A flattened, widening strip in the road ahead. The wheels of the coupe swished as the fast-moving car spurted over the short stretch.
Then came a sharp turn to the left — a downward road on a low-banked, treeless stretch of land. Beyond that, something white and level shone beneath the approaching lights.
The coupe, responding to The Shadow's urge, hurtled toward the whitish mass ahead.
Then its hood tilted upward to a level. The raising lights hurled a vivid glare upon the blackness of the waveless Sound. A quick foot pressed the brake. The coupe skidded sharply upon the dampened surface of a swimming wharf. The car swung to the right. Its rear wheels skimmed along the edge of the pier, almost dropping over the side.
Jammed to a stop, the thick tires glided sidewise until the car halted on the very edge of the deep water at the end of the pier.
A wild finish to a desperate ride. But the thrill of this amazing episode was yet to come.
Mere seconds after the coupe had halted, the bright lights of another car plunged down the slope.
The driver of the touring car could see the danger as he spotted the plight of the nearly wrecked coupe. He jammed his brakes before he reached the wharf. His skid was shorter; his stoppage was more abrupt.
The lights of the sedan were now in view. The second of the mob-manned cars was coming up with its horde of desperate killers. Wild shouts were heard from the gunmen.
Coldly, calmly, The Shadow slipped through the door beside the driver's seat. The jolted form of Glade Tremont crumpled completely, along the floor of the car. The door closed.
Tremont, helpless, was trapped within. The Shadow gave no thought to him. There was other work to do. Flight had ended. Fight was to begin!
Poised on the step of the car, his black form clinging to the farther side, The Shadow was standing almost above the watery depths at the end of the pier. First one hand rose; then the other. Each thin black glove was tight about an automatic.
An opening shot came from the body of the touring car. It crashed against the side of the coupe. The Shadow gave no sign of a reply. Another shot splintered a side window. Still, The Shadow was silent. Now, emboldened men were dashing forward. With gleaming revolvers, two gangsters leaped from the touring car. Five more, headed by Jake Bosch scrambled off the running boards of the sedan. Across the docks they raced, protected by the men in the cars behind,
They were anxious to seize their quarry. They knew that they were dealing with The Shadow. Where was he? Hiding in the car? Stunned at the wheel? Or had he leaped into the Sound?
Wherever he might be, these men were out to get him by force of numbers. A widespread, grimly snarling tribe, they were wedging in like the spokes of a fan.
Then came the report of The Shadow's right-hand gun. The same deadly aim that had shattered Biff Towley's spotlight proved its merit again; but this time its target was a human body. A dashing gangster screamed and leaped upward, hands clawing in air. His body flattened and sprawled upon the dock sliding into a huddled shape. His revolver, skimming onward, slipped from the side of the wharf and splashed into the water.
No one heard that splash. The Shadow's gun was delivering its second bark. Another man fell. He sprawled like a starfish, his revolver still in his grasp.
The others were dropping to the wharf, lying low and spread, their revolvers returning the attack. Biff Towley, alert in the sedan, spotted the exact place from which the shots had come.
He saw the dim top of a black hat above the rear of the coupe.
His yell gave the signal as he fired. The men in the touring car blazed away. Had The Shadow remained to risk another press of the trigger, Biff's bullet would have clipped him. But the hat was dropping to safety as the gang leader fired. The leaden missile skimmed the crown of the disappearing headpiece.
The men on the dock were crawling forward. Biff and the others who covered were alert.
They saw The Shadow's chosen spot. Another move on his part, and death would be his lot. But The Shadow had made a sudden change. Crouching, he flung himself flat upon the outer running board. With incredible swiftness, he wriggled his tall form between the front fender and the hood. His left arm paused by the edge of the radiator. His sharp eyes peered forth unseen. Two men were crawling forward from that direction. One was Jake Bosch. With low, perfect aim, The Shadow fired. Jake dropped without a sound.
Before the other startled gunman could turn his revolver, a second shot occurred. Jake's companion fell, writhing.
Now guns blazed in fury. Hard bullets crashed through the side of the hood. They never found their mark. Between The Shadow and his enemies lay the protecting motor. It was a solid barrier that bullets could not penetrate.
Four men had fallen. Four of nearly a dozen. The others on the pier, realizing the fact, surged forward in a mass. The first of the attackers reached the hood of the car. Like a soldier going over the top, he flung himself across the hood, his gun arm forward, aiming for the hidden foe. The Shadow, twisted on his back, his left arm by the hood, his right against his body, saw the gleaming revolver as it shot above him. He heard the brutal curse from the gangster's lips as the man tried to stop his plunge and bring his weapon downward.
