THE HIDDEN SHADOW
HOOKS BORGLUND was giving orders. He was standing in the center of the room. Before him, hands ceilingward, stood Herbert Carpenter. Borglund’s gun was prodding him in the ribs.
“Watch the girl,” said Hooks, to one of the gangsters. “Give her a shot of that dope. Chloroform wears off too easy. You get to the door” — Hooks was speaking to the other ruffian — “and be ready for the getaway. I’m finishing this guy — then I’m with you.”
Brutally, he shoved his prisoner through a doorway into a bedroom toward the front of the suite. Here, in the light of a small lamp, Borglund pushed his enemy into a corner.
Hooks took his stand beside an open window. He cast his eye across the little court, and noted that the opposite windows were dark.
“So it’s Carpenter, eh?” sneered Hooks. “Trying to queer our game, eh? We knew you were out of the big house, but we didn’t think you’d be fool enough to run down here. Thought you were safe in your disguise, too. Well, you didn’t fool me!”
Carpenter said nothing. He stared past Hooks, toward the open window.
“Nobody’s looking at us,” jeered Hooks. “That suite’s empty. We know all about it. You’re going to get the works. One shot will finish you.
“It’s going to be sweet for us. The girl gone. A guy found dead. Who is he? Herbert Carpenter, convicted blackmailer. Pulling a kidnapping — shot in the act. Great stuff, Carpenter. You took the rap — you kept mum — you’re the goat, now.”
Carpenter’s eyes shifted to the revolver in Borglund’s hand. That weapon would decide his doom. A single shot would mean the end.
A few nights ago, Carpenter had sought death. Now, life, even with the threat of prison, had become sweet. On the brink of a new career — in the midst of his first attack against crime — he was to die.
There was only one hope — The Shadow. That hope did not mean Carpenter’s salvation; not for a second did he entertain such a fantastic thought.
Even if The Shadow should invade this mob-ruled suite, Borglund would still have time to kill his prisoner. Carpenter’s hope was that The Shadow might be near, to carry on the work that he would be unable to continue.
The lights of the board walk glowed from far below. The roar of the surf, the dull murmur of the crowd — these would drown the sound of the fatal shot. Hooks Borglund’s finger was on the trigger; in another second, Herbert Carpenter would lie dead.
Something whirred through the air. Carpenter’s staring eyes caught a swift, flashing gleam. A cry came from Hooks Borglund. As Carpenter stood astounded, he saw a knife quivering in Borglund’s arm!
The revolver dropped upon the floor. Carpenter was too amazed to make a move. It seemed a long moment before he understood. Through the window — from the seclusion of that darkened suite across the court — an unseen hand had hurled this certain blade!
The Shadow!
Only he could have performed this startling deed. Without betraying his presence, without the sound of a revealing gunshot, he had come to the rescue. Hooks Borglund, wounded and disarmed, was drawing the knife from his forearm amidst a surging deluge of blood.
A CHAIN of thoughts flashed though Carpenter’s brain. He realized the effectiveness of this rescue. A shot from the other suite would have warned the gangsters in the living room that a hidden foe had entered the fray. They might then have come to the rescue.
But now, Hooks Borglund was staggering, his bloated lips gasping, his wicked eyes bulging. No betrayal had been given.
Carpenter leaped for the revolver. Hooks, momentarily recovering, saw the action. He, too, made a grasp. He caught the gun in his left hand. Carpenter, agile and unwounded, snatched it from his grasp. Hooks, despite his pain, leaped forward to grapple. His hands clawed for Carpenter’s throat, and a spout of blood swept over Carpenter’s clothes.
There was no alternative. One or the other — and Carpenter held the opportunity now. He fired point-blank at the man who was choking him. Hooks Borglund collapsed and rolled upon the floor. His hands clawed convulsively; then were still.
Herbert Carpenter stood still. He looked at the form upon the floor. He studied those black, inscrutable windows across the court. He looked toward the door to the living room, and prepared for an attack. It did not come.
Then he knew the reason. Hooks Borglund had entered here to kill. Those gangsters had expected the shot that they had heard. They were awaiting Borglund, who had promised to join them. They could not for one moment suspect that Hooks lay dead.
