As The Shadow whirled Kelson away with one hand and aimed for Smarley with
the other, he was flattened by a human avalanche of misguided attackers who mistook him for a foe intent on crime!
CHAPTER IV
MURDER WITHOUT PROFIT
FROM the moment that they sprawled The Shadow beneath them, eight attackers found that they had taken on an unruly bargain. They were unarmed, for even the detectives had shoved away their own guns at sight of a lone fighter going floorward.
The Shadow did not drop his gun, nor did he put it away; he needed it for Smarley, later. Nevertheless, he handled his present adversaries in a gunless style.
Doubling his knees, The Shadow drove his legs between a pair of plunging men and found two others. His feet met them so hard that they were hurled back into the mass behind them.
With a sideward roll, The Shadow took care of the two who were already upon him. Grabbing one, he flung the fellow against the other, so suddenly and vehemently that both were sprawled.
Out of the human tangle, The Shadow extricated himself, like a living knife slashing its way to freedom. He had not reached his feet yet, but it did not matter. He was able to deal with his quarry: Jake Smarley.
Profiting by the brawl at the doorway, the bookie cut across the room, past Melbrun's desk, timing his flight well. The crook had escaped the notice of the new invaders; Kelson saw him, but the secretary's shouts went unheard.
Smarley was counting on a clean getaway, through the rear door that he had
previously unlocked. But The Shadow still could reach him.
This time, Kelson wasn't in the path of the black-cloaked marksman's aim.
Nor did others interfere with The Shadow's thrust. The private detectives saw him, but the point of his automatic indicated Smarley. Seeing the metal money box beneath the bookie's arm, the dicks realized that they had grabbed the wrong invader.
They had heard of The Shadow, master avenger who battled crime. They expected him to drop Smarley with a single blast. He would have accomplished the worthwhile deed, if the dicks hadn't yelled encouragement.
Hearing the shout, Smarley wheeled about just short of the rear exit. The Shadow's gun blasted just as the bookie turned. With the spurt of the .45, Smarley staggered backward. His stumble was accompanied by a resounding clang.
Luck was still with Smarley. His twist had put the metal cash box between his body and The Shadow's gun. Already a trophy of crime, the box served Smarley as a shield that stopped the bullet inches short of his heart.
Smarley's stagger carried him part way through the door. Instead of pursuing him, The Shadow took a long, upward spring toward the center of the room, ending with a vault across the desk. He was choosing the open door of the
safe as a new barricade from which to reopen fire.
The Shadow wasn't thinking of his own protection. His gun was enough defense against Smarley's fire. He was considering the men behind him, those invaders from the outer office. Wild shots from Smarley's revolver might clip them. The only course was to draw the crook's fire to another quarter.
Smarley fell for the game. He was wasting bullets, when The Shadow cleared
the desk. His last shots pinged the safe door after The Shadow was beyond it.
Smarley was yanking at a useless trigger, when he heard The Shadow's laugh, sinister and sibilant, a promise of coming doom. Frantically, Smarley turned and ran.
One shot was all The Shadow needed; he took deliberate aim, hoping to bring Smarley down. As yet, he did not regard Smarley as a master crook, but simply as a fugitive who had accomplished a crude, though somewhat daring, theft.
Straight through the doorway lay the fire tower, a dim background against Smarley's approaching figure. The mobster's back made a perfect target; as he ran, he was clutching the box in front of him, and therefore no longer had a shield.
It seemed that Smarley's new career of crime was due for a sudden finish, considering The Shadow's skill as a marksman.
Then intervention came, from a new source - the fire tower itself.
TWO thuggish figures leaped forward as Smarley neared them. Passing the running crook, they converged, opening fire as they came. They had spotted The Shadow's head and shoulders, rising above the top of the open safe door.
