THE BATTLE OF GLOOM
THE opening shot of the attacking gangsters was the sign of an outburst of heavy fire. The extinguishing of the lights had served these gunmen well. Skulking though the dark, they held an advantage that added to their strength in numbers.
At the precise moment when the switch turned, two gunmen were facing the private detectives. Gifford Morton was in the same portion of the room as his men. Only Gorman, the secretary, was in a protected spot — directly beyond the chair in which Herbert Carpenter was seated.
The men at the door were covering Morton and his sleuths. As the raiding forces swept into the room, they fired at random; but all their bullets were directed toward the same corner. The two men on either side of Carpenter joined in the shooting.
The only targets afforded the detectives were the chair in which Carpenter was located, and the door through which gangsters were flocking from the hall. Realizing that their lives were in jeopardy, the sleuths aimed for these spots.
They failed to bag Carpenter, for he had acted with instinctive promptness. He knew that the chair was in the danger zone, and he dived away from it. Shots aimed toward the hall brought down one gunman, but that was all.
The guns of the gangsters roared, and into the shaft of light from the inner room appeared the detectives, one staggering, the other crawling, as they sought the single way that offered safety. Loud oaths sounded as the relentless killers mercilessly shot down their fleeing foemen.
The echoes of the firing ended. The room was silent. Upon the floor lay the murdered detectives, their bodies riddled with lead. The gangsters awaited answering shots. None came. The light was switched on again.
The scene revealed the one-sidedness of the brief fray — nine gunmen against two detectives and a pair of unarmed men.
One wounded gangster lay beside the outer door; the others were crouched and standing; with smoking revolvers in their hands.
Curiously enough, the two defenseless men had escaped death. Had Gifford Morton attempted escape to the inner room, he would have died instantly. But he had dropped behind the door that he had opened. Close to the floor, he had been in a solitary spot of security.
Gorman was crouched below the window. The bespectacled secretary was a pitiful sight. Directly beyond Carpenter’s chair, on a line with the door, he had been avoided. The gangsters had fired at the men whom they knew could fight back.
Herbert Carpenter, his face flushed with excitement, arose from beside the chair. A pallor stole over his features as he saw the murdered detectives.
Slaughter was not his forte. He was a crime master of a different type. He seemed to realize that he was responsible for the massacre, inasmuch as these fiends had come to his aid.
Triumph gleamed upon every face among that crew of evil raiders. These mobsmen knew the lust for blood. They liked to see men die. They showed a sordid satisfaction over their heinous work.
Now, with one accord, they looked to Herbert Carpenter for further orders.
STUNNED by the quickness of the attack, the blackmail king was unable to make a move. He knew that killers had been loosed to wreak frightful vengeance. He had caused deaths indirectly in the past; but never before had he loosed thunderbolts like these.
Dimly, the blackmailer realized that police were on their way. Action must be prompt. Should he order Borglund’s gorillas to flee and take to flight with them? Or were these living men — Morton and Gorman — a menace that should not remain?
Carpenter’s decision turned to money. He had come here to demand Gifford Morton’s wealth. Now was his chance to get it! He was about to order the gangsters to desist, and merely hold their helpless prey, when an unexpected incident turned the whole situation.
Gorman, wild with fright, leaped suddenly to his feet and tried to run toward the inner room. Three revolvers harked. One — a split second ahead of the others — clipped the fleeing secretary. He sprawled headlong across the body of a dead detective, his uncontrollable fall carrying him clear of the other shots.
A raucous laugh came from the gangster who had fired the first bullet. The man followed the laugh with an order — his privilege, evidently, since he had acted in Carpenter’s place.
“Come on,” he snarled. “Plug Four Eyes” — he indicated the bespectacled secretary — “until he’s full of lead. Bump off Old Beefy in the corner. Clean out the place and scram!”
“Hold it!” interrupted Carpenter, striding toward the corner. “I’m running things here!”
He turned to Gifford Morton, who had risen to his feet and was standing, defiant, in the corner.
“We’re letting you off, Morton,” said Carpenter. “Keep mum — you understand? Come across — hand over the cash! That will make it quits!”
The gangsters stood in sullen waiting while Carpenter was speaking. Their evil expressions were not lost upon Gifford Morton.
The multimillionaire was a fighter. With his back to the wall, Morton could see only the same fate that had befallen others. He made no reply, and Carpenter calmly reached into his pockets and extracted the money that he wanted.
“Keep him covered,” ordered the blackmailer, suddenly regaining his confidence. “I’ll go in the other room and make a quick clean-out. Then we can scatter.”
As Carpenter turned away, a sudden fury came over Morton. A bottle was resting on the table beside him. With a quick move, he seized it and swung a vicious blow. Herbert Carpenter went down like a log as the bottle struck the side of his head.
Morton dropped the bottle and stood panting, looking toward the man who had fallen. Even the gangsters were taken aback by the unexpected attack. Then the man who had shot Gorman spoke again.