With sudden decision, Carpenter took the course that led to safety — even though it was fraught with danger. He opened the door to the living room. He stepped out to encounter the one gangster who was standing by the helpless girl.
The mobster sprang up as he recognized Carpenter. Finding himself covered, he raised his hands and stood snarling. Carpenter backed across the room and raised the receiver of the telephone.
“Hello — hello—”
The operator’s response came over the wire.
“Police to Suite 600,” ordered Carpenter tersely. “Help, quick. Armed men — attempting to kidnap Lois Grantham—”
He stopped short and dropped the receiver. The outer door was opening. The gangster who had gone outside was returning.
As Carpenter’s gaze wandered, the man whom he had covered saw a chance. The mobster dropped his hands and leaped to one side, drawing a revolver. Carpenter saw the menace. He fired twice. The gangster fell, wounded, as Carpenter turned to meet the invader from the hall.
Too late, Carpenter raised the revolver to fire. The other man had gained the draw. But as Carpenter, in that startling moment, saw new doom, a loud report came from the corridor, and the attacking gangster sprawled upon the floor.
With a mad dash, Carpenter rushed from the room. Again, he had been rescued by an unseen hand. But as he reached the hall, he saw that he was trapped. New foemen were springing into view. The gunfire had brought up Hooks Borglund’s reserves. They had chosen to attack — not to flee.
Keen with the excitement of battle, Carpenter met the attack. His first shot caught the leader of the gangsters. He fired again — again -
The hammer clicked on an empty cartridge. A second man had staggered, but others were dashing forward. A bullet struck the door. Carpenter dropped back to cover. He must get into that inner room — find another revolver — fight to the death -
HE stumbled over the body of the fallen gangster, and plunged heavily to the floor. He could hear the shouts of the invaders, as they headed to the door. Then came a shot — a second — the roar of powerful automatics. Rising to his knees, Carpenter stared in wonder.
The Shadow had opened fire. Through the open door, Carpenter saw staggering gangsters. One man’s revolver was coming up, aiming toward an opponent whom Carpenter could not see. A roar from a hidden corner of the hall — the gangster tottered, shooting wildly as he fell.
Cries, oaths, heavily falling bodies — these were the sounds that Herbert Carpenter heard. Finding the revolver that lay by the dead gangster, he hurried to the hall to aid in the fray. He stopped, astounded.
The Shadow was master of the battle. Alone — a tall figure clad in black — he was standing guard above the bodies of those who flung themselves to this attack. Men were groaning, moving helplessly. Those who had fled were the only ones who escaped.
A sound of triumphant mirth broke the strange, new silence. The Shadow’s terrifying laugh rang out in victorious mockery. Two gleaming eyes shone as they spied Carpenter. The black cloak swished and showed its crimson lining as The Shadow turned toward the man he had saved.
“Go!” The fierce, whispered word was a command. “Go! You have other work to do!”
The sound of a police whistle came from downstairs. Carpenter nodded in understanding. Here, he would be trapped. Elsewhere, he would he safe. While The Shadow guarded here, it would be his task to thwart Wheels Bryant — the other man who was perpetrating crime tonight.
Carpenter headed down the corridor. He caught one last fleeting glimpse of The Shadow, as he turned to look back. The tall form was disappearing into the open door of Suite 690.
At a stairway, Carpenter ducked out of sight as two policemen dashed by. Then he hurried on, determined to reach his room and telephone to the home of Rufus Cruikshank.
A sudden thought restrained him. Was it wise for him, an escaped convict, to remain here? No! Better to go in person — to explain the truth to the mayor and the Public Safety Committee. There, he could give himself up to justice. His story would be heard.
Carpenter did not turn toward the elevator. He headed for a fire tower, and made his way rapidly to the street. He heard police whistles sounding, but managed to avoid the arriving officers. A cab was waiting in a dark spot by the curb. Carpenter calmly approached it and entered.
He gave the address — a corner near where Rufus Cruikshank lived. The cab rolled away, and Carpenter sank back in the cushions. The excitement of the past minutes had weakened him.
As he closed his eyes, he could see nothing but the image of a tall, black-clad form. Gangsters had made their thrust tonight seeking to capture a helpless girl and to kill one lone rescuer. Their evil had been thwarted.
Herbert Carpenter, alone, had seen those mobsmen fall — struck down by the hidden Shadow!