CHAPTER I

THUGS IN THE NIGHT

SIX men sat sullen and silent in the old touring car as it rumbled swiftly through the night-shrouded street. With curtains tightly drawn, the car twisted between elevated pillars, turned sharply to the right, and then, skidding, slued about, broadside to the road, before a row of sinister-looking houses.

The heavy-set man, who sat beside the driver up front, grunted. His coat collar was turned up. His hat was jammed over his eyes; his right hand, plunged deep in one pocket, closed tightly about a hard metal object.

“This is good enough,” he muttered.

Understandingly, the driver snapped off the ignition switch and turned off the lights.

One of the others cautiously opened a back door. “I’m gonna dump Louie,” came a whisper.

The big man twisted thick shoulders, leaned back, and spoke rapidly from one side of his mouth:

“Louie stays right where he is. How you had the brains to live this long, stops me. All you gotta do is to dump Louie here and every flatfoot in town’ll be on our trail. You’ll spoil the whole racket for us and for Tim.

“It don’t take more brains than these dumb cops got to figure Louie was trying to muscle into our dough. Louie stays. You can keep him warm.”

The hunch-shouldered man in back grumbled: “I don’t like ridin’ next to a stiff.” But the door closed again softly.

OF the six swarthy passengers in the car, five of them were alive.

Ernie, the thick-set man who was their leader, cautiously opened the door and peered out. His squinting eyes strained to pierce the gloom. From a distance came the lonesome rumble of an elevated train. Aside from that — silence.

He cursed under his breath. Then, an instant later, he suddenly tensed. Through the stillness he heard faintly the exhaust of a heavy-duty truck’s motor.

Ernie’s eyes glittered. The three men in the rear seat shifted slightly, their ratlike faces tense, strained.

Soon headlights flashed on the stalled touring car. The brakes of the moving vehicle, a huge storage van, ground to a halt.

From its covered driver’s seat, two men leaped out. They seemed in a hurry; impatient to get the obstructing car out the way. They shouted gruff inquiries.

“Give ‘em the works,” spat Ernie. Suddenly the curtained doors of the touring car swung open. The gangsters poured out; swarmed upon the van men.

A quick scuffle; the panting sound of blows. A metal-incased fist slammed against the jaw of the larger man, the van’s driver. He slumped to the street like a wet paper bag.

The smaller man grappled with two of the gangsters, then fell as though stricken dead when a heavy wrench crashed over his ear.

“Bust up this load!” came Ernie’s low-pitched command.

The slight, wiry forms of the thugs moved swiftly, ghostlike, through the gloom. Two of them climbed into the driver’s seat; two more ran around to the rear.

A short crowbar in the hands of one of the latter pair had already been inserted at the tailboard. He threw his weight onto it. The board creaked. And at the sound came a low exclamation of warning from the other gangster in the rear.

He pointed to a small, low-hung sedan, drawn up to the curb within only a few feet of them. So silently had it arrived — rolling up with a closed motor — that none of the mobsmen had observed its coming.

The thug with the crowbar turned sharply. As he did, a peculiar, sighing sound came from the half-open rear window of the darkened car.

The gangster cried out. The crowbar clattered to the paving. He seized his wrist.

“He’s got a silencer!” grunted the wounded man. “Look out—”

Again came the sigh. The injured man’s partner suddenly collapsed.

Ernie ran around, dragging at his gat.

“Drop this van — get that car!” he yelled, approaching the sedan. He yanked open the door, gun raised.

The heavy-calibered pistol swished downward. But the blow was never completed.

A powerful, unseen hand had come from the darkness; steel-like fingers had grappled on Ernie’s thick wrist.

A quick, strong twist, and Ernie found himself thrown flat on his back in the street.

In the dim glare of the van’s lights, a black-clad figure swung into the fray. Like a huge bat in human form, the figure struck with his fists. At each blow, a gangster went down.

There followed a mocking laugh — eerie, sinister. The mysterious interloper had disappeared into nothingness. But the small, low-hung sedan was coursing away as noiselessly as it had earlier arrived.

Ernie rose to his knees in time to see the shadowlike car gliding swiftly away.

As if hypnotized, Ernie swayed, the memory of that mocking laugh still stinging his ears. But there came then a more earthly sound to spur the gangster into action.