Their target was gone before they fired. Dropping instantly to the floor, The Shadow was out of sight as bullets whined above the huge safe door, which was ample enough for shelter. The gunners aimed lower, but their slugs merely pommeled the metal barrier. Again, they heard The Shadow's taunting laugh.
Then, almost from the floor, a gun fired upward. By a dipping twist, The Shadow had poked from cover below the level of the opposing fire. He was putting in quick jabs, with double purpose. Not only were the gunning thugs blocking his path to Smarley; their presence had become dangerous.
The two private detectives were hustling across the room, guns in hand, making for the rear exit. They thought that they could handle the opponents who
had failed to nick The Shadow. But the dicks didn't stand a chance against such
opposition; they were blundering right into serious trouble. The Shadow had to take a risk to save them.
Trained in all varieties of trick marksmanship, The Shadow's quick hand performed in a superhuman style. There were yells from the hallway, as crooks sprawled. Beyond the floundering thugs, The Shadow saw Smarley on the top step of the fire tower. The stoopy crook was turned about, a smirk on his face, watching to see The Shadow's finish.
When he saw his own gunners sprawl, Smarley did not wait for a further climax. He took an agile dive down the stairway, dropping from sight like a figure in a puppet show.
Smarley was quick enough to escape the shots that The Shadow delivered a few moments later. Immediately, the cloaked marksman halted fire. The private dicks were at the rear door and were dashing through, in pursuit of Smarley.
With them went another man, who scooped up a revolver that a wounded crook
had dropped. The third man was Kelson; the sallow secretary was anxious to redeem himself.
The Shadow followed. He trailed the chase to the street, stopping briefly at floors along the way. The Shadow foresaw a difficulty that the others did not anticipate: the prospect of other marksmen, down below. At one floor, through a window, he saw huddling men edging forward from a parked car across the way. The Shadow fired two quick shots that scattered them.
Still lower, The Shadow spied a rakish automobile wheeling in from a corner. He jabbed shots that caused the driver to whip the car across the sidewalk, so that occupants could leap out the other side and take to shelter.
Then, as The Shadow neared the ground, he heard a volley of shots, accompanied by the whining sirens of police cars.
Inspector Cardona was on the job. From out front, he had heard the sounds of battle high up in the building. He and his men knew what it meant and had smartly made for the rear of the building. More police were coming up to aid them, in what promised to be a major battle against hordes of crimeland.
Smarley had reached the street and was jumping into a waiting car. He was yelling something about The Shadow, and thugs in other cars could hear his shouts. Among those listeners were Smarley's three lieutenants: Grease, Banker,
and Clip. In their turn, they were bawling orders to the various thugs and snipers they had supplied for the present enterprise.
Things weren't panning out as Five-face had promised. This wasn't a mere cover-up job. It was the type of fray that might disclose the identities of the
lieutenants, along with that of Smarley.
Naturally, Five-face did not worry over his dilemma, for he intended to drop the guise of Smarley, anyway. But discovery could prove disastrous to the three lieutenants.
They hit upon a compromise. While yelling for men to cover Smarley, they put their own cars in motion. Opening fire upon police cars, they made it look as though they were trying to clear a path for others to follow. Actu
ally, they
were trying to save their own hides and faces.
Of course, they wanted Smarley to get clear, too, and he had a chance to make his getaway at the expense of the thugs who were out of their cars and spread along the street.
But Smarley hesitated. Thrusting his face from the window of his car, he waved his empty gun, pointing it toward the ground floor of the fire tower. At Smarley's yell, shooting thugs quit aiming at police cars.
They heard his shout:
"Get the guy with the specs!"
THE "guy with the specs" was Kelson, who had reached the street along with
the private dicks. Smarley's shout was followed by a quick-hissed order that came from the steps of the fire tower. The dicks heard it - The Shadow's command - and grabbed Kelson, to haul him back to safety. But the maddened secretary showed a sudden savagery.
