Living things came into the light: a pair of hands that moved like detached creatures. They were slender hands, yet sinewy, showing power beneath the velvety surface of the long, tapering fingers. Upon the third finger of the
left hand shone a strange gem, with ever-changing hues that ran the gamut of the
spectrum.
The stone was a girasol, a magnificent fire opal, unmatched in all the world. The iridescent gem proclaimed the identity of its owner, but only to the
privileged few, who knew the significance of the gleaming token. The girasol was
The Shadow's token.
This room was The Shadow's sanctum, a hidden headquarters where darkness always persisted. Buried in the heart of Manhattan, its very location a deep-guarded secret, the sanctum was the place wherein the master avenger formed his plans to frustrate men of crime.
Newspaper clippings moved about under the touch of The Shadow's fingers.
He was arranging them along with report sheets from his agents: stacks of data,
that often proved important.
Tonight, they meant nothing.
The quest for Jake Smarley had been fruitless. The missing bookie had completely vanished. The Shadow's competent agents had scoured hide-out after hide-out ahead of the police, and had found no trace of crime's new overlord.
Nevertheless, a whispered laugh stirred the sanctum's blackness. The Shadow had probed crime's depths, and understood. He was no longer thinking in terms of Jake Smarley; he was considering the possible moves of a supercrook who had discarded the bookie's guise.
Negative results had told The Shadow that he was seeking a criminal who had more faces than one. He had therewith instructed his agents to drop the search for Smarley. Instead, they were watching for massed moves on the part of
lesser crooks, as sure proof that crime's master hand would again be conniving evil.
A tiny light twinkled on the sanctum's wall. Lifting a pair of earphones, The Shadow clamped them to his head. As the light extinguished itself, a methodical voice came over the wire:
"Burbank speaking -"
"Report!"
At The Shadow's command, Burbank, the contact man, gave long-awaited news.
Crooks were on the move; their destination had been discovered. The Shadow's agents were covering the scene, awaiting the arrival of their chief.
A long hand lifted itself from the table, vanished into darkness. There was a click as the bluish light went off. A low, weird laugh stirred the sanctum, fading with The Shadow's departure.
WITHIN the next quarter hour, a taxicab swung from a side street and followed the Bowery, moving slowly along that famous thoroughfare.
There was a double reason for the cab's slow progress. An elevated railway
ran above the Bowery, impeding speed. In addition, the street was a favorite haunt for shambling bums, who crossed the thoroughfare with little regard for traffic.
Besides those reasons, there was a third cause for the cab's reduced speed.
There was a passenger in the cab, though it looked quite empty. Seated deep in the rear seat, The Shadow, fully cloaked, was enveloped in darkness as he gazed from the window. His keen eyes were studying lights along the street.
For the most part, the Bowery was gloomy, but one building showed a stretch of brilliance.
It was the Diamond Mart. Oddly situated in this doubtful section of Manhattan, the Mart formed an exchange where huge deals in gems were transacted
daily. Its ground floor teemed with booths, the headquarters of merchants who displayed their diamonds and serenely made sales totaling many thousands of dollars, as if dealing in mere trifles.
The evening being early, the Mart was still open. Its doorway was wide; the portals seemed to welcome visitors. But the Diamond Mart was as closely guarded as the United States Mint. To start trouble within its walls would be akin to suicide.
Along the Bowery, The Shadow saw policemen, who were regularly assigned to
guard the Diamond Mart. They were like figures in a guessing puzzle; there were
about twice as many as the eye would ordinarily suppose. In addition to the bluecoats, plain-clothes men were on duty. Patrol cars were also in the neighborhood.
It happened that The Shadow's present destination was a block south of the
Diamond Mart. Knowing that crooks were about, he wisely gave the Mart a careful
inspection as he passed. Had anything disturbed the calmness of the scene, The Shadow would have paused for further study; but it happened that the building was as serene as he had ever seen it.