“Lay off, gang!” he ordered in a harsh voice. “I’ve got him. Fill him with lead after I plug him. Then we’ll scram before the bulls get here. Speed it up — we’ve got to drag that cold guy with us—”
The gangster leveled his gun. The others watched while Morton stood with the resignation of a prisoner facing a firing squad. One gangster, alone, was outside the door of the room, guarding the corridor. His gaze turned to view the killing.
The guardian slumped to the floor of the hall as a heavy automatic struck the back of his head. No one saw the blow. All were watching the man who was preparing to murder Gifford Morton in cold blood.
“One squawker is one more than we want” — the gangster’s words were directed to Morton. “That’s why we’re bumping you off, Fatty. Here’s where you get yours.”
The killer’s finger was on the trigger. It never fired the fatal shot. An automatic cracked from the doorway. The would-be assassin staggered. His revolver fell from his loosened grasp as he hit the floor.
WITH one accord, seven thugs turned snarling, toward the door. Wild consternation flickered over hardened faces.
There, framed in the doorway, stood a figure that denoted doom and vengeance. A tall, sinister being, clad totally in black, was the form that the ruffians saw.
“The Shadow!”
These words of recognition came from terror-stricken lips.
Well did these mobsters know the power of The Shadow — that mighty being who was the scourge of the underworld. They had now seen his prowess. Arrived in their midst like a phantom from the dark, he had struck down the guard and disarmed a vicious slayer almost before their wondering eyes!
Successful against two persons, these mobsters now had but one with whom to deal. But the odds were useless. The Shadow, by his surprise attack, was using the gangsters’ own methods against them.
Before a man could move to stop him, the black-garbed avenger was in the room. His eyes flashed from beneath his hat brim. Then his figure was blotted into nothingness as his black-gloved hand pressed the light switch.
There was a dim glow from the corridor; there was a broad shaft of light from the inner room. But neither of these showed The Shadow.
With wild, excited cries, the gangsters sprang into action, shooting at the spot where they had seen The Shadow press the light.
The swift-moving phantom was too rapid for them. His answering shots came from a spot near the corner of the room. With uncanny precision, The Shadow picked out the places where guns had flashed.
A gangster fired; a moment later he screamed as a bullet from the dark felled him. Cursing men dropped with oaths half formed upon their lips. The Shadow was weaving his way across the room. Bullets meant for him found spots where he had been, but was no more.
At last came silence. Realizing that their companions had fallen, the remaining gangsters, with one accord, adopted a waiting plan. Crouched in the dark, they made no move, hoping only to spot the flash of the enemy’s gun.
Had The Shadow suddenly relighted that gloomy room, he might have conquered his scattered foemen with a forceful attack. But The Shadow was playing a craftier game. He knew that minutes were precious to these huddled mobsmen.
Sooner or later, they must make a dash for safety, when police arrived. Then they would betray themselves to the avenger, who would show no mercy for such fiends as these.
The tension showed that the gangsters knew the situation. Yet they feared to move. Each second was bringing them closer to the fate which they deserved.
Only one man in that room of death failed to understand the silence. That was Gifford Morton.
AS long seconds crept by, enlivened only by the plaintive moans of wounded fighters, the multimillionaire decided that all his enemies must have been completely subdued. This, he fancied, was his opportunity for escape.
Rising stealthily from the corner where he had dropped to safety, the unscathed plutocrat crept toward the door of the inner room. The first sign of his action came when he entered the shaft of light.
A gun barked as Morton scrambled into view. The multimillionaire staggered forward, clutching his shoulder. Another shot resounded, and a mobster’s bullet whistled by the falling fugitive.
The maddened gangsters could not see this man escape. Their urge to slay was their betrayal.
Two shots roared as The Shadow spotted the men who had fired. Aiming for the flashes of flame, The Shadow’s marksmanship was true. The offending gunmen fired no more. Gifford Morton plunged through the door to safety.
But in the swift deeds that had saved Morton from certain death, The Shadow had revealed his own position. An alert gangster, seeing a flash from a corner near the window, called out the news to his fellows.
“Watch him — watch him — over past the window! Don’t let him get away!”
Men were moving through the gloom. A crafty shift of positions was taking place. Not one of the gunmen dared to fire; for to do so would make him The Shadow’s target. At the same time, all guns were in readiness. Another shot from The Shadow was all that they required!
Sullen whispers sounded as the gangsters edged their way toward the outer door, keeping from the range of light. There lay the vantage point from which they could loose a mass attack. They had trapped The Shadow — to kill him was their sole objective.
A sinister laugh sounded in the gloom. The laugh of The Shadow — gloating — mocking! Those strange, jeering tones brought fear and indecision to the stealthy gangsters. They could not locate the direction of the sound.
The meaning of the sardonic mirth was unknown. Why had The Shadow laughed?