Spinning about, he slashed his gun at his friends; as the dicks ducked, he
lurched from their grasp. Taking the last half dozen steps in a long leap, The Shadow made a grab for Kelson but lost him, as a stumbling detective blundered in between.
What happened in the next half second was something that even The Shadow could not prevent.
Springing wildly for Smarley's car, Kelson was met by a concerted fusillade from half-a dozen directions. Flayed by bullets, the sallow man jolted; twisting, he stumbled across the curb and sprawled in the gutter, to the tune of triumphant howls from the outspread firing squad.
Smarley's car was in motion; the master crook had dropped below the window. Maybe others still thought of him as Smarley, the fugitive, but The Shadow had him classed as a criminal of a fiendish caliber. Though others had fired the shots that killed Kelson, the real murderer was Smarley. He was the man that The Shadow wanted.
Springing from the fire tower, The Shadow reached the moving car. He was on its running board before the outspread snipers spied him. At sight of their archfoe, thugs wheeled to aim. The Shadow gave them no attention; he knew that,
by this time, the stings were gone from that crew of murderers.
The Shadow was right. Other guns were talking as he boarded Smarley's car.
The police had spotted the killers who put the blast on Kelson. Aiming thugs were hitting the asphalt and the sidewalks before they could tug their gun triggers.
Cardona and his amplified squad were performing double service: avenging Kelson's death and giving The Shadow a clear path to Smarley.
Yanking open the car door, The Shadow lunged for Smarley. In the front seat, a cowering mobster clung to the wheel, trying to get the car around the corner.
Smarley, in his turn, yanked open the door on the other side. When he saw The Shadow's big gun loom for him, he hurled the metal cash box at the weapon's
muzzle.
The Shadow's bullet plunked the dented box and dropped it to the floor of the car. Leaping for Smarley, who was diving to the street, The Shadow hooked the box with his foot and brought it along. It clattered the curb and lay there. Ignoring Smarley's lost trophy, The Shadow continued his pursuit.
Smarley was just past the corner when The Shadow fired. This time, a slug nicked chunks of brick from a building edge. Again, Smarley had managed to keep
a mere jump ahead of The Shadow, and the crook's luck held up.
Reaching the corner, The Shadow was greeted with shots from across the street; he dropped back to cover before foemen could find the range.
Those shots came from two cars: Grease commanded one, and Banker the other. There was a third car, even closer, with Clip in charge. As Smarley reached that car, all three vehicles sped away. They had doubled their tracks, escaping the police cars, and were off again before The Shadow could halt them.
A few unwise snipers were still about, which was why The Shadow could not follow. Arriving police spied the crooks shooting at an imaginary target.
Somehow, somewhere, The Shadow had whisked to cover like a wraith of evaporating smoke.
There were shots from somewhere in the darkness; yells, as ugly-faced gunners came tumbling into sight from doorways where they lurked.
Then a strange, mocking laugh - a promise of vengeance upon other men of crime, who had escaped along with Smarley. Listening police heard the trail of The Shadow's eerie taunt; it seemed to blend with the distant sirens of patrol cars that were hunting for a trail.
INSPECTOR CARDONA reached the corner. He was a stocky, swarthy man, his expression a poker face. He listened while the private detectives told him about Smarley's raid, The Shadow's intervention, and Kelson's death.
By then, an officer was approaching with the much-battered cash box. The private detectives promptly identified it as the box containing Melbrun's hundred thousand dollars.
"The money is safe, anyway," decided Cardona. "It doesn't make up for losing Kelson; he was a game guy. Still, he wanted us to get this box back, and
we did, thanks to The Shadow."
Eyeing the lid of the cash box, Cardona saw that it was loose on its hinges. As a mere matter of routine, to certify before witnesses that the money
had been saved for Melbrun, Cardona inserted a revolver muzzle under the lid and
gave a wrench.
Then Cardona's poker-faced expression was gone. He was staring with eyes as wide in amazement as those of the men about him. If ever Cardona had seen proof that crime did not pay, this was it. Crime couldn't have paid Smarley, even if he had taken the cash box along with him.
