The Killer

CHAPTER VIII FROM THE MARQUEE

THE slayers in the touring car had encountered trouble at the end of the street. The sound of their murderous shots had been heard. A traffic officer, stationed at intersection of street and avenue, had acted with promptitude.

He had ordered the driver of an approaching van to swing his huge vehicle upon the sidewalk. The driver had obeyed. The immense van, stretching its great length from curb to curb, blockaded the end of the side street. The maneuver was accomplished before the mobsmen arrived.

The first shots were the efforts of the gangsters to force the van away. The driver had fled from his post. While his companions had opened their second fire, the gunman at the wheel of the touring car managed to swing the automobile about. With guns blazing, the gangster-manned car was reversing its course.

The fusillade cleared the street like magic. Scurrying men were just in time to reach the door of the Commander Apartments. The mobsters spread their fire in the lighted space beneath the broad marquee which stretched, like a projecting roof, in front of the apartment-house entrance.

The touring car swept past the abandoned taxicab, while revolver bullets sprayed walls and windows. Then, as a siren sounded from the end of the street toward which the car was headed, the driver, with a loud oath, ground the brakes. His companions saw the reason for his stop. A police car, of the radio patrol, had entered the street from the other end!

Killers were trapped. The storage van blocked one way of escape; the police were approaching from the other. The gangster car had swerved with the application of the brakes; men were dropping to the street to use it as shelter against the police attack.

Those within the apartment-house lobby were peering forth from window ledges. They saw the gangsters. Two mobsmen were facing in their direction, ready to shoot should anyone be bold enough to appear. The gangsters beside them, as well as two who had remained within the car, were watching the lights of the nearing police car.

None saw the figure approaching from the other direction. Coming from the end of the street where the van formed a blockade, a swift form in black was heading toward the lighted zone beneath the sheltering marquee.

The Shadow had arrived upon this scene where battle loomed!

TEN paces from the realm of light, The Shadow changed his course. A shot from here would have been a warning to the mobsters. Further advance — into the light — would have been suicidal. Beside the darkened front of the apartment building, The Shadow moved in his new direction. Upward!

Gloved hands caught the grille work of a high first-story window. With amazing swiftness, The Shadow sprang up the wall. He caught a cornice above the window. With a mighty swing, he gained the edge of the marquee. His tall form flattened in the darkness above. It edged along the projecting roof to the ornamental ironwork that marked the front of the marquee.

The searchlight of the police car showed the touring car. The lights of the gunmen’s vehicle were out. Officers of the law, though knowing that desperate men awaited them, came boldly onward. Shots came from the police car. Uniformed men leaped from its sides and crouched as they opened fire.

Gangster revolvers blazed. Shots splattered from both sides. This opening fusillade was wild. With mobsters trapped, the police had the advantage. The two members of the patrol car, with others who had leaped upon their running board, had only to keep their enemies at bay until reinforcements arrived.

They had the mobsters trapped, they thought. Not for an instant did the police suspect the truth; that they, not the gunmen, were ensnared. Only The Shadow, prone on the marquee, could see the fate that awaited the attacking officers.

Viewing the murder car at an angle, from above, The Shadow caught the glimmer of steel in the back seat.

Two mobsters were aiming a machine gun in the direction of the police car. They awaited only the word of their leader before they fired.

The word came. An evil voice snarled a sharp oath from beside the touring car. Crouching men arose to loose their deadly fire.

A roar burst from the front edge of the marquee. Vivid tongues of flame flashed forth. An automatic in each hand, The Shadow opened fire. The bullets of his huge .45s were loosed before the machine gunners had a chance to obey the order given.

One body slumped in the back seat. The other gangster made a futile effort to grasp the heavy machine gun. He screamed as a bullet clipped him in the back. With a writhe of agony, he plunged head foremost from the touring car.

THE flames from The Shadow’s guns were signals to the two gunmen who watched the apartment building. There had been six mobsmen in all. Two were still blazing with revolvers at the police; two had fallen within the car. The pair of thugs on watch for such an attack as this were ready with their weapons.

Revolvers spoke as hasty shots were directed upward. One bullet zinged whining past The Shadow’s head. Another smacked the ornamental iron a foot to the left of The Shadow’s position. As fingers sought to press triggers for more certain shots, The Shadow responded with his automatics.

One mobsmen fell. The other staggered, but would not down. Brandishing his revolver, he still returned The Shadow’s fire. Bullet for bullet, he battled with the master fighter.

His revolver shots winged against the edge of the marquee. Two struck the very spot where The Shadow had been. But The Shadow, while he used one automatic, was edging to a new position.

Each burst of his huge gun meant another bullet in the staggering gangster’s body. Loaded with burning lead, the toughened mobster collapsed and lay still. His companions had turned to learn the trouble. They saw the final bursts of flame. They knew the menace above the marquee!

Cries came from the policemen. Bullets whistled past the heads of the startled mobsters. Rapid shots crashed through the sides of the touring car.