The shrill alarm of a police whistle!

Ernie struggled to his feet. He rested a moment on the fender of the van, then, hands deep in pockets, hatbrim pulled down, he walked off, not too hurriedly, in the opposite direction from whence had come the warning blast.

He knew that those gorillas — lying senseless in the street — wouldn’t talk — if they wanted to take up living again.

CHAPTER II

RACKETEERS DISAGREE

THE Hotel Spartan was an old, third-class hostelry that stood near the edge of the lower East Side. It had been many years since the place had known its palmy days. It was surrounded by low, dilapidated buildings, and the elevated railroad ran in front of its grimy windows.

A heavy-set man walked through the door. He noted the loungers standing about the lobby, then started up the rubber-treaded stairs. Had he paused to glance through the broad window of the lobby he might have seen a shadowy form melt into the darkness.

At the fourth floor he stopped in front of the door of a room and knocked softly.

“Who’s there?” came a whispered voice.

“Ernie,” the visitor replied.

The door opened, and Ernie stepped inside. The door closed behind him.

A few moments later, there was a movement in the hallway outside the closed door. For a brief instant, the form of a human being came into view — then it disappeared; a shadowy figure that went back toward the stairway that led to the ground floor.

Inside the hotel room, two men faced each other amidst a gloomy light. They formed a strange pair, in the setting of an antiquated sitting room, with its few rickety chairs, and box couch in the corner.

“What’s the matter, Ernie?” demanded the tall, rugged man who had been in the room. “What’s happened to you?”

“Nothing, Tim!” Ernie growled in reply. “Nothing that matters! Give me a shot! I want to talk to you!”

Tim led the way to an inner room, leaving the door open.

This room was small. It contained a desk, two chairs, and a safe. On the desk was a typewriter. Beside it lay a pile of stationery that bore the heading: “Storage Warehouse Security Association.”

The man called Ernie reached out as the other poured him a drink of liquor. He swallowed the fluid at a single gulp.

“Sit down a minute, Tim,” he said.

Tim corked the bottle angrily and obeyed. He looked on in amazement while Ernie turned out the light, so that only the dim glow from the other room remained.

Tim watched while Ernie cautiously raised the blind of the window and peered downward into the blackness of the alley. Then he lowered the blind and turned on the light.

“What’s the lay, Ernie?” demanded Tim.

“If you want to know,” growled the visitor, “I’ll tell you! The Tim Waldron storage racket took it on the chin tonight!”

“Yeah?” There was menace in Waldron’s tone. “Yeah? What was the matter with Ernie Shires, the guy that has the tough gorillas?”

“There’s nothing the matter with me,” retorted Shires. “But when it comes to them gorillas, they’re yours — not mine! You can have the bunch of ‘em at a dime apiece, so far as I’m concerned!”

Waldron leaned back in his chair. His eyebrows narrowed as he threw his cigar butt in a corner and drew another stogie from his pocket.

For a moment, his eyes were menacing; then his voice became smooth.

“Spill it, Ernie,” he said.

SHIRES looked at him suspiciously. He walked across the room and leaned against the wall. The paleness had gone from his face. The hardness of his features was more pronounced.

“Before you begin,” said Waldron quietly, “I’d better remind you what I told you tonight. Remember? I’ve been paying you one grand a week, waiting for something where I’d need you.

“I kept you out of the collecting end because I smelled trouble, and didn’t want you mixed up too heavy in the legit side of the business. Those gorillas — well, I supplied the dough for them — but you picked them. Don’t forget that!”

“Well, I got a bum steer, that’s all,” said Ernie sullenly. “I know this racket, Tim. It may be a new one, but you’re running it like a lot of other guys. Collecting the dough from all these two-by-four storage houses. Making ‘em keep their prices the same. Each one to his own territory.

“Soft, wasn’t it, the way they fell in line! Until this one guy — Burton Brooks — tells you it’s all off, and gets a few other small fry to do the same.

“So you frame it nice. All set to knock off one of the Brooks vans. Slug the driver and the van man. Make them quit, and scare the rest of them. Start the dough coming in again. Simple, ain’t it?”

“Simple is right,” replied Waldron. “And let me tell you something, tough guy! Those van men are unionized, and I’ve been chiseling in on their outfit.