Instead of crisp green currency, the box was stuffed with blank checks and
old receipts. Tilting the box, Cardona let the worthless paper flutter to the sidewalk.
Except for the valueless contents, the box was entirely empty. Robbery had
been forestalled even before it was perpetrated, producing a mystery that the ace police inspector could not fathom!
From somewhere - perhaps in his own fancy - Cardona thought that he heard the whispered laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER V
CRIME'S RIDDLES
THE exclusive Cobalt Club, to which Lamont Cranston belonged, was noted as
a gathering place for limousines.
Sometimes the fancy line-up was jarred by the presence of a big official car which belonged to Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, who was also a member.
However, the commissioner's car was tolerated. It looked enough like a limousine to pass muster.
This evening, when Cranston arrived at the club, the commissioner's car was present. However, the doorman had a pained look on his face and was glowering at the commissioner's car. The Shadow understood the reason when he glanced across the street.
Parked on the other side, between two limousines, was an armored truck that had evidently come here at the commissioner's order.
In Cranston's strolling style, The Shadow entered the club. He knew that he would learn the reason for the armored truck as soon as he met Commissioner Weston.
Not only did Weston esteem Cranston's acquaintance, the commissioner was constantly trying to interest his wealthy friend in facts concerning crime.
Such matters seldom intrigued Cranston, which was why Weston pressed them all the more. By playing the indifferent role of Cranston, The Shadow therewith
received much information concerning police investigations.
Commissioner Weston, long impressed by The Shadow's uncanny knowledge, would have been amazed to learn that he made personal contributions to it.
Though he had not expected to see the armored truck, The Shadow had struck
upon a simple explanation for its presence by the time he reached the grillroom,
where the commissioner held important conferences.
Commissioner Weston was at his usual table. Seated opposite him was a dignified gentleman, whose keen, broad face and strong chin marked him as a man
of action. Though he had never met the visitor, The Shadow could have named him.
Weston's companion was Arnold Melbrun.
; As The Shadow joined the pair at the table, Weston hastened to introduce Melbrun to his friend Cranston. Melbrun gave a smile as he shook hands, but his
face immediately saddened. His hand, too, lacked the strong grip that should have come from a man of such commanding presence.
Melbrun's sorrowful expression was explainable. He had just heard the details of Kelson's death and was taking it as a severe blow.
"Poor Kelson!" he said sadly. "If I could only have foreseen the fate to which his loyalty would bring him -"
"You are not to blame," interrupted Weston. "You did the best thing under the circumstances, Melbrun. Thanks to your foresight, Smarley not only showed his hand but was doomed to failure. If others had only done their part -"
"Which they did not do," inserted Melbrun. "As a result, Kelson is dead."
Melbrun's voice was choky. It took an effort for him to recover his composure. Meanwhile, Weston was explaining matters to The Shadow, recounting the details from the start.
He told of the crew-money story that had appeared in the afternoon newspapers; how it had induced a crook named Jake Smarley to raid Melbrun's office, with gunners waiting to aid his getaway.
Coming to the climax of his tale, the commissioner announced:
"Yet the box which Smarley took was worthless, Cranston. When Inspector Cardona recovered it, he found the money missing -"
"Because Mr. Melbrun had previously removed it," interposed The Shadow, in
a casual tone. "Fearing that criminals might make a thrust, he wisely took the funds with him when he left the office."
The commissioner stared, astonished. Such knowledge on the part of Cranston amazed him. Slowly, Weston began to nod; then, finding his voice, he demanded brusquely:
"Who gave you those details, Cranston?"
"I saw an armored truck outside the club," returned The Shadow, "and I find Mr. Melbrun inside. As for that suitcase" - he gestured, as he lighted a cigarette - "it isn't yours, commissioner. It happens to have Mr. Melbrun's initials on it."
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