The box from the truck hit the curb just as the first container puffed. The second box furnished its supply of fumes, to envelop the three crooks who were aiming toward the door.
Duke Unrig saw that trio do their clawing dive. The big-shot gave a roar as a third box was pitched in his direction.
Jumping toward the bank wall, Duke escaped the devastating puff that came from the third box. He aimed his revolver at the door of the truck. Before he could fire, a gun spoke from the very spot toward which Duke aimed. The big-shot gave a howl and staggered, clutching a wounded shoulder.
Hard upon Duke's bellow came a strident laugh; its challenging mockery froze Duke's open lips. That truck was not the one the crooks expected. It was another, that had purposely arrived early; and its commander was The Shadow. The crew consisted of men who served as agents of the black clad crime-fighter.
While Duke gawked from amid his writhing, crawling crew, the door of the armored truck slammed shut.
The wheeled fortress rolled onward to further action, straight for the corner where Cliff Marsland had the reserve crew.
Those crooks did exactly what Cliff expected. They went berserk. Springing from their lurking spots, some peppered the armored truck with revolver bullets; while others clattered the steel vehicle with streams of slugs that drilled from submachine guns. The bullets bashed like putty when they hit the thick metal walls.
The only shots that took effect were those that blasted with intermittent precision from the loopholes of the armored truck. The Shadow and his accompanying marksmen were picking off every gunner who showed himself in the open. That included all except Cliff Marsland who remained under cover as arranged.
Fire from the street was finished when The Shadow's fortress wheeled a corner. Clipped crooks were crawling along the gutters yelping curses. Their epithets were drowned by the shriek of sirens from the other direction.
Up to the bank came the expected armored truck, accompanied by officers on motorcycles. The police had received a last-minute tip to meet the truck on its way to the Gotham Trust and convoy it the rest of the trip.
LOOKING along the street Cliff saw Duke make a mad jump for the taxi that his henchmen had occupied. Though he had one arm crippled, Duke performed wonders.
He wheeled the cab on a wide arc to drive in the opposite direction. He whizzed between a pair of motorcycle officers before they could halt him. The policemen fired a barrage of bullets; then took up the chase. Shots sounded farther away as Duke ran the gauntlet of arriving patrol cars.
Officers had corralled the five members of Dukes tear-gassed crew. The thugs were recovering from the temporary effects of that choking vapor to find themselves completely out of luck.
The bank watchmen had also recuperated and were trying to explain matters. Police were coming along the street to round up the thugs who had been winged from the armored truck.
It was time for Cliff to clear out. He took a last quick look; saw something that halted him.
One thug had crawled back to a doorway. He was crouched above a machine gun pointing it along the sidewalk. He was ready to let the cops have it. Cliff took prompt care of that matter.
It was twelve feet to the doorway where the thug had his back to Cliff. Pulling a revolver, Cliff reversed the weapon as he sprang forward. He gave the thug a short, hard tap behind the right ear.
The thud from the gun handle took perfect effect. The crook caved, senseless; the machine gun clattered beside him as he sprawled.
Turning about, Cliff made a quick run for the corner close behind him. He jumped in one of the reserve crew's sedans and drove away just as an officer reached the corner. There was a command to halt; shots followed.
Cliff did not stop. He was out of range. A few minutes later, he was entirely clear of the zone that the police had occupied.
Cliff had a definite destination. The captured members of his reserve crew would realize that their own folly had brought them wounded into the hands of the law. When they guessed that Cliff was still at large, their natural conclusion would be that he had been the only one to use his head. They would regard Cliff as a smart crook; a real credit to the underworld.
Even the thug that Cliff had slugged would have nothing to blab. His opinion would be that some cop had tapped him; he would never blame it on Cliff.
Hence to preserve his phony status, Cliff's game was to play the part. The natural move was to seek a hide-out and stay there. It was unlikely that any captured thugs would blab his name; nevertheless a few days' sojourn in a hideaway would be the conventional underworld procedure.