“They think a lot of their hides, those guys, and with one reason to walk out on Brooks, they’d do it! That’s why I told you to have the gorillas slug them. Did they do it?”

“They started to, but—”

“But what?” Tim Waldron’s growl was as emphatic as that of his visitor.

“Some guy butted in and smeared the job!” replied Shires.

“How many guys?” quizzed Waldron incredulously.

“One guy!”

“And you had your mob there?”

“Yeah! But this guy sneaked up on us. Had a gun with a silencer. Clipped the whole mob — all but me.”

“One guy, huh!” sneered Waldron. “That sounds fishy to me — and you sound yellow!”

ERNIE SHIRES leaped forward from the wall. Tim Waldron rose to meet him. For a few moments the men glared at each other.

Then Shires turned suddenly and walked back across the room. Waldron, viciously chewing the end of his cigar, resumed his seat.

“So you lay down on the job!” said Waldron disdainfully. “Went out to slug two guys and smash up a van. One bird cleans you and your mob! Tough bunch of gorillas you’ve got!”

Shires clenched his fists, but made no reply.

“I’m going to tell you what this means,” said Waldron coldly. “You think it means the end of my racket — that’s what you suggested when you came in here. Well, it don’t! Get that, tough guy? It means the end of you! That’s all!

“It’s putting me in a tough spot, because once a job like this flops, the suckers get cocky, and it takes a lot of teaching to get them back where they were. Now they’ll be on the lookout for trouble. They’re going to get it, just the same!

“The storage racket will be bigger than it ever was, when I’m through with them!”

“Yeah?” responded Shires. He was challenging now. “Well, half your mob got smashed tonight. But I’m game! I’m ready, too! I’ll get busy with the rest of the mob!”

“Listen, tough guy!” said Waldron. “You said these were my gorillas. You’re right! They are! Ten of them — that you know about.

“But I’ve been holding out on you. I’ve got twenty more and they’re tough! Dock wallopers, some of them. Brooks is going to get it, and so are his pals! Quick, too!

“I know this racket; and it’ll be dead if I let it ride ten days. Then none of them will pay!

“But they’re all going to pay! I’m giving them the works — turning my whole mob loose. One man at the head of all of them. How do you like that?”

A thin, wolfish smile crept over the face of Ernie Shires. His animosity was forgotten. He scented big jobs ahead, with more pay if he should prove successful.

“You’re giving me all of ‘em, eh?” he asked. “That’s the stuff, Tim! That’s the stuff! We’ll knock ‘em off! And I’m out to get that guy that queered things tonight, too!”

“You think you know who he is?”

Ernie’s triumphant expression faded suddenly. He glanced again toward the window. He approached Tim Waldron and sat in a chair close to the racketeer.

“Listen, Tim” — Ernie’s voice was low — “this guy was dressed all in black. All in black — get me?”

“Mourning for somebody, I guess,” came the sarcastic reply.

“All in black,” repeated Shires. “And when he left — he laughed!”

“No wonder. He had plenty to laugh about!”

“I’m serious, Tim! This ain’t no joke!

“There’s only one guy could fight like he did — only one guy who could laugh like that. And if he’s trying to hurt your racket, you’ll need all them gorillas you’re going to give me. All of ‘em!”

“Why?”

“Because I think that guy was The Shadow!”

Tim Waldron leaned back and laughed. He glanced at Ernie Shires, and when he saw his henchman’s serious expression, Tim laughed again.

“You been hearing that stuff, too?” he questioned. “A guy in black called The Shadow? Baloney!”

“He’s real, all right, Tim!”

“Yeah! Real enough to frighten kids on the radio and to jump in on snow sniffers that see things half the time.

“But if he’s out to muss up any rackets, he’s due for a fade-out! And if he’s beginning with mine, he’s all wet! Get me?”

SHIRES nodded, only half convinced. Tim Waldron detected the man’s lukewarm expression. He was about to reply when a telephone buzzed beside the desk. Waldron answered it.

“All right,” said the racketeer, over the phone. “Tell him to wait exactly ten minutes. Then come up and walk in. Understand?”

He hung up the receiver and looked at Shires.

“Ever hear of Cliff Marsland?” he asked.

“You mean the guy that was sent up for that Brooklyn bank robbery, a few years ago?”

“That’s the one!”

