Moe took up his report from that point.
“It’s Gyp’s place,” he informed, in a whisper. “3 G is his apartment. But Moe’s gone. Maybe he picked up some passenger. It might be Gyp. I told Moe what he looked like—”
“Report received,” came a hissed interruption. “Off duty.”
Hawkeye nodded. He moved away from the apartment house, almost reluctantly. He thought he heard a swish close beside him. As he turned to cross the street, Hawkeye could not resist the temptation to dart a glance toward the entrance of the apartment house.
There he caught a momentary glimpse of blackness upon the stone steps of the apartment building.
Hawkeye did not see The Shadow. Only that token on the steps, a fleeting silhouette of a figure that had entered.
UP in Apartment 3 G, Skeeter was seated in the easy-chair that Turk Berchler had occupied. Mahmud had been here to give him orders. The Hindu had departed, leaving him alone.
Smoking a cigarette. Skeeter was staring at the floor. His eyes became suddenly affixed upon the same manifestation that Hawkeye had seen below. A profiled silhouette upon the floor.
A soft laugh whispered in the room. Skeeter gripped the arms of the chair and twisted about. The cigarette dangled foolishly from his pasty lips, its lighted point almost burning his chin. Before him, Skeeter saw The Shadow!
Like an apparition, the master of darkness had entered the room. Soundlessly, he had closed the door behind him. He had seen that Skeeter was alone. Instinctively, The Shadow had known that Gyp Tangoli was gone: that Moe Shrevnitz must have taken the dark-visaged crook as a passenger outside.
Blazing eyes were steady upon Skeeter. They burned from beneath The Shadow’s hat brim, from the face that was obscured by the upturned collar of the inky cloak. Again, the whispered laugh. No need of questioning.
Skeeter came half to his feet, plucking the cigarette from his lips, only to let it fall to the floor.
“Honest,” he whimpered. “Honest — I–I ain’t been doin’ nothin’. It’s Gyp Tangoli! He — he’s the guy you want. He — he had me spottin’ a guy named Willington.”
“Gyp’s gone. I–I don’t know where to. He was gone when I got here. I–I had to stay here. Gyp would bump me if I squealed. There was a guy here with him. Turk—”
Skeeter saw The Shadow whirl; at the same instant, gloved hands swept from beneath the cloak, bringing forth huge automatics. That was Skeeter’s last glimpse of life. For at that moment, two whirring objects came flashing through the room, each from a different door.
Unseen even by The Shadow, Mahmud and Bundha had stepped up to the doorway. Simultaneously, the cunning Hindus had sent long-bladed knives hurtling through the air, each with a different target.
MAHMUD’S aim had been for the traitor, Skeeter Wigan. The blade found its mark, deep in the neck of the pasty-faced crook.
Bundha’s target had been The Shadow. Only a sudden knowledge of danger had saved the cloaked intruder. The Shadow had whirled just in time.
As his cloak swept wide, Bundha’s blade went slashing through the crimson lining of the black-surfaced garment, inches only from The Shadow’s body. An instant later, both Hindus came hurtling across the room. Ignoring Skeeter as the little crook went slumping to the floor, they leaped fiercely upon their black-clad foe.
Even with his rapid whirl, The Shadow had not time to fire before his dark-visaged attackers were upon him. He had spun completely about to escape the hurled knife. Fading toward the wall, he dropped beneath the crashing force of the attack.
These Hindus were thugs. Professional killers, banished from their native land, they had a lust for murder.
With amazing prowess, they caught The Shadow’s upcoming wrists and twisted the cloaked fighter in a ferocious grapple.
Automatics blazed. Both shots went wide as the Hindus gripped The Shadow’s arms.
The Shadow’s left fist opened. Its automatic went bouncing to the floor. One weapon lost.
Bundha, the Hindu at the left, emitted a hoarse cry of triumph as he released The Shadow’s arm and leaped toward the automatic.
But that move had been a master stroke of strategy. Combined, the two thugs were as powerful as any enemy that The Shadow had ever encountered. Realizing it, he had dropped the gun as bait for one.
Mahmud had The Shadow’s right arm in a bone-crushing grip. But as Bundha leaped away, The Shadow shot his free left to Mahmud’s neck. With a mighty upward snap of his body, he sent the Hindu spinning through the air. Mahmud’s grip was torn away. The would-be killer went hurtling for a dozen feet, straight through the doorway from which he had come.
Dropped to his knees, The Shadow rolled for the floor as Bundha fired with the automatic. The bullet sizzled six inches above the folds of the black cloak. Bundha was surging forward as he fired. As the thug sought to press the trigger with new aim, The Shadow fired with the automatic that he had retained.
Bundha screamed. His arms shot forward. His body came pounding down upon The Shadow’s prostrate form. Rising, The Shadow gave a push with his left shoulder. The thug’s body rolled over and lay face upward on the floor. Bundha was dead. The Shadow’s bullet had found the villain’s heart.
THE SHADOW heard a sound from the next room. Swinging to the wall, he reached the doorway. A door slammed from beyond. The Shadow sprang forward. The room was a kitchen. Mahmud, recovering, had headed through the outer door, locking it behind him.
The Shadow stepped back into the living room. He could hear cries from outside; shouts coming from different sections of the apartment house.
Calmly, he picked up the telephone and dialed a number. Burbank’s voice responded.
“Report,” whispered The Shadow.
“Report from Moe Shrevnitz,” came Burbank’s answer, “He took Gyp Tangoli and Turk Berchler to the Club Cadiz. Overheard their conversation. They plan to murder Cuyler Willington.”
“Report received.”
People were crashing at the door of the apartment. The Shadow turned and viewed the bodies on the floor. Bundha lay face upward; Skeeter face downward. The crook, like the thug, was dead.
The Shadow stepped into the kitchen; the illumination was dim there, for all the light came from the living room. He crossed and inserted a pick in the lock. Mahmud had taken the key from the other side.
Crashes at the outer door. They meant nothing to The Shadow. He needed but a dozen seconds to probe this lock. The door opened. The Shadow stepped forth. He was on a fire tower. As yet, no one had thought of this way of reaching the apartment.
The Shadow descended. He stepped into darkness; he faded away through a narrow passage between buildings at the rear. His whispered laugh sounded in the gloom. He had found the destination that he wanted. That was the Club Cadiz.
Knowing the ways of crooks like Gyp Tangoli and Turk Berchler, The Shadow was sure that their attempt to murder Cuyler Willington would not be hasty. He had time to arrive before death would be due.
But The Shadow had not yet learned of Cuyler Willington’s counter measures. The doom that threatened at the Club Cadiz was more imminent than even The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER XIV. DARK DEATH STRIKES
CUYLER WELLINGTON was standing by the roulette table in the gambling room of the Club Cadiz.
The apparatus had been raised on its elevator, ready for the evening’s play. That measure had been taken before the admission of the customers.
Even though he knew the secret of the device, Willington was unable to note the marks on the carpeting that indicated the edges of the elevator platform.
Smiling, he was pleased with the ingenuity of Nicky Donarth’s contraption.