The Shadow's gun spat upward. The gangster's efforts failed as the bullet cleaved his chest. His body hurtled forward into the water beyond.
In that well-timed, precise action, The Shadow had lost a precious second. Another foe had profited by the delay. Sneaking by the rear of the car, this man was clinging to the back fender, on the very edge of the pier.
He could see the spatter of The Shadow's gun. Hanging backward, holding by his left hand, this gangster thrust his right arm across his body and fired.
He lost his aim in the effort. From his cramped position, his shot was high. Another chance was all he needed; but he did not get it.
The Shadow, serenely resting between the fender and the hood, deliberately leveled his right hand. His finger pressed the trigger of the automatic. His shot was toward the one portion of the gangster's body that could not move — the white left hand that gripped the fender of the car.
The Shadow's aim did not fail.
With a hideous cry, the man's hold broke as the bullet crunched his gripping hand. His arms flung up above his head as he seemed to leap backward. His body smacked against the water with a resounding splash.
A new enemy menaced. He was more cautious than the others. Prowling forward, he had opened the door of the coupe. He was reaching through the window, by the wheel — for he had found it open. He was stumbling over the form of Glade Tremont. The Shadow swung up to meet this gunman. A hand and a head came into view. A pointing revolver shimmered. Before it was The Shadow's rising figure, with its blackened automatic.
It was a split second race between hair triggers, and The Shadow won. His shot echoed like a cannon's roar. The gangster's head disappeared. His hand lay limply on the opening of the window, the trigger guard of the revolver dangling from a nerveless finger.
The Shadow laughed as he gripped his right automatic in the bend of his left elbow. He extended his long arm and the black-gloved hand plucked the revolver from the dying hoodlum's unresisting clutch. Scowling, at the wheel of his sedan, Biff Towley spat low curses. Seven men had advanced to take The Shadow. Seven bullets had ended their attack. The man was a demon!
His work had been at close range, but never once had he faltered.
Biff nudged the man who sat beside him — the only other occupant of the sedan. Together, they clambered from the car and found protection beside the touring car. There were two men there.
"We've got to get him!" snarled Biff. "It's The Shadow!" In the badlands of Manhattan, that name would have inspired its hearers with terror. Here, with the echoes of gunshots still ringing in their ears, the utterance inspired Biff's henchmen with a new and grim incentive.
They had The Shadow within their grasp, if they could but take him. Their companions had tasted his death-dealing bullets. It was a game of vengeance, now!
The nose of the touring car was pointed at an angle toward the bullet-riddled coupe. Biff's plan was a quick and simple one.
"Close in on him!" ordered the gang leader. "Drive up to the end of the pier." The man who crouched at the wheel uttered a terse grunt. The touring car shot forward and jammed its radiator close to the side of the coupe.
"Give him the works!"
Biff Towley's command came from the side of the car. The two men raised their revolvers. Biff and his companion peered from the hood of the touring car.
From this spot, a quick attack was possible. Yet Biff hesitated. Then, as though in answer to a sharp oath that sputtered from the gang leader, a shout was raised from the road that came to the pier. Five running gangsters were arriving as the last reserve.
It would be sure death for The Shadow now! To stop the approach of these men, he must show himself. Otherwise there would be a horde to clamber as one about that tilted coupe.
"Hold it!" exclaimed Biff, to the three men near him. "Watch when he shows his head—"
Before the men could heed their leader's warning, The Shadow's tall form appeared suddenly at the rear of the coupe, rising above the top — at the very spot where he had made his earliest appearance. He, too, had heard the shouts and now his eyes could see the cluster of gangsters who were nearing the pier. But these were not his quarry.
The Shadow had outguessed Biff Towley. He had realized the very situation that was springing through the swarthy gangster's mind. Springing upward, almost on top of the car, The Shadow was a mighty monster of the night.
The height of his position, the proximity of the touring car — both gave him an advantage which Biff Towley had not anticipated.
Down swept the hands that held the automatics. Only long, spitting flames revealed the presence of the guns. The quick shots were directed at the two men in the touring car, one in front the other in the rear. Both were raising their revolvers, as they crouched behind the doors.
The Shadow clipped the front man in the shoulder. The gangster managed to return the shot, but his aim was faulty. The Shadow's next bullet smashed the man's arm. He dropped his gun and fell to the protecting floor.