“Yeah. I’ve heard of him.”

“Well, he’s out of the Big House now. He’s downstairs and he’s coming up to see me.”

“Yeah?” Shires spoke in a menacing tone as he leaned forward in his chair and folded his arms in front of him. “What about?”

“If he’s the guy I want — and I think he is” — Waldron’s tones were cold and calculating — “he’s going to draw one grand a week as the big gun of my gorillas.”

“Which means—”

“That you’re through, Yellow!

“Tonight ain’t the first trouble I’ve had. Somebody’s been trying to chisel in on my racket. Telling the suckers to lay off me.

“I’ve got the goods on this guy Marsland. He’ll be working for more than that one grand a week. He’ll be doing what I tell him, so he can keep out of the Big House! Get me? He’s the guy that I want!

“There’s only one man that can keep this racket of mine going, and that’s myself! With the right guy working with me, it’s going to be bigger than ever!

“Tim Waldron knows his own racket, and when he finds a guy that’s yellow, like Ernie Shires, he—”

The sentence was never completed. As Waldron leaned toward the desk, Shires suspected something in his action.

Like a flash, Ernie’s hand came from beneath his coat. His arm shot forward, and the muzzle of his automatic was buried against Waldron’s body. There were two muffled reports. The storage racketeer sprawled forward upon the desk.

Ernie Shires laughed sullenly. He thrust his automatic into his pocket. Then, as an afterthought, he withdrew the weapon, wiped the handle, and dropped it on the table beside Waldron’s body.

“So you’ve got your gorillas!” he said, in a low, sarcastic tone, addressing the inert form of the racketeer. “That’s why there were some new mugs in the lobby tonight!

“You’re up here alone, waiting for a tough guy, Cliff Marsland, who’s been spotted by your gang! Well, let him come! See what happens to him!”

Ernie Shires turned on his heel and left the room. Only the body of Tim Waldron remained. From the vest-clad form, blood oozed forth and formed a crimson pool upon the stationery that bore the title: “Storage Warehouse Security Association.”

Tim Waldron’s racket — which only he could control — was now no more than a name, and even that name was now being literally blotted out with blood!

There was silence in the room of death. Silence that was undisturbed except for a slight rattling at the window, which might easily have been caused by the rumbling of an elevated train at the other side of the shaky old building.

The pool of blood spread over the top of the desk, while the room of death awaited its new arrival.

CHAPTER III

A STRANGE MEETING

THE clock on the table in the outer room of Tim Waldron’s little suite had ticked off ten minutes since the departure of Ernie Shires. The door from the hallway opened, and a man walked into the apartment.

He closed the door carefully behind him. He turned to view his surroundings. Seeing no one, he quietly seated himself and lighted a cigarette.

The appearance of this new visitor was distinctly different from that of the usual mobster who came to Tim Waldron’s headquarters.

He was neither roughly dressed nor flashily attired. He represented neither of the extremes. He could not have been classed as a tough gorilla nor as a smooth racketeer.

His face, too, was different from the usual gangland physiognomy. His features were firm and well-molded. His eyes were blue in color, and his hair was light. He seemed more the athlete than the gangster.

Yet there was a threat in his square jaw, and his immobile expression carried a certain forcefulness.

It had been nearly eight years since he had been identified with New York’s underworld. Eight years is a long time in gangdom. Yet the name of Cliff Marsland was not forgotten!

As the minutes went by, Marsland retained his expression of immobility. He was a man who seemed accustomed to waiting. He lighted a second cigarette in a mechanical fashion; then a third.

When he had flicked the final cigarette into a bowl that served as an ash tray, Marsland noted the clock on the table. He had been waiting ten minutes. He arose and glanced at the half-opened door that led to the inner room. He stepped over and tapped on the door. Hearing no response, he entered. He stopped short the moment that he stepped through the doorway. Neither surprise nor confusion were registered upon his firm features. Marsland merely stood motionless as he stared at the form of Tim Waldron, with its crazily spread arms.

Marsland’s eyes were focused on that one spot in the room. He walked forward and examined the body with the cold precision of a man to whom death is no stranger.

He picked up the automatic that lay on the table. He examined the weapon in a matter-of-fact manner, then replaced it upon the table.

A low sound came from the end of the room. Marsland turned without haste.