Inside the Mart were special watchmen, who spotted suspicious customers at
sight. Knowing their capability, The Shadow spoke a low-toned order to his driver and the cab proceeded onward. The next place that needed observation was
The Shadow's special goal, an arcade that ran from the Bowery to another street.
The arcade formed a contrast to the Mart. Long, low-roofed, it offered shelter to the riffraff of the neighborhood, and such characters were plentiful.
At this hour, the arcade was rather dark, and as he passed it The Shadow noted that it held more than its usual quota of human drifters. He observed, too, that many shamblers were circulating about, always keeping within close range of the arcade.
Among these, The Shadow recognized his own secret agents, four in number.
Two of them frequently patrolled the badlands, and were therefore quite at home. The other pair were posing as panhandlers and were doing a good job of it, but they were careful to remain in the offing so as not to be too conspicuous.
Reports were correct: crooks were assembling at the arcade. They were passing themselves as the lowest of human scum, which wasn't difficult, for they were rats by trade. But the arcade, itself, offered no target for crime.
Having covered the Diamond Mart, The Shadow decided to take a look at Chinatown, only a few blocks away.
The cab in which The Shadow rode was his own. Its driver, Moe Shrevnitz, was one of The Shadow's agents and a very capable hackie. At his chief's order,
Moe weaved the cab into Chinatown, where a slow rate of speed was natural.
Chinatown proved as quiet as the Diamond Mart. Along the curve of Doyers Street, The Shadow saw patrolmen on their regular rounds. All was quiet near the corner of Mott and Pell, the real center of the district. Moe continued his
roundabout course, finally making another trip past the Diamond Mart.
The cab halted there, abruptly, to let another cab stop. The Shadow saw the man who alighted, watched him wave an affable greeting to a detective who shifted into sight. The dick recognized the arrival; so did The Shadow. The man
from the cab was Flush Tygert.
HE was a different Flush Tygert from that afternoon. He was more prosperous in appearance. Flush was wearing a natty-looking suit; the lights from the Mart brought a gleam from a diamond on his finger, and his cuff links showed the same sparkle. Moreover, Flush had cash. He showed a bundle of it when he paid the cab driver.
Flush peeled his bank roll like a head of lettuce. He had thumbed through ten-dollar bills and twenties before he found a stray five among the fifties.
He used the smaller bill to pay the driver. While the cabby was finding difficulty in making the change, Flush stuffed the big roll back into his pocket.
Chance played its hand right then.
A scrawny bum was slouching past the Diamond Mart. The shambler showed interest at sight of the cash. He shoved himself toward Flush, mouthing something about "sparing a dime." Flush gave a glance at the fellow's pasty face, then told him to be on his way.
The detective stepped forward; the bum made a quick scramble. A little farther along, he stopped to tell another panhandler what had happened. Both threw quick glances back at Flush.
This episode had all the markings of a well-timed act. It looked as though
the two bums were on hand to spot how much cash Flush had with h
im. The gambler's bank roll certainly ran into thousands of dollars, big enough game to
account for the assemblage down in the old arcade.
Diamond cut diamond; crook rob crook. The set-up impressed The Shadow, as his cab wheeled away. Flush Tygert was certainly flush tonight, and the news had been passed along.
As for Flush's presence at the Diamond Mart, it was natural enough. The Shadow had listed Flush and his habits, long ago. Records showed him to be a gambler who played the ocean liners, varying his trips, traveling to Europe and
South America. When he came back with big winnings, Flush always invested them in diamonds.
Not having seen Flush that afternoon, The Shadow naturally assumed that the gambler had been lucky on his last South American excursion, since European
voyages were no longer popular. Therefore, his trip to the Diamond Mart was logical.
Flush might rate as a crook on boats beyond the twelve-mile limit; on shore, he passed muster. The Shadow classed him as a normal customer at the Diamond Mart.
