Shadowed Millions s-21

by Maxwell Grant

  Even the cellar and the roof were not neglected.

  There would be no escape for The Shadow!

  CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADOW'S FIGHT

  THE SHADOW entered the room where Perry Wallace was standing in alarm. In one hand, the

  black-cloaked man held a revolver. He had taken the weapon from beside the dead body of Lopez. He

  thrust the gun into Perry's hand and beckoned.

  In the hallway, The Shadow pointed to a stairway that led up to the small third floor. The Shadow spoke

  in an ominous whisper.

  “Watch up there!”

  Perry ascended the stairs. He could not understand The Shadow's action. Perry knew the house was

  probably surrounded, yet he would have favored a break for safety before the new attack. He did not

  know The Shadow's purpose. Coolly, the amazing man in black was baiting the foe, to hold them here as

  quarry for Cardona.

  A cry sounded from the front street. It passed along and was echoed everywhere. It was the signal for

  the attack from all directions.

  Men dashed up the front stairs. They turned at the landing. The Shadow was awaiting them. The first

  gangster fell; the two who were following him dropped back for cover.

  Outside the house, men were bursting the windows of the second floor. It was then that shots came from

  an unexpected quarter—the house across the alley.

  Burbank, alert and ready, had a chance to prove his aim. He succeeded. The invaders toppled from their

  perches and fell.

  Burbank had purposely delayed his fire, knowing that he must not reveal his presence until men were

  actually entering the house. There were some whom he could not cover; they were entering from the

  back.

  As The Shadow waited by the stairs, door burst open and Silk Dowdy leaped into view. He had listened

  before he opened the door. He sprang at The Shadow like a madman. His pointed revolver was not a

  foot away.

  The Shadow's left hand swung and Dowdy's wrist received the blow. The gangster crashed against the

  wall at the top of the stairs, losing his gun as he fell.

  There were two behind him. The Shadow fired twice with his right-hand automatic. His long, black arm

  rose and fell from the recoil. Each of his bullets stopped a gangster. His other hand was not idle. Its

  automatic was pointing down the stairs. As he fired his second deadly shot, The Shadow turned his eyes

  in that direction. His steely glare saw the head and shoulders of a gangster, leveling to fire.

  The Shadow's form swung away. The gangster's shot seared the left brim of the slouch hat. The man did

  not fire again. It was The Shadow's turn. Before the grimy finger of the mobster could press the trigger a

  second time, The Shadow's automatic blazed and another rat of the underworld went to his miserable

  doom.

  While Silk Dowdy was still scrambling for his revolver, The Shadow leaped up the stairs toward the third

  floor. Out of range, he encountered Perry Wallace.

  White-faced, but ready for action, Perry was pointing to a trapdoor that led to the roof. The wooden

  barrier was moving.

  GRIMLY, The Shadow waited. The trap slid aside. A hand and arm showed. The Shadow fired. There

  was a cry from above as the wounded man staggered away.

  Silk Dowdy heard the startled cry. He knew that men were coming from above. He summoned the

  forces from below. The Shadow and Perry Wallace were between two fires.

  The Shadow did not hesitate. With an upward spring, he leaped to the trap. He thrust his head and

  shoulders through with amazing speed.

  Had the men on the roof suspected this bold action, they would have held The Shadow at their mercy.

  The Shadow, however, had cunningly outguessed them. They had drawn back from the trapdoor, fearing

  further shots. They were crouching low, well away from the danger zone. Against the rear edge of the

  roof, their forms were visible, whereas the rising head of The Shadow was obscure. The Shadow saw

  them first.

  His right hand, over the edge, blazed straight toward the nearest gangster. The man fell with a groan. The

  others, realizing that they were targets, scrambled for safety over the edge of the wall.

  Rising openly, The Shadow flung the trapdoor aside. With calm indifference toward the men whom he

  had so easily routed, he stared into the hallway below.

  Perry Wallace, crouching behind the edge of the wall at the top of the stairway, was preparing to resist

  the men who were creeping up the stairs. As The Shadow watched, Perry leaned from his place of

  protection and fired at an approaching gunman. That was the signal for a mass attack. Five men, headed

  by Silk Dowdy, drove upward in a group.

  They thought that Perry was their sole assailant. When he jumped for cover, they came on. They saw no

  sign of The Shadow. The dark form, dropping suddenly to the mouth of the trap, was as black as the

  night. The first token of its presence was a burst of flame that spat from the very ceiling above the hall.

  Down went Silk Dowdy, staggering back into the arms of his henchmen The Shadow's automatics broke

  loose. The surge of gangsters tottered and fell back. Silk and another gangster rolled down the steps. The

  others fled, safe only because The Shadow had ceased his fire.

  Perry Wallace heard The Shadow's hiss. In answer to that call, he sprang upward and gripped the edge

  of the trap. He clung there and managed to draw himself up to his elbows. His hold was weakening; but

  strong arms came to his rescue. The Shadow brought the rescued man to the roof.

  By unexpected action, The Shadow had split the double forces of the attackers. He had struck where

  least awaited—against those on the roof. The horde below had advanced with the surety that their

  comrades were ready to attack from above.