Once more he stood motionless. In the corner of the room, at a spot where the light was obscure, stood a tall man clad in black. He formed a strange, imposing figure, with a huge cloak over his shoulders. His broad-brimmed hat, turned down in front, shrouded his face in shadow.

The only color that showed amidst this mass of black was a splotch of red, where the lining of the cloak was folded back. The crimson hue of the lining rivaled the blood that covered the desk where Tim Waldron’s body lay.

CLIFF MARSLAND made no move. He did not even attempt to reach for the gun that lay on the desk. He studied the man in black with a steady glance.

For a few moments neither moved. Then Marsland calmly slipped his hand into his left coat pocket. He drew forth a cigarette, and lighted it.

A low, chuckling laugh came from the man in the corner. For the first time, Marsland was startled. The match dropped from his fingers.

He suddenly regained his composure and stepped upon the lighted match.

The man in black stepped from the corner. He extended an arm and waved a black-gloved hand in the direction of a chair. Marsland sat down. He still puffed his cigarette, but a puzzled expression had appeared upon his face.

The puzzlement was mingled with awe. He began to feel uneasy. He could see no face beneath that broad-brimmed hat — only the glint of two eyes that seemed to fathom everything.

“You are Cliff Marsland,” spoke a whispered voice.

Marsland nodded.

“Why did you come here?” asked the man in black.

Marsland pointed his thumb toward the body of Tim Waldron.

“To see him,” he said tersely.

“For what purpose?” came the question.

Marsland shrugged his shoulders.

A low laugh came from beneath the broad-brimmed hat. Even to Marsland, the laugh was chilling. He shifted uneasily and stared narrowly at his inquisitor.

“Cliff Marsland!” said the whispered voice. “That was not your name — fourteen years ago — when you were overseas—”

Marsland stared incredulously as the voice trailed away. He moved slightly in his chair, seeking to gain a new angle from which to view the man in black. He was unsuccessful.

“Perhaps,” said the voice, “you remember the village of Esternay, in the Spring of ‘18 or, perhaps, that trip to Monte Carlo, three weeks after the Armistice? Do you recall Blanton, the Frenchman—”

Marsland half rose from his chair, his hands gripping the arms, his face suddenly tense, his body rigid with suppressed excitement.

“Who are you?” he demanded hoarsely. “Who are you?”

A low, whispered laugh was the only response. Its sibilant sound seemed to come from the walls, from the floor, from the ceiling — as if the room itself were taunting the listener. Marsland sank back in his chair.

“Like yourself,” came the low voice, “I am a man whose name has been forgotten. We shall speak no more of years gone by. You are now Clifford Marsland. I am” — the voice halted impressively — “The Shadow!”

“The Shadow!” echoed Marsland.

“Yes! You have never met me in my present guise. For I began my new career while you were in—”

“Sing Sing,” supplied Marsland.

“In Sing Sing,” said The Shadow. “There — for a robbery you did not commit!”

CLIFF MARSLAND raised his head in sudden surprise.

“How do you know that?” he questioned. “I made no defense. I never denied it — I never—”

The low voice of The Shadow interrupted him.

“The fact that I know is sufficient,” came in his even tones. “Nor is that all I know.

“There was another crime a greater one — a murder — which has also been attributed to you. Not by the police, for they do not know; but by the underworld, whose secrets belong to The Shadow!”

Marsland nodded, still staring at the man in black.

“You came here,” said The Shadow, “because you were summoned. Tim Waldron knew your secret. He used it as a threat over your head. He believed you to be a murderer as well as a convicted robber.

“He did not know what I know — that you bore one crime for the sake of another man; that you would also accept the other if it should be blamed upon you!”

The man in the chair moved restlessly. These revelations were uncanny. He stared at the man in black; then gazed toward the figure sprawled upon the desk. It became his turn to question.

“You did — that?” he asked, pointing toward Waldron.

“No,” replied The Shadow. “It was intended for you! It was the irony of fate, Clifford Marsland, that another crime should be planned so that it might be laid to you.

“Once again, you are a murderer — by proxy!”

Marsland gazed hopelessly at the form of Waldron.

“You came here” — the voice of The Shadow seemed far away to the listener — “reconciled to a life of crime. You were ready to do Waldron’s bidding — to cast in your lot with criminals, for you had been branded as one.