Elsewhere, Flush might be prey, either for his cash or his diamonds, particularly if he passed the old arcade after he left the Mart.
On the chance that such might be the case, The Shadow decided to drop in on the meeting place where he had seen too many mobsters. At his order, Moe swung the cab past the next corner.
Flush Tygert had not seen The Shadow. It was unfortunate, therefore, that the unseen cab rider had not waited a little longer. For Flush performed his next action in a fashion that was a trifle too dramatic. Pausing in the doorway
of the Diamond Mart, the crook tried to light a cigarette with a lighter that worked too well.
Several times, Flush's ticking thumb produced a flame, which he promptly suppressed. He didn't want his light as soon as he was getting it. An elevated train was approaching, high above. As it came by, Flush finally let the cigarette lighter work, and held the flame steadily until the train had roared beyond him.
Then, with a gleaming smile, the man who called himself Five-face stepped into the welcoming portals of the Diamond Mart. Flush Tygert had used his cigarette lighter to touch off crime of a most unusual sort.
Things about to come would reveal the planning of a master plotter whose tricky schemes were to convince The Shadow that a real brain had designed them.
Crime was due, in the very presence of The Shadow, before he could reach the main scene of its action!
CHAPTER VIII
CRIME IN REVERSE
IT took The Shadow just three minutes to reach the vantage point he wanted: the rear street in back of the old arcade. During that interim, the elevated train stopped at a station and an oily faced man stepped off.
The passenger was Grease Rickel; he had caught the signal given by Flush Tygert with his cigarette lighter.
In his turn, Grease was spied by crooks below. He didn't have to leave the
elevated platform. He merely stepped to the rail and gave a quick gesture. It started the real fireworks. Flush had supplied the flame; Grease was the fuse.
Instantly, a brawl broke loose outside the old arcade. It looked as though
two bums had started to grab for a loose dime that they saw in the gutter and their scramble brought a flood of others, like sparrows flocking for a crust of
bread.
The sudden strife brought shouts from policemen, followed by the pound of footbeats. Then, as the brawl increased, a whistle sounded.
Fighters accepted the police signal as their own. Not only did they break apart; there was a flash of revolvers, followed by quick-stabbed shots in the direction of the officers. Diving for shelter of doorways and elevated pillars,
the police pulled their own guns, to return the fire.
Like a thing rehearsed, the swirl of shabby men went into the entrance of the arcade. Thinking the opposition poorly armed and in retreat, the officers followed, their own fire bringing up reserves, who were prompt to aid them.
No outside aid could have stopped the coming slaughter. The charging police were thrusting themselves into the ugliest ambush ever designed in the badlands.
Seldom did crime's success depend upon such wholesale killing. Few big brains of crime, no matter how fiendish or desperate, cared to stir the vengeance of the law by a massacre of policemen. But tonight's crime had a reverse twist which slaughter would aid, and it was being managed by a supercrook who could laugh at the law after the deed was done.
The police would never find Five-face, no matter how far they looked for him. He had wiped out one personality, that of Jake Smarley. He could as easily
dispose of his present guise. With crime done, Flush Tygert would no longer exist.
Five-face had given the word for slaughter in the name of Flush Tygert, and gleeful mobsters were eager to deliver death. Banked within the entrance of
the old arcade were two squads of marksmen, four to a side, waiting for the decoys to bring the police into the fatal mesh.
No longer posing as bums, the killers held big revolvers of .45 caliber.
They had chosen the "smokewagons" as weapons in order that their bullets would produce a fuller share of carnage. As the last batch of decoys came diving into
shelter, a harsh voice gave the word:
"Give it!"
With the signal, assistance came to the officers, who were already in full
sight. It didn't come from outside the arcade; that was impossible. The men who
sprang the surprise were in the very midst of the crooks.
Four in number, The Shadow's agents. One pair had entered the arcade earlier; the other two had hurried in with the decoys. But all four had the same objective.
