KOLSOFF poised the knife. The weapon was in his right hand; with his left he pointed to the exact spot where he was about to drive the sharp-tipped blade. His finger indicated Cliff Marsland’s heart.
Kolsoff’s back was toward the door; the men standing there drew into the room to witness the death blow. The poised hand wavered; then commenced its downward swing.
At that precise moment, a shot sounded from the open doorway. Motkin and the others were amazed as they saw Kolsoff’s body twist. The downcoming arm fell short in its driving stroke.
Some one, from the darkness at the top of the stairs, had drilled the brute’s shoulder with a perfect shot, saving the intended victim!
Motkin was the first to realize who had performed the deed. That bullet had struck the only spot of Kolsoff’s body that could possibly have ended the thrust of the knife.
A shot through the head would have killed, but might not have stopped the sweeping blade. With Kolsoff’s arm obscured beyond his body, the bullet in the shoulder was the only way. Now, Motkin, staring toward the door, saw and recognized the marksman.
There, at the entrance to the room, stood a figure in black. A rip in the surface of his somber cloak revealed a flash of crimson lining. His face was hidden beneath the brim of a bullet-riddled hat.
Motkin recognized both man and garments. This was that amazing personage whom he had seen at the upper window of the old house on the Gostinny Ulitza! This was the one whom his aids had carried from the car! This was the mysterious person who called himself Henry Arnaud, the one whom Motkin believed had perished at the hand of Prensky!
The Shadow, flying in pursuit of the Red agent, had reached Paris just in time to forestall the last tragic act of Motkin and his men!
Motkin saw the flash of The Shadow’s eyes as the figure in black still watched the writhing form of Kolsoff. Then others, responding to the situation, also turned toward the door. It needed no word from Motkin to start the attack.
With one accord, the Bolshevist forces threw themselves at The Shadow in the doorway. They leaped without their leader. Motkin, instinctively wary, dropped to the floor behind the table in the corner of the room.
Shots blazed from the darkened hall. The Reds were firing in return. They were six against one, but the odds did not suffice them. The Shadow’s weaving body seemed to fall away into the darkness as futile bullets whistled past his black-clad form. His barking automatics delivered metal messengers of death.
The surging crew toppled forward, one upon another. Screaming, wounded men pitched headlong as their comrades clambered over them.
UP over a writhing pyramid of human beings rose the last of Motkin’s band, a powerful man whose gleaming revolver was swinging downward for the aim. The gun barked once — a high shot.
It was lowering as the man was poised almost at the top of the doorway. Motkin saw the finger on the trigger. He heard a shot, but not from the revolver.
This last report came from the hall. The Shadow’s automatic had spoken. The man who towered on the mass of bodies threw his arms wildly to the sides of the door, in a desperate effort. Screaming, he fell backward and fell flat upon the floor, his arms spread out, his evil face distorted.
As his henchman fell, Motkin acted. He leaped from behind the table, and sprang toward the side window of the room. He lacked the courage to face that indomitable foe. Mad flight was his only desire.
Scrambling from danger, Motkin reached his objective. The Shadow, no longer on the defensive, was pressing forward, thrusting his way through the crawling, gasping heap of men who had fallen before his fire-spitting weapons.
It was that delay that gave Motkin his opportunity. Smashing through the drawn shade, the Red agent crashed the window beyond, and flung himself through the broken pane. He caught himself upon the sill, and, with a mad purpose of vengeance, thrust his revolver back through the broken glass.
He fired one shot at Cliff Marsland. In his hurry, Motkin missed. Then, with a wild gasp, he dropped the weapon and leaped to the ground below.
Motkin had seen the figure of The Shadow — a looming form of mighty vengeance — pressing itself clear from the struggling pile of fallen men.
Two waiting men grasped Motkin as he staggered from the ground. They recognized him in the dim light that came from the second floor. They were other Red agents who had been stationed outside. They were part of a cordon through which The Shadow had passed unseen.
Limping away hurriedly from the danger zone, Motkin shot words of explanation to the men who accompanied him. They passed an order hastily. In a trice, guards were watching the windows, while Motkin summoned cohorts to attack the door.
Six stalwarts raced up the stairs in an effort to trap the figure in black. The Shadow appeared before them. He held two revolvers, which he had snatched from wounded men to replace his emptied automatics.
One shot came from the onrushing men. Motkin, below, saw The Shadow’s form drop to the floor at the head of the stairs. He shouted in triumph as the men dashed onward.
Then came consternation. The Shadow was unscathed. He had fallen purposely. Prone upon the floor of the passage above, he was protected by the angle of the steps — protected behind a perfect bulwark.
Two leading raiders were side by side. Flashes of flame burst from the topmost step. With arms extended, The Shadow blazed from close range, his guns finding their targets.
The first men flung their arms high and toppled backward like dummy figures. They plunged squarely into the arms of those who followed them. Others slipped and fell. More shots resounded from above.
Down the steps came staggering men, falling men, rolling men. Wild fugitives, sprawling cripples, dead forms — all plunged in a mass, accompanied by a fusillade of revolver fire.