CLIFF had the place. After he abandoned the touring car, he went there. He reached a darkened spot in back of an old bowling alley.
The clatter of bowling pins sounding through the rear window, drowned the groaning of metal that came when Cliff drew down the hinged extension of a fire escape. This was his route to an empty rear room on the second floor of the old building.
Despite his care, Cliff was heard. A whispered voice spoke from darkness at his elbow when Cliff was on the second step of the extension. One word was spoken:
"Report!"
It was The Shadow. In undertone, Cliff gave the details of all that had followed after The Shadow's departure. There was a pause, while a huge clatter told of some bowler's ten-strike. In the ensuing silence The Shadow spoke:
"You told Duke the location of this hide-out. If he escaped he will send word to you. Use any chance for that contact! Learn everything possible!"
Silently, The Shadow was gone. Cliff sneaked up the fire escape. As he reached the hide-out he recalled one slight detail that he had forgotten to state to The Shadow. That was the fact that Cliff had moved from cover to tap the last machine-gunner.
The detail was more important than Cliff supposed. Back at the Gotham Trust, the street had cleared when bony fingers closed the curtains of the upstairs window in the restaurant. Eyes that had watched from that space had seen all that occurred, including Cliff's elimination of the last thug.
Soon afterward a lean, stooped figure left that little restaurant, moving at a rapid spidery gait. Lips, buried in a well-wrapped muffler, were muttering pleased words. Last night this observer had placed Harry Vincent; tonight he had labeled Cliff Marsland.
Insidiously, links were being welded in a chain that would later enwrap The Shadow.
CHAPTER VII. THE LAST PAY-OFF
IT was late the next evening when Cliff Marsland awoke from a jerky doze in the blackness of his hide-out. He rolled softly from his army cot, reached for a gun beneath the bundled sweater that he used as a pillow.
Cliff had heard the clang of footsteps on the fire escape just below his window. He waited for the sound to recur. Instead, there was a rattle of a different sort. Something scaled through the window; hit the floor with a tinny thud.
After listening for half a minute, Cliff crept to the window. He heard a slight clatter down below.
Someone was completing his descent. The answer to the visit would be found in the object that had come through the window.
Using a flashlight along the floor, Cliff found an old tobacco can. It contained a badly scrawled message in pencil. Cliff recognized the handwriting; it was Duke's, but badly off normal. Evidently the big-shot had barely had strength to complete it.
The painful message gave Cliff an address not far from Cliff's own hideout. Duke wanted to see his lieutenant. In a hurry. That was all.
Five minutes later Cliff was in the darkness of an outside alleyway. He gave a low psst; a hunchy little man joined him. He was "Hawkeye," a clever spotter who knew every crevice of the underworld.
Hawkeye was The Shadow's agent who had helped Cliff tie up Wally a few nights before.
Cliff told Hawkeye of Duke's message and added the opinion that Duke was probably in bad shape. No time could be wasted. Hence Cliff suggested that Hawkeye call Burbank; and come to the vicinity of Duke's hide-out, afterward.
That suited Hawkeye. Th
e agents separated.
Duke's hide-out was over an abandoned pawnshop, whose proprietor had moved to a better location.
Outside the building, Cliff took a look around. He saw no one. That was where Cliff had made a mistake in not bringing Hawkeye.
Across the street, a lean, stooped figure chose a better hiding place the moment that Cliff entered the door that led to Duke's present quarters.
Hawkeye would have spotted the observer that Cliff had failed to notice. The new cover that the watcher had taken was deep enough to escape Hawkeye's future chance at detection.
UPSTAIRS, Cliff found a lighted crack beneath a door. He rapped softly; a groan answered him. Cliff opened the door to find a gaslit room where Duke Unrig lay stretched on a rickety cot. The big-shot's body and neck were swathed with bandages.
Glassy eyes recognized Cliff. Panted words gritted through Duke's clenched teeth.
"I'm - through! They - got me, Cliff! The Shadow - he only clipped me! It was - the bulls that did - the rest!"
