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.
In Breddle's opinion, a fight a block away was as remote as the European war zone. His bland smile widened as he heard the gunfire dwindle. The fray was
bearing off in another direction, probably toward the twisty streets of Chinatown, where rioters could find holes and scurry into them.
Breddle gave a wise nod that calmed the neighboring merchants. They passed
the word along the booths. No need to worry any longer; old Breddle had given the nod. Glancing in Breddle's direction, other diamond sellers saw that the old-timer was talking with a customer as ardently as if the noise outside had been nothing more than a few firecrackers.
It chanced that Breddle's customer was Flush Tygert. The gambler was interested in buying diamonds in a big way. Practically all of Breddle's best gems were on the counter, but Flush wasn't satisfied.
Glancing at the adjoining booths, Flush quietly asked if Breddle could make deals with his nearest neighbors, provided that they had what Flush wanted. Figuring that his own stock would stand up in comparison, Breddle nodded. Beckoning to the other two merchants, he invited them to show the best they had.
None of the diamond sellers observed the thing that Flush took in with a casual glance out toward the street. Only Flush knew the size of the arcade battle; he was looking to see if it had produced the required result.
It had. The fray had drawn all available police from their usual posts, plain-clothes men as well as bluecoats. For once, the street in front of the Diamond Mart was totally unprotected.
Trays of diamonds came across the sides of Breddle's booth, thrust there by the adjoining merchants. They wanted Flush to compare their wares with those
that Breddle offered. With a grin that lacked gleam because of the glittering diamonds, Flush drawled:
"Thank you, gentlemen. I think that I can take all your gems!"
Had Breddle and the other merchants stared Flush in the eye, they might have guessed a most important secret. His features were undergoing a series of changes. He was Five-face, rather than Flush Tygert, though the gambler's countenance predominated during his facial betrayals.
But none of the three merchants was meeting the gaze of Five-face. They were staring at a gun muzzle that poked from the edge of Flush's coat.
Snakelike, the revolver wangled back and forth under its owner's skillful hand.
The gun point carried the hypnotic threat of a cobra's eye.
"Bring out the old valise," Flush told Breddle. "The one you always keep handy. Open it and put it on the floor below the counter."
BREDDLE followed instructions without a murmur. As he glanced at his fellow merchants, his eyes warned them not to make an unwise move. No one could
get away with wholesale robbery, here at the Diamond Mart. Flush Tygert would be
stopped before he could leave the building. Placing the valise as Flush ordered,
Breddle politely awaited the crook's next order.
"Start to put your trays away," said Flush. "When you get them below the counter, dump them into the bag. Don't let any of the gems splash over. I might
miss out on one I particularly want. In that case, Breddle, I'd have to give you
a bullet as a reminder to be more careful."
Tray by tray, the old merchant poured diamonds into the waiting bag. Even at Breddle's prices, which were low, the gems he had displayed ran close to two