  THE SHADOW replaced the trapdoor. Pushing Perry flat against the roof, he waited. There was no sign

  from the edge where the men had gone. There had been four originally. Two were wounded and

  helpless. A third had gone down the waiting ladder.

  There was still a fourth—Pete Ballou—but he was no longer over the edge. The crafty leader of the

  defeated horde had come back. Yet he had been afraid to shoot from long range—afraid of that vicious

  automatic which The Shadow wielded. He was lying prone, now, behind a chimney, awaiting The

  Shadow's approach.

  Both men were coming toward Pete Ballou—The Shadow and Perry Wallace. They were on the other

  side of the chimney. Pete was watching the side toward the rear edge of the roof, his gun in readiness.

  It was not until the men stood close beside him that he realized The Shadow was headed for the side and

  not the rear of the house. The folds of a cloak swished by his ear. Pete sprung up to fire at the black

  figure that he saw beside him.

  The Shadow sensed the ambush. As Pete's hand came up, The Shadow dropped. His arms shot forward

  and the metal of his automatic struck the wrist of his foe. Pete Ballou's bullet whistled through the folds of

  the cloak beneath The Shadow's arm.

  Realizing that he had missed, Pete grappled with the man before him.

  Perry Wallace was unable to come to the assistance of The Shadow. All that he could see was two

  rolling forms, writhing by the chimney. As ever, luck was with Pete Ballou. His arm was momentarily

  free. He managed to deal a sideswiping blow.

  The Shadow's arm, caught in the folds of the cloak, failed to stop it. Only
the brim of the slouch hat

  dulled the force of the powerful stroke.

  The Shadow clung to Pete's right wrist; but his efforts were weakened by the stunning crash. Strong as a

  bull, Ballou swung The Shadow's struggling form sidewise. The two rolled over twice.

  Then Perry saw the purpose. Swinging from beneath, Pete Ballou hurled The Shadow's form to the very

  edge of the roof. Breaking free and rising to his knees, Ballou caught The Shadow's body to lunge it from

  the parapet!

  Leaping forward, Perry fired twice. In his excitement, his aim was wild. His third shot failed. The hammer

  of his revolver clicked upon an empty chamber.

  Pete Ballou, forgetful of all but his terrible revenge, was gripping The Shadow's shoulders. Perry,

  stumbling forward in the dark, tripped and fell flat.

  THEN, twelve feet away, unable to effect a rescue of the man who saved him, he saw an amazing sight.

  Against the dull glow of the sky, two black arms shot upward and gripped the form of Pete Ballou.

  The Shadow, reserving his strength, had met his adversary. The arms twisted and turned. By a firm

  jujutsu hold, The Shadow broke the grasp of Pete Ballou.

  The crook's form was precipitated upward, feet first. His body turned a somersault in a long, sweeping

  arc. Ballou's body straightened and his back landed squarely upon the roof, his feet extending over the

  edge.

  With feet kicking wildly in the air, with arms beating in a vain, furious effort to save himself, Pete Ballou

  slid feet foremost over the edge of the roof!

  A long, hideous scream seemed to follow him downward, dying away into space below. There was a dull

  crash beneath. Pete Ballou had gone to the fate which he had planned for another.

  Slowly, The Shadow arose. As he reached his feet, he stopped at the sound of a police whistle from

  behind the house. Revolver shots resounded from below. Cardona and his men had arrived.

  Quickly, The Shadow reached over the edge of the roof and drew up the short ladder which the

  gangsters had hoisted from a small bay window on the second floor. Moving to the side of the house, he

  set the ladder over to the roof of the building next door.

  While Perry Wallace crawled to safety, The Shadow's tiny flashlight beamed as he found the automatics

  which he had dropped in his struggle with Pete Ballou. Then The Shadow followed. Perry heard him

  drop the ladder into the space between the houses.

  A TERRIBLE conflict had broken out between Cardona's men and the remnants of the gangster horde.

  The pandemonium became dim as The Shadow urged Perry through a trapdoor in the roof of the house

  next door to Legira's. They reached a small, dimly lighted room on the second floor. Here, Perry

  slumped into a large chair.

  “Wait here!” Perry barely heard The Shadow's warning. “You will be told when you can leave in safety.

  My man is here.”

  Perry nodded, his eyes half closed. It seemed to him that no more than a second had passed before he

  looked about him. Yet The Shadow was gone!

  The sounds of the fight diminished. Soon the battle was over. The police had conquered and rounded up

  the disorganized mobsters. The Shadow had routed the enemy for them.

  The Shadow had struck. The Shadow had vanished. Unnoticed, he had passed from this house and

  found his way from the vicinity. While Perry Wallace still wondered how The Shadow had disappeared

  so quickly, the man in black was on his way to a new activity.

  A speedy coupe whirling eastward on Long Island. At the wheel was The Shadow, seeking to regain the

  time that he had been delayed.

  The car shot across a bridge, swerved swiftly around a corner and sped with bulletlike power along the

  highroad.

  As the roar of the heavy motor burst through the night air, another sound was manifested. The man at the

  wheel was laughing. Peals of taunting mirth came from his shrouded lips.