“You are bitter because of the past. You are willing to accept any future, if it brings you gain. So I offer you — a future!”

“Like the one Waldron had for me?”

“No! Not for the cause of crime!”

“For the cause of justice, then?” Marsland laughed bitterly. “For justice? I would prefer crime!”

“For neither crime nor justice!” came the low voice. “Your future lies in the cause of The Shadow! To do my bidding will be your one task. Do you accept?”

A strange light gleamed in Clifford Marsland’s eyes as he turned his gaze upon the man in black. The room and its surroundings seemed unreal.

Beside him, the body of a murdered man; before him, a mysterious figure that possessed amazing knowledge.

It captured his imagination. Clifford Marsland could make but one reply.

“I accept!” he said.

“You promise full obedience?”

“I promise full obedience!”

“With no conditions?”

“With no conditions!”

THERE was silence while the import of his words impressed themselves on Clifford Marsland’s brain. He realized now the strangeness of his position.

He had become a figure in gangdom, due to his incarceration in Sing Sing for a daring robbery which had been attributed to him. He was believed to be a murderer. He was known in the underworld. He had come here tonight in answer to a summons.

A sudden light dawned upon him. When he left, his reputation would be even greater! Even as the thought occurred to Cliff Marsland, The Shadow spoke.

“A man lies murdered in this room,” came the sinister tones of the being in black. “He was a notorious racketeer — a man with few friends, but with a wide reputation for his deeds.

“The killer of Tim Waldron will gain great fame in the underworld. But only two men — besides the killer himself — will know the identity of the murderer! You are one; I am the other!

“To the underworld, the slayer of Tim Waldron will be Cliff Marsland — the only person who is supposed to have visited this room tonight. We shall let that rumor spread.

“But listen closely, Clifford Marsland, while I speak the name of the real murderer — Ernie Shires! When he killed Waldron, he planned your death, for he knew that you were coming here, and that the crime would be laid to you.

“Remember the name of Ernie Shires! When the time comes, you will have your turn. You will lay open the path that will lead to the doom of Ernie Shires!”

Cliff Marsland’s lips tightened grimly. He understood The Shadow’s meaning. This was Marsland’s own idea of retribution — it had been molded in him years before, when he had battled overseas; it had been hardened by the years of imprisonment that he had undergone.

“It is not your task to kill,” continued The Shadow. “That will remain for others. It is your task to wait — and to obey.

“When you leave here, double back to the street above the hotel. You will see a sedan awaiting you, at the entrance of the first alley. Enter it and go where you are instructed. You will have work to do.

“But now our time is short. Ernie Shires left this place unmolested because his presence was unknown. Your case is different. You have been watched from the moment you entered this hotel.

“Outside, in the hallway, men are waiting — the same men who observed you in the lobby. Fight your way through them! Go down the stairs beside the elevator. Escape by the street. Are you ready?”

Marsland grinned grimly. He nodded, tense with anticipation of the adventure that lay ahead.

“Pick up that gun!” ordered The Shadow, pointing to the table.

Marsland obeyed.

“Remember” — The Shadow’s voice was a hissing tone — “you are an escaping killer! Five seconds more, and you have no other choice! Wait there — by the doorway to the outer room.”

A black-gloved hand came from beneath the crimson-lined cloak. An automatic appeared in The Shadow’s hand.

With his revolver aimed through an opening beside the window shade, the man in black fired two quick shots. Then, with a sweeping motion, he swung across the room and extinguished the light.

CLIFF MARSLAND understood. The two shots were for the benefit of the watchers in the hallway. They were the reports that would be considered as the shots that had killed Tim Waldron.

Even as these thoughts flashed through Marsland’s keen brain, the door of the outer room was flung open, and three men dashed into the apartment. Quick as a flash, Marsland ducked behind the door and swung his arm toward the onrushing avengers.

Two shots rang from his automatic. One of the men dropped. The second swung by the falling body. A ferret-eyed gunman spotted Marsland, crouching. With a cry of vengeance, the gangster aimed his automatic. Marsland saw the danger an instant too late.

Then, while Cliff remained a perfect target for the gunman’s aim, two shots came from the darkness of the inner room.

The Shadow, ever watchful, had met the need! Marsland’s enemy fell.