Cliff took a seat on a battered chair beside the cot. Duke drew pained breaths, he pressed a bandaged wrist against his chest and spoke slowly, but more steadily.
"I got to the apartment," he informed. "I brought along the dough I got for the sparklers. In that big bag -
over there!"
Cliff looked across the room. He saw a package resting beside the suitcase. It was larger than the one that Duke had received at the apartment.
"I made a couple of telephone calls," explained Duke. "One, telling a certain guy where I'd be. The other to a sawbones. He came here to fix me up. A good croaker; but he told me - an hour ago - that I'm through!"
Duke lay back, his eyes fixed to the ceiling. His lips scarcely moved as he spoke:
"Open the package, Cliff. Count the dough that's in it."
Cliff made quick work of the package. He thumbed rapidly through the thick-stacked money that it contained. The bills were of five-hundred and one-thousand-dollar denominations. They totaled a quarter million dollars.
"Two hundred and fifty grand," said Cliff. "What was this for, Duke? The bank job?"
Duke managed a nod.
"Delivered today," he panted. "Like it should be. Put it in the bag with the other dough, Cliff. Take it with you when you go -"
Duke wanted to say more; but the effort was too much. Cliff opened the bag; inside, he saw the hundred thousand that Duke had received at the apartment. Cliff added the new supply of currency. He came over to the cot.
"Give me the lowdown, Duke," he suggested, coolly. "Where'd all this mazuma come from?"
"It's a new racket, Cliff." Duke paused, tried to lick his lips. "A big - racket! We've all - been handling it.
Crime in - crime in -"
Duke coughed as his lips tried to phrase a word. His eyes went wild. He gasped something between his coughs; something about a croaker and a slug in the left lung. The cough changed to a violent choke.
Cliff propped Duke from his pillow.
Duke's final cough turned to a guttural sigh. The dying man sank from Cliff's grasp. Blood foamed Duke's lips; his glazed eyes rolled upward. His shoulders sagged; their weight seemed doubled.
Cliff let the body slump to the creaky cot. Duke Unrig was dead.
ANOTHER pay-off. The last for Duke Unrig. Cliff Marsland turned to eye the big bag that held the money. A mystery stood repeated, on a grander scale. First it had been one hundred thousand dollars for stolen jewels that Duke had never gained.
This time, a quarter million more for a bank robbery that had been a washout! Duke and his crew had not even seen the cash that they were after; yet Duke had received the very amount that he had estimated the job would bring!
"Crime in -"
Duke's last words flashed to Cliff's mind.
Crime in what?
That was the riddle; greater than it had been before. Duke had failed to give the wanted answer.
One thing was certain. Duke had intended Cliff to take away the cash; otherwise he would not have summoned his new lieutenant here. Cliff could remove the money-loaded bag without jeopardizing his supposed position in the underworld. What Cliff did with the money would be his own business.
No one would ever ask. Therefore, as Cliff reasoned, no one would ever guess that he had sent crime's payoff to The Shadow.
Toting the bag, Cliff left the death room. On the street, he gave a signal. It was low, but Hawkeye heard it. The spotter shuffled up beside Cliff, with the query
"Got anything?"
"This," replied Cliff. "Loaded with dough! Whoever Duke sent to my place probably won't know about it. It won't matter if he does. It's supposed to end with me."
After a cautious pause, Cliff gave more details. Hawkeye informed that Burbank had instructed him to handle anything that came from Duke's, since Cliff's place was back in his own hideout.
Cliff slipped the bag to Hawkeye. Again, they parted.
THOUGH Hawkeye was a capable spotter, he needed full concentration to notice everything that went on about him. At present, Hawkeye was too concerned with the heavy bag to think of much else. He did look behind him; but he did not pause long enough to spy the spidery trailer who followed him at considerable distance.
Hawkeye reached the fringe of this shady district. Halfway along an alley, he stopped at a little door. It was the side entrance to a dive that was patronized chiefly by out-of-towners who thought they were seeing gang life in the raw, when they came there.