  The triumph laugh of The Shadow!

  The laugh of the man who had won!

  CHAPTER XXIV. A TRAITOR'S TRIUMPH

  AN old touring car was parked off the side of a secluded road. Its lights were dim. The two men who

  occupied the vehicle were waiting and watching, their eyes peering through the darkness toward a

  covelike portion of the Long Island beach.

  One man was Alvarez Legira, consul from Santander; the other was his servant, Francisco. They were

  awaiting the arrival of the boat from the yacht Cordova.

  The rippling breeze swished whisperingly about the car. Both men listened intently, fancying that they

  heard vague sounds in the night. Then, Francisco pressed Legira's arm and uttered low words in Spanish.

  A light was bobbing in the cove. It blinked four times—two long blinks and two short.

  Legira extinguished the dim lights. He turned them on again and repeated the action. Another signal came

  from the cove. The consul uttered a cry of elation.

  This was the boat from the Cordova.

  Until now, pitch-blackness had ruled the cloudy night. But while Legira was speaking to Francisco, the

  rays of the moon emerged through a rift in the breaking clouds. The feeble light gained in its intensity. The

  ghostly illumination revealed two men moving slowly along the beach, carrying a box between them.

  Legira and Francisco were heading for the little boat, which was now clearly visible. Drawn to the edge

  of the cove, the boat showed the huddled figures of the men who manned it.

  There were whispers near the car which Legira had left. A low voice spoke. The tones were those of

  Harry Vincent, trusted operative of The Shadow. He and his comrades, Cliff Marsland and Clyde Burke,

  had followed Legira in another car.

  “Running on schedule,” was Harry's comment. “That's the boat from the Cordova, right enough.”

  The three watched. They saw men reach from the boat and carry in the box. They saw Legira follow.

  Francisco remained on the beach. The boat appeared to be pushing off. Francisco was turning to come

  back to the waiting car.

  It was evident that the servant was to remain ashore, to take away the car and probably to attend to

  work for his master. There could be no need of Francisco now. Legira was with his friends.

  “Look!”

  Cliff Marsland's excited gasp caused his companions to stare intently at the boat. A sudden flood of

  moonlight revealed Legira standing in the bow, watching the departing form of Francisco and as he

  watched his faithful servant, two men rose suddenly behind the consul. They fell upon him with

  coordinated skill!

  The watchers could hear Legira call out as he fell. Francisco turned. A burst of flame came from the

  boat. The trusty servant faltered, then realizing that he was about to be shot down, he fled away from the

  beach. Shots followed him. Francisco staggered.

  Acting with one accord, The Shadow's men leaped from the spot where they were crouching and

  charged across the open toward the cove. Their automatics spat flame toward the moving boat. They

  had two aims: to save Francisco; to overpower the men from the Cordova.

  The attack met with an abrupt ending. Gunfire broke forth on all sides. Men, stationed in hiding along the

  beach, were springing into action. The Shadow's three had run into an ambush!

  Francisco fell riddled by a hail of bullets. Wild shots dug up the sand about the men who served The

  Shadow. Even in spite of odds, they would have kept gamely on, but for a shot that clipped Cly
de

  Burke. As the man staggered and clapped his right hand to his wounded left arm, Harry Vincent gave a

  sharp cry.

  “Scramble for cover!” he exclaimed. “Back to the car!”

  It was the only possible move. These three were outnumbered. Their enemies were in hiding. Only death

  could await them ahead.

  As they turned and headed toward the road, the figures of their foemen came into view. Outnumbered

  five to one by a host of rumrunning mobsters, the one salvation lay in flight.

  Harry leaped to the wheel of a black sedan as Cliff shoved Clyde Burke into the rear of the car. The

  motor throbbed; the car shot away. It was none too soon. Hasty shots and vengeful cries were sounding

  through the night air.

  Grimly, Harry sped along the road. Cliff, staring back, saw the lights of another car in pursuit; beyond

  them the headlamps of a second chaser. Three men —two able and one wounded—were fleeing from an

  overpowering host.

  Harry guided the sedan with the utmost skill, but he realized that unless he could reach a highroad and run

  into the protection of a town, there could be little chance of escape. Cliff's voice was telling him that the

  pursuers were gradually closing the distance.

  The sedan swept around a curve, driving toward the old house where Legira had laid in hiding. Harry lost

  ground on an incline.

  The nearer of the pursuing cars was now very close. Shots sounded as the chasers sought to stop the

  flight. They were aiming recklessly at the car ahead.

  Cliff leaned cautiously through the window. He fired in return, but to no avail. Harry, grimly holding to the

  wheel, turned the long curve that went directly past the entrance to the old house.

  A new menace rose with such startling rapidity that Harry could only utter a gasp of horror. The road

  was scarcely wider than a single car. As they rounded the curve at sixty miles an hour, Harry saw another

  car speeding from the opposite direction!

  A head-on crash loomed as the immediate end to this mad flight. Almost petrified, Harry was unable to

  swing his foot from the accelerator.

  The danger from the car behind was uppermost in his mind. The smash was imminent—it was only a

  question of yards before the cars would meet. Then came salvation.