow might be found. It was probable that he was lurking near the spots where gangsters sought him. Since he had a fake stronghold, it was natural that he would have a hide-out also. To find it would require a new and difficult search.

  Single-handed, The Shadow had battled the massed hordes of gangdom. By a stroke of prearranged strategy he had escaped. The Shadow had shown his strength, both in fight and flight.

  A menace to Gray Fist, The Shadow was still at large! He had foiled the superplotter's plans to slay him.

  He had returned the home thrust that Gray Fist had delivered. The Shadow, although he had taken on an adventure which had brought opposition far greater than he had expected, was the victor in the conflict.

  So long as The Shadow remained at large, Gray Fist would be forced to play a waiting game. For Gray Fist, like the underworld, would dread The Shadow's might!

  CHAPTER XII. GRAY FIST SPEAKS

  THE SHADOW had challenged gangdom. He had fought an indomitable battle to show that he intended to remain in New York despite Gray Fist's threat. In so doing, he had chosen to meet the terms imposed by Gray Fist; and had then turned his compliance into a mocking derision of Gray Fist's power. With gibing mirth, punctuated by bursting gunfire, The Shadow had sent his answer to the hidden criminal.

  The Shadow's actions were destined to have their effect. The echoes of his booming shots were carried to Gray Fist. A new result was in the making and it concerned two men whom The Shadow had aided in the only way that had been possible. Those two were Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent.

  Both Cliff and Harry had been beaten down by the ruffians who had captured them. Cliff had been the first to meet with that experience. He was the first to regain the consciousness that he had lost.

  Awakening from a grogginess, The Shadow's agent found himself stretched helplessly upon a small cot in a stone-walled room.

  A dull light greeted Cliff's blinking eyes. It came from a single incandescent in the ceiling of the room. Cliff looked about him. His surroundings were not cheerful. There were no windows in the room. The only means of exit was a heavy door which Cliff knew must be locked.

  A dozen feet away, Cliff saw another cot. A man was stretched upon it. Cliff knew that this must be a second prisoner. As Cliff managed to rise to one elbow, he stared toward the other man's face. He recognized the features of a friend. The other captive was Harry Vincent.

  Slow minutes moved by. Cliff felt a dazed whirl sweeping through his brain. He realized that his period of unconsciousness had been extensive. He had dim recollections of a partial awakening; then new oblivion.

  Cliff knew that he had been doped by those who held him prisoner.

  The passage of time was impossible to gauge. Nevertheless, Cliff was positive that more than a dozen hours must have passed since the time when he had been captured. This was the day after the episode when mobsters had overwhelmed him.

  Harry Vincent stirred. Cliff watched his friend come slowly into consciousness. Harry's actions proved what Cliff had conjectured. Harry was waking from a groggy sleep. He, too, had been doped by his captors.

  HARRY blinked as the light met his eyes. He stared steadily toward Cliff, and blank seconds passed without a sign of recognition. Then a weary smile began to flicker upon Harry's lips.

  "Hello, Harry," greeted Cliff.

  "Hello, Cliff," returned the second agent. "So they got you—too -"

  "Yeah," grunted Cliff. "Up by the Mandrilla Apartments. A bunch that I was trailing."

  "In a parked sedan?" queried Harry, coming to life.

  "That's right," answered Cliff.

  "No wonder we're here together," stated Harry. "The same mob piled on me."

  Cliff Marsland was looking about the room. His senses restored, The Shadow's agent was on the alert.

  He knew that hidden ears might be stationed close by. He saw Harry Vincent about to speak, and held a warning finger to his lips. Harry nodded as he noticed the sign.

  "I'll tell you who got us," declared Cliff. "It was Ruff Shefflin. He's a mighty tough gang leader, that fellow.

  I suspected he was up to something when I saw him with a sneak named Snakes Blakey. I followed them up to the street near the Mandrilla."

  "That's where I was," explained Harry. "I came to the apartment in a taxicab. I wanted to see a lawyer named Ruggles Preston. He was— well, he was one of a list of men whom I wanted to meet on business.

  The mob grabbed me after I left the place."

  Cliff was sober. He wanted to talk, yet he knew the wisdom of keeping silent. Harry understood. Both men had a question which neither asked. Each wanted to know if the other had made a telephone call to Burbank.

  Cliff Marsland was piecing bits of evidence. He knew that he had uncovered the gang leader who was responsible for whatever might have happened to Seth Cowry, the missing racketeer. Harry Vincent, too, was thinking. He realized that he had discovered the person who had been in back of Worth Varden's disappearance.

  Ruff Shefflin was the man whom Cliff had spotted. Ruggles Preston was the one whom Harry Vincent had uncovered. Cliff, in his naming of Snakes Blakey, had announced the identity of a crook who was concerned with both Ruff and Preston. Harry—like Cliff—now knew that Snakes Blakey was the go-between.

  A peculiar sense of dizziness began to weaken Cliff. Hunching upward along the cot, Cliff managed to prop himself against the wall. Harry Vincent began to experience the same reaction—a hangover from the dope. He copied Cliff's example. Drearily, the captured agents of The Shadow rested, while minutes glided by in dull monotony.

  THE lock of the door clicked. Neither Cliff nor Harry became aware of the sound until the door began to open. The dull light of the room seemed hazy as a man entered and closed the door behind him. An evil chuckle caused both Cliff and Harry to stare weakly toward the entrant.

  The visitor was dressed entirely in gray. To the men who looked at him, h
is form was a blurred outline. A long gray overcoat hung from his shoulders. A gray hat adorned his head. A thick gray muffler was wrapped about his neck and chin. His face, like his form, was blurred to those who saw it.

  The chuckle continued. To Cliff and Harry, the sound was threatening. They knew that this must be the man who had ordered their capture. They realized that they were in the presence of a superfiend.

  The man came closer, yet his form still retained its blurred appearance. He began to speak, and the watchers could see the gleam of teeth behind the moving lips. The words that the visitor uttered were harsh, discordant tones.

  "I am Gray Fist!" was his announcement.

  With the statement, the man raised his right arm. He thrust a clenched and threatening hand toward the faces of his prisoners. The hand was wearing a large gray glove. It seemed to loom larger than the man behind it, like a photograph out of perspective. The men on the cots stared at that outstretched hand.

  They saw the fingers open, then close into the clutching form of a fist.

  "This," declared Gray Fist, in his discordant tone, "is the hand with which I grip my enemies. Those who have felt the clutch of Gray Fist have never known it to loose!"

  Cliff Marsland was studying the features of the speaker. In the dim light, Gray Fist seemed grotesque.

  The harder Cliff stared, the more he found himself blinking. A sense of dizzied weariness made him give up the effort. With a tired, sidelong glance, Cliff observed that Harry Vincent was leaning back against the wall at the end of his cot. Harry's eyes were closed; yet despite his fatigue, he too, was listening.

  Cliff copied the action. He saw a purpose in it. He feared that Gray Fist would become demanding; that this fiendish captor would want to know the identity of the master whom his prisoners served. By feigning grogginess, Cliff realized that he might be able to escape a cross-examination at the hands of Gray Fist.

  A chuckle came from Gray Fist. It broke into a harsh strain of chortling laughter. The captor had evidently divined the thoughts that his victims held.