As Motkin leaped away to avoid this terrible stampede, he heard a strange, uncanny sound that rippled after the routed hordes.
It was the laugh of The Shadow! In the stillness that followed the last echoes of his deadly shots, the figure in black was uttering his triumph cry!
THOSE sinister, mocking tones made Motkin tremble. He knew that the strident laugh was meant for him to fear. Cowering, the man from Moscow clung against the wall of the little cafe. Fierce Ivan Motkin, slayer of Michael Senov, was trembling with fear!
Off from the house where The Shadow had found security, other men stood like living statues. They, too, had heard that laugh. Their minds were thinking of flight. Only the weird echoes of that terrible mirth withheld them. They were afraid to move!
Minutes more, and the remaining invaders would have scattered, leaving The Shadow in full control. But at that tense moment, a cry came from a distant watcher. It was a signal that awoke these startled men.
Like rats, they scurried to cover as a squad of police and gendarmes appeared from the nearest corner.
The officers spotted the house of doom. Motkin, crouching under the bay window across the street, grinned in relief.
Now, the police would attack. They would find that figure in black, striving to rescue his bound comrade, Cliff Marsland.
Let him fight the police! They would be too many! Whistles from the distance told that reserves were on the way to meet the mad riot that had disturbed this part of the Montmartre.
Crawling to a more distant refuge, Motkin encountered a cluster of his men. They recognized their leader.
They listened, with him, to shots that came from the old house. Motkin uttered a cry of evil satisfaction.
His enemy was doomed to death! For well did Motkin know that the man in black would resist capture to the last.
Then came another thought. Half aloud, Motkin uttered vaguely coherent words:
“The steamship Gasconne!”
The Red agents had been scouring the premises where Senov had been slain. They had found nothing.
Where was the stolen pelf? On the Gasconne?
Despite the slaughter that had taken place here, there were many Red agents still available. The principal undercover men in Paris had not entered this fray. It was their task to locate the Romanoff gems if Paris was the hiding place. Motkin’s course lay elsewhere.
He uttered brief commands to the men about him. Quietly, the little band began a retreat. Soon they were away from the embattled district.
Motkin, hurrying onward with his men, pictured that scourging figure in black, his back to the wall as the police attacked.
IN this impression, Motkin was not far wrong. Police and gendarmes were surrounding the house. Some had attempted to ascend the stairs, but had been stopped by warning shots. The Shadow was in the passage at the head of the stairs.
In the room where men lay dead and wounded, Cliff Marsland was leaning against the wall, completely restrained by his tight bonds. He knew, from the whistles that he had heard, that the police were here. He wondered what the outcome would be.
The tall form of The Shadow suddenly appeared, and Cliff stared upward with inquiring eye. He saw the gleaming eyes of his chief, and listened as he heard low, whispered words.
“Stay here,” warned The Shadow. “Do not struggle with the ropes. You will be safe with the police. You are an American, brutally waylaid in the Montmartre. A battle among your captors prevented your death.”
Cliff nodded. He understood the wisdom of The Shadow’s plan. Cliff’s present plight would prove his alibi. His passports were in his pocket. His head bore a huge, bruised bump, where he had received a blow from a revolver. The police would believe his story.
But what could The Shadow do?
Cliff watched as the black-clad figure turned out the light. He saw the vague form moving through the dim passage. He could hear footsteps coming up the stairway. A revolver flashed. The Shadow was firing warning shots to hold back the officers.
Now, The Shadow was sweeping in from the hall. His tall form was lost in the darkness of the room where Cliff lay. Cliff heard a slight, rattling noise at the window through which Motkin had plunged.
Silence for a minute; then wild shots from below the window. Cliff understood. The Shadow had gone up the wall, not down! He must have reached the roof of the lowlying building!
Now, new footsteps were beating on the stairs. A surge of men came into the room. The gaslight came on. Cliff quickly closed his eyes and let his head lean helplessly against the wall. He was the perfect picture of an unconscious man.
Police and gendarmes were talking in excitement. Cliff felt his body being raised. He kept his eyes closed. He knew that his plight had been recognized; that he was in the hands of men who would prove his friends.
They were carrying him down the stairs — out into the street. There, helping arms were about him. Still Cliff played his part. His shut eyes saw nothing.
But his ears could hear. To them came the sound of wild shots from high above. Then, in response, Cliff heard the long peal of a mocking laugh that seemed to echo from the housetops.
The laugh of The Shadow!
Its derisive tones spelled triumph. Again, they sounded, seemingly in the distance.
Cliff understood the meaning. That cry meant that The Shadow had escaped across the housetops. Lost among the odd-shaped roofs of the Montmartre, the avenger from the dark had shaken off his pursuers and returned to the security of night.
Senov — Motkin — The Shadow. The leaders of three groups had met here. Senov’s forces had been slaughtered. Motkin’s had been routed, leaving their dead behind them.
But The Shadow had triumphed. His lone aid had been rescued. Fighting single-handed, the figure in black was free, once more pursuing the quest of the stolen gems!