The third man was at the doorway. Cliff leaped upon him as he entered the darkness. A quick swing of the arm that held the automatic, and the third of Waldron’s gorillas fell.

Cliff looked quickly over his shoulder, seeking The Shadow. The man in black had completely disappeared. Only the light-colored window shade was rustling in the darkness.

Where was The Shadow?

This was no time to wonder. Cliff remembered his instructions.

He dashed across the outer room. As he reached the door, he instinctively stopped. He was just in time. The muzzle of an automatic threatened as a fourth gunman leaped from cover. Shots rang out simultaneously.

Cliff staggered in pain as he received a bullet in his shoulder. But his own fire had not missed its mark. The other man was down.

Cliff pulled the light switch in the outer room and swung his body against the wall. It was a wise move, for a fifth man had just appeared in the hallway.

The crippled men in the inner room were firing now shooting blindly in the darkness, toward the open door of the outer room. The newcomer was not visible to them. He leaped through the outer doorway blindly, and fell a victim to the gunfire of his comrades.

Crouching low, Cliff sprang across the body and dashed toward the stairs.

All was well until he arrived in the lobby. There he staggered as the lighted place seemed to whirl. He saw men there; he did not wait to decide whether they were gunmen or merely guests of the hotel. He fired two shots and saw the men scurry, like rats, for cover.

He dashed for the door, firing another shot as he went. Answering reports came from the desk behind him. The clerk tried to stop his flight; but the shots went wide.

FOR an instant, Cliff staggered as he reached the street. He was momentarily confused, not knowing which way to turn. Then the cool air revived him.

He turned parallel with the elevated line, and dashed along the sidewalk. A man rushed in to block his path, but cringed and dropped away as Cliff swung his automatic. Shots came from the front of the hotel, while the corner was still yards away.

Cliff nearly slipped as he caught a thick lamp-post and turned to fire his remaining bullets at his pursuers. He saw the men leap wildly for cover. Then he began a last dash for his goal.

The pursuers made one last attempt at long-range, as Cliff reached the corner. A bullet ricocheted from the sidewalk and struck him in the leg.

He stumbled and fell; then crawled quickly beyond the corner and pulled himself to his feet, clutching the side of a building with his right hand.

He saw the car ahead of him, waiting by the entrance to the alley. He stumbled onward, wondering if he could reach it. His feet seemed incapable of action. He slipped and plunged forward, clutching against the wall of the building beside him.

Some one caught him as he fell.

To Cliff’s excited mind, it seemed as though a mass of darkness had come to life. Then powerful arms virtually lifted him the last few yards, and he was thrust through the open door of the car.

He knew then The Shadow had saved him. Somehow he understood it all — the strange disappearance and the rustling of the window shade in Tim Waldron’s room.

The Shadow had come and gone up and down the wall on the outside of the building! Above the black alley, he had crawled, a human fly, along the surface of projecting bricks!

When he had fired the shots that downed the menacing gangster, he had left the room by his own exit — through the window — to await Cliff’s arrival at the sedan!

Thoughts turned to confusion in Clifford Marsland’s mind. He knew that the car was moving, pulling away from the curb, traveling faster now. There were shots somewhere behind — far behind. The pursuers were being outdistanced.

Cliff’s leg pained him. His shoulder was helpless. He was weak and fainting. The episodes that had just passed were becoming hazy.

Cliff’s head dropped backward. It bumped above the cushion of the rear seat. He opened his eyes and fancied that he saw a black form looming above him, with two shining spots that glowed like the piercing eyes of The Shadow.

Then his own eyes closed, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER IV

“KILLER” DURGAN

IT was the next evening when Ernie Shires entered the lobby of Larchmont Court, one of Manhattan’s newest hotel apartments. The tough-faced gangster was gaudily dressed for the occasion.

He looked about him with an approving grin as he mentally contrasted the elegant surroundings of this apartment with the decadent lobby of the Hotel Spartan. He whistled softly to himself as he entered a smooth-running elevator and called for the twenty-first floor.

“Whew!” murmured Ernie, as the elevator sped upward. “This is some joint! This guy Durgan must be a big shot. Tim Waldron couldn’t touch this!”

The elevator stopped, and Shires stepped into a thickly carpeted hallway. He looked in both directions; then, noting the numbers on the doors, he walked to the right and stopped at the entrance to a suite in the corner. He knocked, and was admitted.

