Half a second later came the sequel that The Shadow expected. A front wheel of the touring car hit the curb. Had the driver been able to resist the jounce, the car would have hurtled onward, straight for The Shadow. But the car was driverless. The loose wheel gave when the machine took the jolt.
A machine gun began a wild rattle. Aiming late, its handlers had no chance to control it as the car careened. Bullets sprayed their marks along the white front of the warehouse, a dozen feet above The Shadow’s head.
Automatics boomed as the touring car rocketed past. The Shadow was stabbing quick shots into the huddled squad of crooks. Gunners lost their weapons. Oaths and cries sounded with the echoes of The Shadow’s shots. The touring car skidded across the street, its front wheels, twisted on a line, went up the opposite curb.
Figures sprawled to the sidewalk as the car stopped, half-tilted against a wall. Crooks lay slumped — all save one gunner who was still within the car. Over the bulwark of the door, this would-be slayer sought to bring a machine gun into play.
Vainly — he looked for signs of The Shadow against the white front of the warehouse. As the crook craned his neck forward, he heard a sound by the uplifted running board. Dropping the machine gun, he shot his arms forward toward a blackened shape that had arrived beside the car.
A blotting arm swished in the darkness. The side of an automatic thudded against the machine gunner’s capped head. The crook slumped back into the touring car. The Shadow moved away.
SPRAWLED on the sidewalk, under the glare of the twisted spotlight, was the dead form of the driver. Other crooks were stunned and wounded; but The Shadow’s aim at the murderous leader had not been a random effort.
The Shadow recognized the grimy face that the light revealed. It was that of “Togo” Mallock, a notorious figure in the badlands. A freelance killer, Togo called in henchmen only when he had special work to do.
Togo’s scattered crew were small-fry desperadoes, habitues of underworld dives who had been assembled for tonight’s duty. The leader eliminated, The Shadow could gain nothing by dealing further with the underlings.
Sirens were sounding from a distant street. Some beat-pounding patrolman must have heard the gunfire and put in a prompt alarm. The Shadow turned and swept swiftly toward the corner. Past it, he reached Moe’s cab. He whispered a quick order.
As Harry Vincent scrambled from the cab, Moe started the motor; then wheeled the car about. Harry was cutting off through an alley opposite. He had ample time to leave this vicinity on foot.
Moe headed for the corner of Ninety-second Street and followed past the warehouse. He stopped as a man sprang forward with waving arms.
It was Cliff Marsland, stalwart agent of The Shadow. As Moe stopped, Cliff turned to the front of an empty house. Another man arose beside him, a wiry, stoop-shouldered fellow. This was Hawkeye, Cliff’s companion.
Between them, The Shadow’s agents boosted a hunched figure into Moe’s cab. They had captured the fellow who had talked into the empty cab out front; grabbed him while he was cutting through to a get-away on Ninety-second Street.
“Had to sock him,” Cliff informed Moe. “He’s out. We tied him up and gagged him for good measure.”
A siren was whining from Ninety-first Street. A patrolman’s whistle shrilled from the same direction. Then, from the darkness beside Moe’s cab, the agents heard a command, delivered in a sinister whisper.
The Shadow had arrived.
Cliff and Hawkeye headed away, northward. They had a parked car ready. They could leave before a police cordon closed. The Shadow boarded Moe’s cab. The taxi driver shot into gear, then sped swiftly along the street. The Shadow, a prisoner in his clutch, was departing this area.
Five minutes later, officers were examining the wrecked taxi on Ninety-first Street. They had already inspected the crashed touring car and were awaiting arrival of an ambulance for the stunned and wounded crooks. They were surprised, however, to find the old cab without occupants.
Broken pieces of radio equipment lay within the ruins of the cab. Some parts had been scorched by flames which patrol car police had extinguished. The cops wondered what this apparatus meant.
They did not know that they had discovered the remains of a remarkable device. The Shadow had long since prepared this antiquated cab for special service. Radio-controlled, the old machine had responded to the switches which Harry Vincent had manipulated on the box in Moe’s cab.
The junky car, controlled in response to The Shadow’s signals, had rolled empty to the house on Ninety-first Street. Crooks had naturally supposed it to contain driver and passenger. The Shadow’s voice, through an amplifier, had aided in the deception.
Machine gun bullets had been wasted on the unoccupied cab. The Shadow had expected some trap; he had let the trappers reveal themselves. Then he had dealt with them after they supposed their work had been accomplished.
MOE’S cab had rolled southward. It stopped on a secluded street. The Shadow stepped forth into darkness. Over his cloaked shoulder he hoisted the limp form of the prisoner whom Cliff and Hawkeye had gained for him.
Moe waited, motor stopped and lights out, until The Shadow might return. The taxi driver could not sense the direction which The Shadow had taken. It was dark at this portion of the street. Shrouded gloom had blotted out The Shadow’s departure.
LATER came the click of a light switch. A bluish lamp glowed from the corner of a black-walled room. Beneath the flickering rays was a chair; in it, the hunched form of the informant who had become The Shadow’s prisoner.
The Shadow had carried the stunned man to this place. The prisoner was unbound and ungagged, within the walls of The Shadow’s secret sanctum. A pasty, droop-lipped face showed under the glare of the blue lamp. The Shadow’s laugh sounded from darkness beyond the focused spot.
Acquainted with the underworld, The Shadow knew the identity of this prisoner. The pasty-faced man was “Looney” Moken, a dip who had recently done time on Welfare Island after falling into the toils of the pickpocket squad.
Looney had presumably quit his light-fingered practices following his release. His new connection with Togo Mallock was an unusual wrinkle; one that interested The Shadow. He had brought Looney here, believing that the man might give information.
Looney was coming back to life. His lips twitched; his eyes opened. He blinked at the bluish glare and looked uneasy. Then he stared in terror as his ears caught the sound of a taunt from darkness. Looney knew the author of that laugh. The Shadow!
A whispered voice spoke. Its tones made Looney quake. Deep in the chair, the ex-dip licked his lips and tried to speak. His words, when they came, were plaintive.
“Don’t — don’t bump me!” gasped the hunched crook. “I’ll — I’ll squawk! I ain’t in on nothin’ I wantta be in on. Honest! It — it was Togo made me work — Togo Mallock.”
“Speak!” ordered The Shadow, in his sinister whisper. “Tell all you know.”
“I wisht I knowed more than I do,” gulped Looney, his hands shaking as they sought the arms of the chair. “But I don’t know nothin’ much. Nobody knows, except Togo. He gotta holt of me ‘long about nine o’clock tonight.”
“State Togo’s purpose,” came the whispered monotone.
“He wanted me to watch de house where dis guy Powlden lived,” explained Togo. “I didn’t wantta do it; but Togo said if I didn’t, he’d frame me wid de bulls. It woulda been back to de Island for me.
“Togo greased me wid a century. Off a big wad of mazuma he had on him. I didn’t want no century spot, so he gives me a batch of fins instead. Here’s de dough — in my pocket.”
Fumbling, Looney pulled a wad of money from his pocket. Five-dollar bills fluttered to the floor as the dip showed his anxiety to get rid of the incriminating cash. Looney had lost all urge to hold the hundred dollars that he had received from Togo.