Whipping out guns of their own, they flung themselves upon the firing squads, slashing hard at heads and arms, determined to prevent the reception that the crooks intended for the police.
Guns blasted, wildly. The whole arcade roared, its confines magnifying the
fusillade to the tumult of a cannonade. Stabs of flame issued in all directions,
except the one that crooks intended.
Bullets were digging the low roof and walls of the arcade; slugs were whistling over the heads of the police and ricocheting from the sidewalk. But the charging police were still coming, unscathed by the fire!
They saw what had happened; how a few valiant men had hurled themselves on
twice the number. The officers weren't shooting any longer; they didn't want to
harm their friends. But the police were blocked when they tried to return the rescue.
A veritable flood of howling hoodlums gushed from the arcade, pouring down
upon the forces of the law. Guns were everywhere, slugging at close quarters.
In
a trice, the officers were fighting for their own lives against a formidable horde. It looked like sure death for the four unknown valiants who had spoiled the ambush.
Then, supreme amid the tumult, came a battle challenge that drowned all cries and shots. It broke from the very heart of the arcade, signifying an attack that was coming from the rear.
It stood for a lone fighter; a champion of justice who cared nothing about
odds, a warrior whom crime had never conquered. Alone, he was more formidable than an entire squad; his very strength lay in his solitary ability to be everywhere, yet nowhere, when he hurled himself against a mass of foemen.
The battle laugh of The Shadow!
IN answer to that taunt, crooks forgot all else. The Shadow's agents were hurled aside by men who wanted to get at crime's archfoe. Fighting police suddenly found that they were struggling only with thugs who couldn't get loose
to return into the arcade. Like a massive tide, the pour of killers had reversed
itself.
Mobsters couldn't see The Shadow. They knew only that he was somewhere in the darkened arcade, and they wanted to smother him en masse before he could escape. They had turned themselves into a living juggernaut, numbering more
than a score. No one, not even The Shadow, could stand against such a surge.
So
crooks thought, but they were wrong.
They were met by blasting guns, a brace of .45 automatics that The Shadow handled with utter ease. His shots were directed at the very center of the overwhelming wave, while thugs were clumsily trying to get their big revolvers into play.
The tide broke as men stumbled, and The Shadow lunged into its very vortex, like a diver going beneath a sweep of surf.
Snarling crooks wheeled from the flanks. The thing had happened at what seemed the very start of battle. The Shadow had gone almost before they realized it, but they knew where to find him: somewhere in their own midst.
A clever trick on The Shadow's part, but only a temporary stopgap. A suicidal move, if ever a fighter had made such.
Crooks had forgotten the cops out in the street. Outnumbering the few thugs who had remained to battle them, the police were free for another charge.
They made it, at the very moment when the billow of crooks reversed itself to trap The Shadow. Under the unexpected drive, the maddened thugs were caught entirely off guard.
They were surging again toward the rear of the arcade, but not at their own desire. They were being propelled by a storming mass of blue-coated warriors, whose guns were stabbing devastating close-range shots that thinned the swirl of hoodlums.
Given a foothold by The Shadow, the police were turning the fight into a rout. Mobsters, not officers, were taking the brunt of bullets before they could reply with their own guns.
Along with the blast of guns, staggering crooks heard The Shadow's laugh, mocking in its triumph, from somewhere near the front of the arcade. The police
had literally bowled the enemy clear of their black-clad prey!
WITHIN the Diamond Mart, sounds of battle were quite audible, but by no means ominous. Most of the shooting was muffled within the arcade, the guns that the diamond merchants heard seemed sporadic in their fire.
Behind a little counter that barely gave him room to spread his portly elbows, one fat-faced jeweler turned his head and smiled blandly at his neighbors. He was old Breddle, who had been in business at the Diamond Mart almost since its opening day. Rioting in this neighborhood did not disturb him.
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