Punch Baxton’s henchmen were surging toward the doorway. Roaring shots greeted them. One man went down, a second staggered. A third, close behind his fellows, fired at the blackened shape which he could barely see.
His shot, however, was too late. The Shadow, after his first quick volley, was in motion, heading along the hallway toward the front room.
He roared one departing shot. It stopped the lone gangster who had fired. The watcher from downstairs was shooting blindly. He, too, had caught a momentary glimpse of what appeared to be a human form.
His shots spattered the head of the stairway — the spot where The Shadow no longer lingered.
Now came the swarming gangsters. They reached the hall with Punch Baxton in their midst. The first arrival turned toward the front of the hallway. He caught the glint of The Shadow’s burning eyes, and fired as a taunting laugh announced The Shadow’s glide into the front room. The gunman was an easy target for The Shadow’s fire, but the black-garbed master was reserving his bullets.
Punch Baxton and his unscathed men were in the hallway. One saw the servant at the rear end of the hallway, but the frightened fellow gained the safety of the back stairs before the gangster could aim a shot in his direction. The man who had fired at The Shadow dashed toward the front room, the others following behind him.
One thought gripped the gangsters. A lone fighter had fled in that direction. They would trap him — slay him by force of numbers — wherever he might be hiding. The gunman who led the mad attack did not realize that he was after The Shadow; that his enemy was not in hiding, but was standing amid the darkness straight ahead.
As the mobsters reached close range, The Shadow roared his greeting. Long flashes of flame seared from the barrels of the formidable .45s.
Terrific and unexpected, the barrage caught Punch Baxton and his henchmen flat-footed. The first man toppled; the second sprawled. In the face of this scathing fire, Punch made a dive for the stairway.
One wounded man staggered after him. The laugh of The Shadow echoed through the hallway. It brought despair to dying mobsmen who lay where they had fallen. They had gained the fate which they deserved; the fate of criminals who offered battle to The Shadow.
Shrouded in darkness, The Shadow was standing at the side window of the front room. Deliberately, he had allowed Punch Baxton and one wounded mobster to escape. The two came clattering from the side door as The Shadow watched. With them was another pair of rogues — downstairs watchers — who were also in frenzied flight.
Two cars were parked outside a wall. The mobsters dashed through a gate and gained one vehicle. They started toward the street.
The Shadow made no effort to stop them. Instead, he sought to speed their wild escape. He fired three shots from the upstairs window, as the car spun on two wheels into the thoroughfare.
As if in echo to The Shadow’s volley, another automatic barked from far across the street. Cliff Marsland, seated in a parked coupe, was obeying his instructions. His shots, fired to the paving behind the fleeing car, added impetus to Baxton’s maddened driving.
Cliff Marsland’s coupe shot away. A police whistle sounded far down the street. Baxton’s henchmen, believing that they were being pursued, were firing back along the thoroughfare — at nothing.
The Shadow’s laugh sounded from the window. An ominous tone of mockery, it betokened doom for those who had fled. The cringing servant at the back of the hallway, joined now by others from above, paused before daring to advance toward the front room.
Blackness blotted the window where The Shadow stood. The blackness faded as a figure descended the outer wall. A bat-like phantom clinging to surface of stone, The Shadow paused, then made his weird departure into the blackness of the night.
When the frightened servants entered the front room a few minutes later, they found no one. One man grabbed the telephone to call the police; another peered everywhere, in search of a hidden person. The alarm was out for Punch Baxton and his handful of defeated raiders. Police were being summoned to this house, where dead and wounded gangsters lay. Yet no trace remained of the lone fighter who had waged the victorious battle. The Shadow had gained a victory over the most desperate crew of mobsters in all Manhattan. That conquest accomplished, The Shadow had departed, fading like a wreathe of smoke into the outer darkness! But in the ears of those who had heard it, still lingered the gibing merriment of The Shadow’s laugh!
CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW SEEKS
A RAKISH touring car shot past a red light on a Manhattan avenue. It whirled through a broken opening in the traffic, and headed for a side street. As Punch Baxton, the driver, uttered an oath, the strident cry of sirens sounded from far behind.
The touring car roared unmolested toward the center of a silent block. Brakes ground as the car came to a standstill. Punch was uttering low commands.
“Scram,” he ordered. “Through the alley. Drag Snooks along, a couple of you fellows. There’s a car waiting in the next street.”
The mobsters clambered from the car. Like scurrying rabbits, they headed for the blackness between two buildings. “Snooks,” the wounded gunman, managed to stagger along with the rest of the thugs.
“This is where we make our getaway,” growled Punch, as he pushed open a gate near the end of the alley. “I paid a grand for the car that’s here to pick us up. It’s worth it—” The mobsters reached the end of the alley. A new oath came from Punch Baxton.
The car that the gang leader had counted upon was not there!
Punch stepped into the light of the street. As his form came into view, a shot sounded from the sidewalk opposite.
Punch yanked out a gun. New shots blazed forth. In the face of fire, Punch turned back into the alley. His men were scurrying along the way that they had come. Snooks was forgotten. The wounded gangster had fallen and was crying out for aid.
Shots ricocheted after the retreating mobsmen. Those shots were a signal. The beam from a powerful searchlight illuminated the alley. Punch and his men were dashing directly into the terrific glare!
Cursing, Punch turned toward the gateway. His men followed his example. They were face to face with a dozen invaders.
Punch Baxton, toughest gang leader of New York’s underworld, asked no quarter. He knew that these were detectives. He would fight them to the end.
One shot was all that Punch fired. His bullet found its mark in a detective’s leg; Then came a volley of shots from the direction of the searchlight. Punch Baxton plunged forward, two bullets in his back. His wild-shooting henchmen had made no effort to surrender. They, too, collapsed from bullets dealt by the detectives.
A STOCKY figure entered the limelight. Detective Joe Cardona had set his ambush. He ordered his men to carry out the bodies. Two policemen appeared and approached the detectives. These uniformed men reported the chase that they had made.
Joe Cardona strode along the alley and reached the street, where Punch Baxton had expected Possum Quill to be waiting. The first man whom the detective encountered was Clyde Burke. The reporter followed as Cardona beckoned.
The detective reached a telephone, and called headquarters. Clyde listened to the conversation.
Cardona’s face became grim and satisfied as he concluded the call.
“Well, Burke,” said Joe, “you saw some action, didn’t you? You’ve picked up a good story just because you happened to be down at headquarters when a tip-off came in. Here’s the inside of it, Burke — I just got it from Inspector Klein.