Little did these sneaking mobsmen realize that they were playing into the hands of The Shadow! Each with the same objective — all were traveling to the one spot of retreat, that outer door.
Muffled snarls emerged from evil lips. Still retreating, these fiends felt themselves under the spell of the avenger who had outwitted them. Trappers, they were trapped. Despite their ignorance of The Shadow’s plan, they hesitated as they neared the fatal door.
Again, a change of events brought a new and startling situation. Minutes had passed since The Shadow had arrived; now came the climax for which he had been holding his enemies in abeyance. The sound of voices came from the corridor. The police had arrived!
THE hapless gangsters were driven to action. One cried a warning; another, who had reached the wall, snapped the light switch. The sudden flood of illumination revealed half a dozen gangsters facing toward that corner where they believed The Shadow stood. Revolvers blazed as the lights came on.
The shots were useless. Amid the darkness The Shadow had noiselessly left that fatal spot. The first response of an automatic showed his new position. He had reached the door that led to the inner room. Stepping from behind its protection, The Shadow formed an unexpected apparition.
Above the bursting flashes of his pistols appeared the gleam of his cold, unyielding eyes. From his unexpected vantage point, the figure in black could have slaughtered the six gunmen who were before him. Yet he restrained his fire, coolly mocking the hopeless case of his defeated enemies.
One man sought to shoot The Shadow. The gangster staggered, clutching a limp and nerveless arm as The Shadow’s aim showed its unfailing accuracy. The others, fearing The Shadow more than a squad of men, broke for the door. They encountered uniformed invaders.
A swift fight followed. The police, warned by the sound of shots, were in readiness. The two forces locked at close range. The Shadow, now standing in the open doorway to the inner room, used his weapons to aid the law.
A brutal gangster was swinging his revolver toward a policeman who had seized another gunman. The Shadow clipped the would-be killer. Another gangster, stepping back to aim, went down from a second bullet that the black avenger fired.
Arms swung and revolvers flashed as the police threw back the remnants of the mob. Beside the open door, the black-clad figure waited, watching, as he saw the new attackers triumph over the brutal slayers.
Amid that excitement, only one man’s gaze was focused on The Shadow. Herbert Carpenter, flat upon the floor, had recovered from the blow which Gifford Morton had dealt him. Above him loomed the figure in black. He could see the shining eyes; he watched the steady, slowly moving muzzles of the automatics.
Then came a low, chilling laugh which brought a shudder to Herbert Carpenter. Those glaring eyes met his, and in the glittering optics, Carpenter saw triumph. He knew that he — like those overpowered gangsters — was fated to fall into the toils of the law, to meet a punishment which he deserved.
The door of the inner room closed. One of the surging policemen saw it. He dashed in that direction, motioning to the reserves.
“Some one went in there—”
The officers leaped to the door and yanked it open. To their ears came the last echoes of a strange, weird laugh. Only one man was in the room. That was Gifford Morton, sprawled upon the floor. The leading policeman dashed to the open window.
“He must have gone through here if he—”
The officer stared downward — a sheer drop of a hundred feet to a courtyard below. Amazed, he looked upward and spied a silhouetted form, clinging bat-like to the wall above.
“He’s gone up” — the policeman’s words formed a startled gasp, as he turned back into the room — “up the wall — hanging to the cornice—”
“Get him!” came the cry.
The policeman leaned from the window. He fired upward just as the clinging form disappeared into a window above. A taunting laugh followed the futile shot.
THE captured gangsters were unresisting. All the prisoners were wounded; a few were dying; others — uncaptured — were dead. A dozen policemen, not needed here, dashed through the corridors and up the stairs, to cut off the retreat of the figure which had departed by the window. They did not know the heroic part that he had played tonight. They had mistaken The Shadow for an enemy.
The frantic search covered all the upper stories of the hotel. The police found no one. Guests were questioned; rooms were searched. There was no sign of an unknown person clad in black.
Two officers entered a room on the fourteenth floor. They found a rather surprised guest rising from a chair, laying aside a book as he stared in puzzlement at the sudden invasion.
This gentleman, quiet in demeanor, identified himself as Lamont Cranston, of New York. He told the policemen that he had seen no one enter the room. He helped them make a search. When he learned that they were seeking some one who had worn what appeared to be a black cloak, he politely insisted that his room be searched for such a garment. He even opened his large trunk, and revealed all its contents.
“Thanks, Mr. Cranston,” said one of the policemen. “Most of the people were angry because we disturbed them. You’re different. You seem to understand. There’s been murder below, and it’s our duty to look everywhere.”
When the officers were gone, Lamont Cranston stood in the center of the room, gazing at the door which had closed behind them. A thin smile wavered upon his firm, inscrutable lips. From those same lips came the low echo of a sinister laugh.
It was the laugh of one whose true identity was unknown; the laugh of a mysterious personage who fought for justice, but who used his own effective methods; the laugh of one who had gained the victory, but had left the glory for others.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!