Again, Ernie Shires was amazed by his surroundings. He stood in a lavishly furnished room. He seemed to feel the thickness of the rug that was beneath his feet.

The walls were hung with expensive tapestries. Chairs and tables, carved of heavy mahogany, bespoke luxury.

Ernie’s eyes wandered across the room, and he gazed with keen interest toward a divan upon which a beautiful girl reclined. She was attired in a varicolored dress that formed the one bright spot in the softly-lighted room. The girl had blond hair, and she gazed at Ernie with languishing eyes.

Then, as the gangster continued to stare toward her, the girl turned her eyes toward the ceiling, and raised a cigarette to her lips. She seemed indifferent to his presence as she blew a puff of smoke.

Ernie suddenly came to his senses. He knew the reason for the blond’s action. Men of the underworld are jealous of their women. Ernie was here on business. It was not wise for her to attract his attention.

Ernie Shires realized his mistake and immediately rectified it. He turned toward the other side of the room, where two men were seated, both looking steadily in his direction.

One of these men was quiet-looking and solemn-faced. He was obviously a visitor. It was the other man who commanded Ernie’s interest. He needed no introduction.

Ernie recognized him as “Killer” Durgan, racketeer de luxe!

No individual could have been more out of place in those surroundings than Killer Durgan. He was a man with a cruel, leering face, that betrayed a merciless, animal nature.

MANY a mobsman had quailed before the snarling face of Killer Durgan, but Ernie Shires did not follow their example. Instead, he returned the man’s evil leer with a grin.

Killer Durgan was a man to his liking. In him, Shires recognized his own traits. He had heard that Killer Durgan was a man who would stop at nothing. Now, he was sure of it.

Durgan nodded slowly as he surveyed Ernie Shires. Evidently, he, too, was well pleased. The hard-faced gangster who stood before him was meeting with his approval, and even as he nodded in satisfaction, Durgan curled his lips maliciously.

“You’re Shires?” he questioned, in a raspy voice.

“Yeah,” replied Ernie.

“Sit down.”

Durgan turned to the man beside him. “All right, Mike,” he said. “Run along. Call me to-morrow.”

The solemn-faced man nodded. He arose and left the room, walking past Ernie Shires without glancing at him.

Durgan turned toward the corner where the blond girl was staring upward at a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“Beat it, Madge,” ordered Durgan.

The girl arose and walked across the room. She opened a door and went into another room of the suite.

She did not look at Ernie Shires as she left. Killer Durgan’s minions acted like human automatons when they received his orders.

Ernie Shires grinned again, in admiration of the man.

“What’s the lay?” Durgan demanded suddenly.

Shires shrugged his shoulders.

“I was working for Tim Waldron,” he said. “He was blotted out last night. That’s all.”

Killer Durgan half-closed his eyelids as he stared at Shires. He raised his lower lip in an ugly manner.

“What did you do for Waldron?” he questioned.

“Managed his gorillas,” returned Shires.

“Who knocked him off?”

“A guy named Cliff Marsland.”

“What are you doing about it?”

“Me?” Ernie Shires shrugged his shoulders. “What should I do about it? I wasn’t Waldron’s bodyguard.”

“You were in the money, weren’t you?”

“Sure. I was getting mine out of Waldron’s racket. One grand a week to keep the gorillas working. But why should I worry? I ain’t eating snowballs. I’m a long way from being broke!”

Killer Durgan pondered. He continued to study his visitor.

He knew well why Shires had come to see him. If he had not understood the purpose of the gangster’s visit, he would not have granted him admittance. Shires was after a job with Durgan; and Durgan wanted to find out a few things about the gangster’s previous connection with the defunct Tim Waldron. He had learned one fact already; that Shires had been working for Waldron on a strictly business arrangement. That pleased Durgan.

There were reasons why he did not want a man who was nursing a vengeance. He was not anxious to embroil himself in a feud on account of Tim Waldron’s death. Still, he wanted to know more.

“Why did Marsland knock off Waldron?” he questioned.

“Don’t ask me,” responded Shires.

“Was he trying to muscle in on Waldron’s racket?”

“Nope. Waldron had that racket by the ears. He was the big noise, and he was making a go of it.”