A few gorillas went there for an occasional laugh; but most of the regular habitues were hopheads, who served as stooges. They were supposed to represent the mobbies who made the joint their regular hangout. The place was called the Rat's Hole, but the underworld had nicknamed it the "Simp Trimmer."
Reporters frequently visited the joint to get human-interest stories. That was why Hawkeye had come tonight. He left the bag in the corner of a back room and did a prompt slide out.
Not long afterward, a reporter named Clyde Burke - an agent of The Shadow - picked up the bag and carried it with him. Clyde took a ride on the subway. He did not notice the lean man with muffled face, who stood on the car platform and watched him like a spider from its web.
After his subway trip, Clyde left the bag in The Shadow's taxi. Moe Shrevnitz, the wary-faced driver, made a quick trip with it; but traffic delayed him more than usual.
For once, another cab managed to keep on Moe's trail. The track was lost for a short time, when Moe picked up The Shadow on a darkened side street; but that delay enabled the following cab to regain the trail a little farther onward, to lose it later.
The Shadow finally left Moe's cab, carrying the bag with him. Moe rounded the block, and unluckily passed the trailing cab that he had lost. A craning observer spotted Moe's license plate; saw that the cab was empty. He ended his chase right there.
Paying his driver, the spidery passenger stepped from his cab and began a slow, methodical inspection on foot. He threaded every street of that neighborhood before he finally went away.
MEANWHILE, a blue light had appeared in a black-walled room. That shrouding black was cloth; the heavy curtains made the room as somber as a forgotten tomb. The Shadow was in his sanctum, the secret headquarters wherein he had mapped so many successful campaigns against crime.
Long-fingered hands appeared beneath the blue light. They held the stacks of bank notes that had been in Duke's big bag. The Shadow piled the currency on a table. Beyond, a tiny spot glowed from the wall. It meant a call from Burbank.
The Shadow reached for earphones. Over the wire came Cliff's report, sent to Burbank by Hawkeye. It included Duke's unfinished statement: "Crime in -" Those words, puzzling to Cliff, carried significance to The Shadow.
Already, The Shadow had divined the reason for the pay-offs. He knew why big-shots had persisted in crime, even when their best schemes had been blocked. There could be only one reason. Behind crime lay an unknown foe, who fostered evil and kept it on the move.
He was a person who knew big business methods, and had applied them to crime. That big brain was using legitimate enterprises to cover the boldest and most amazing racket in the history of modern crime.
To score against that hidden superfoe, The Shadow intended to strike first. All evidence indicated that The Shadow would have time to investigate, pick out the enemy, then deliver a positive thrust that would tumble the racket.
The stacked wealth on The Shadow's table was the evidence. Unfortunately, it signified more than it told The Shadow. That money had produced a trail from Cliff Marsland to his chief.
Soon a superplotter would seek some forfeit in return for that pay-off money.
The toll demanded would be The Shadow's life!
CHAPTER VIII. CRIME'S INTERLUDE
THE next morning, The Shadow had an appointment. It was with Ralph Weston, New York's police commissioner. For that meeting, The Shadow used a guise that he commonly employed. He appeared as Lamont Cranston, millionaire clubman.
Cranston was a globe-trotter; between his travels, he lived in a New Jersey mansion. He spent most of his evenings in Manhattan, at the exclusive Cobalt Club. It was an almost unheard of occurrence when Cranston appeared at the club as early as eleven o'clock in the morning.
He did so, on this day, to keep his appointment with Commissioner Weston.
The commissioner had invited Cranston to attend a hearing that concerned the attempted Melrue jewel robbery. Weston not only regarded Cranston as a friend; he appreciated the advice that Cranston sometimes gave him.
Cranston had a good memory for faces, and Weston thought that he might have seen some of the prisoners, particularly since they preyed upon persons of wealth.
The Shadow had actually worked that invitation from the commissioner. He wanted to attend the hearing to learn if any doubt had been raised regarding the identity of the masked man who had taken the jewels.
The prisoners included Fred, the elevator man; also the assistant head waiter from the Top Hat Club.
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