The other automatic was not idle. While the left used two shots to wound the man in front, the right hand swung toward the man in the back of the car.
He was crouching, thinking himself safe. In that he was wrong. The Shadow made a living target of his huddled form.
Biff's lone companion saw The Shadow, and made a mad dash forward. He fired wild as The Shadow's body swayed. The answer was a whistling shot that felled the unwary gangster.
The Shadow dropped flat upon the top of the car, and his automatics slipped away. They were empty. From his cloak, he plucked the revolver that he had taken from the dying gunman. The reserves of the gangster horde were pounding across the dock, yelling wildly. They did not know the power of their foe. They fired at the top of the car as they ran.
The Shadow ignored their fire. Coolly, calmly, he aimed with perfect marksmanship. He was a difficult target for the approaching men. They were in front of the sedan's lights, which Biff had left burning. The Shadow found them easy prey.
His final shots were timed to good advantage. Men sprawled as they came on. Two, seeing their companions fall, leaped back and dived behind the sedan. The Shadow pressed the trigger as he aimed toward one of the escaping gangsters. The hammer fell upon an empty chamber. Biff Towley had not been idle. Crafty as well as bold, he had seen too much of The Shadow's marksmanship to risk exposing himself. Instead of springing into view, the gang leader crawled to the side of the coupe, and glided along the nearer running board.
He knew that The Shadow would be watching for someone on the outer side. Sneaking cautiously, Biff raised himself beside the car, ready for his surprise thrust.
His head and hand came up together, over the top of the coupe. Biff had intended to be close to his foe, but he had not expected the proximity which he attained. As his face came above the top of the car, Biff found himself staring into two burning eyes, not a foot from his own!
Biff's hand shot forward. His finger tugged the trigger of his revolver. Once again, The Shadow was too quick. As he saw the gang leader's face appear, he flung his revolver squarely into that leering visage. The metal missive flattened the gang leader's face. Biff Towley toppled backward as he fired. His bullet whistled past The Shadow's hat. The gang leader landed flat on his back, beside the coupe, and his revolver clinked as it struck the light of the touring car. The Shadow had risen with his effort. Weaponless, now, his wavering form became a target for the men by the sedan. Under cover, they opened fire
At the sound of the first shot, The Shadow flung his arms wide. A loud cry came from his hidden lips. It dwindled as his form lurched backward. A dull splash followed as the falling man in black plunged into the water beyond the pier.
"I got him!" growled the man who had fired the shot.
"Good work!" exclaimed his companion. "You got The Shadow!" The two men hurried forward. One saw Biff Towley, groaning on the dock and stopped to aid his chief, the other continued to the end of the dock and peered out over the Sound. He was still staring when the other gangster joined him. The watcher raised his gun and fired a skimming shot across the water.
"What's the idea?" growled the other man.
"Thought I saw something floating out there," replied the first.
"Don't waste good lead. You got that guy the first time you fired. Come along. We've got to help Biff. It's time we scrammed."
The suggestion was a wise one. Even in this isolated spot the sound of gunfire had at last brought visitors. Two cars were stopping on a roadway, across a little cove. The men on the dock could hear voices. Hurriedly, they rushed back to aid Biff and other wounded men. They piled their companions into the cars and prepared to leave. One man took the sedan; the other the touring car. With their load of wounded gangsters, they pulled away up the road that led to the winding lane. The silence of death prevailed upon the little pier. There The Shadow had fought his mighty battle against terrific odds, only to end his glorious fight with a farewell plunge into the Sound. People were arriving now, a uniformed policeman among them. White-faced men were peering at the sprawled forms of dead gangsters. The officer pulled a motionless man from the coupe; then saw another body beneath the form that he had removed.
This man was alive. He managed to rise of his own accord. He staggered as his feet touched the pier, then sat down on the running board of the coupe and stared about him with a bewildered air. It was Glade Tremont. He had regained consciousness during the end of the fray.
Now, he could scarcely realize what had happened. People were crowding up to talk with this lone survivor of the carnage
Men piling victims into cars that had gone; dead men on the dock; a live man emerging from the coupe witnesses had seen all these. But no one, either on the pier or the roadway across the cove, saw the dripping figure that came from the Sound and crawled stealthily among the rocks, five hundred yards away. No one saw the figure — nor did any hear the mocking laugh that came from lips that were obscured by the flapping brim of a water-soaked slouch hat.
The Shadow, victor of the fray, had returned from the waters. He had feigned a dying plunge when he had dived to safety. Though weaponless, he had escaped unscathed.