One of the gangsters — the leader — barked an order to his companion. As the second man fired at the marquee, the leader, heavy but swift, dashed toward the door of the apartment building.

The Shadow’s second automatic spoke. A bullet from its muzzle stopped the shooting mobster in his tracks. But as The Shadow swung his arm to cover the fleeing gang leader, the stalwart runner gained the shelter of the marquee.

He was fleeing for safety. Police were on his trail. He would be lucky to escape. The Shadow edged back into blackness as the searchlight of the police car came swiftly forward and uniformed men appeared.

The Shadow’s head seemed to join the ornamental semicircles of iron that fringed the marquee. His keen eyes, peering downward, could watch all that occurred.

Two policemen had dashed into the apartment house. Two others had stopped beside the dead form of Roy Selbrig. Not one looked toward the marquee above. The officers, stationed up the street, had not seen the source of the terrific fusillade which had saved them. They had been busy plugging at the mobsters below.

Confusion followed. The police were restoring order. They were keeping people within doors, stopping traffic on the street. The searchlight of the patrol car cast its brilliant gleam upon the bodies of dead gangsters. The officers discovered the dead machine gunners and their terrible weapon.

Silent, The Shadow watched this curious medley. After many minutes had passed, he suddenly observed two men who were stepping from a new police car. One, a swarthy, stocky individual, was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the New York force. The other was evidently a second man from headquarters.

CARDONA walked up to the group beside the curb. As he stood near Roy Selbrig’s body, the ace detective was plainly visible to The Shadow. Policemen, reporting to the detective, told the story of the gun fight. Cardona was more interested in the events that had preceded the fray.

The taxi driver stepped forward. Cardona examined the card within the cab. He recognized the fellow’s photograph. He quizzed the driver on what had happened.

“I picked this fellow up at Times Square,” explained the cabby. “He wanted me to drive him to the Club Galaxy — it was only half a block away. He says to me there would be another passenger there.”

The cab man indicated Roy Selbrig as he spoke.

“Go on,” prodded Cardona.

“The other guy gets into the car in front of the Club Galaxy,” resumed the driver. “He and this bird was talkin’ about Mexico. I heard ‘em give a lot of crazy names. Just snatches was all I heard. Yeah — they said somethin’ about cigarettes, too.

“Then we hits here. The new guy gets out an’ leaves this fellow in the cab. Bingo! Up comes the mob an’ gives him the works.”

“What did the second passenger look like?” quizzed Cardona.

“Didn’t get a good slant at his face,” admitted the driver. “Kind of tanned, he was, as I remember him, but I ain’t sure about that. He was wearin’ a gray hat — I didn’t notice his coat.”

“A fedora hat, I should say, sir,” interrupted the doorman from the Commander Apartments. “Gray was the color, sir.”

“A fedora, hey,” returned Cardona. “That’s just a fancy name for a soft hat, so far as we’re concerned. Did you see this fellow with the fedora?”

“He passed by me, sir,” declared the doorman. “I happened to glance after him, and I noted the hat quite distinctly. He went into the apartment house, sir—”

“Then he must be in there now!”

“Not necessarily, sir. There is another entrance on the next street, but it is seldom used. There is no doorman in attendance at the far door at any time, sir.”

“In and out,” grumbled Cardona. “The old trick. Gone while the shooting is taking place. What about the killing. Did you see that, too?”

“I was in the doorway, sir,” testified the doorman. “I heard the shots; I saw the phaeton drive along the street. I rushed out to the cab, sir. I recognized Roy Selbrig when he tumbled to the sidewalk.”

“The phaeton?” quizzed Cardona. “You mean the touring car with the gunmen in it?”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Maybe the doorman at the Club Galaxy spotted the second guy I took in,” volunteered the cab driver. “I don’t think so, though, because he was talkin’ to me, orderin’ me to move along and—”

“We’ll go down there later,” snapped Cardona. He turned to the policemen. “What about this man who got away?”

“Crowded right through the lobby,” asserted the officer. “They all scattered when they saw him coming. He went out through the other door.”

“Was he the leader?”

“Looked like it.”

THE detective who had come with Cardona was now approaching. He had been looking at the bodies of the dead gangsters. He spoke in a knowing tone.

“One of those birds,” he informed Cardona, “is Terry Grasch. I’d know his mug any place. I thought he had scrammed from New York.”

“You’re sure of that, Clausey?” asked Cardona.

The other detective nodded. Cardona became interested. Jim Clausey was a comparatively new man on the force. Assigned to the underworld because he was unknown to mobsters, Clausey had gained considerable knowledge of current affairs in gangdom.

“What’s more,” added Clausey, “I’ve got a good idea who the bird was that made the get-away — the one you were just talking about. There’s only one guy Terry Grasch ever worked for.”

“Who’s that?”

“Slugs Raffney.”

This name was by no means unfamiliar to Joe Cardona. “Slugs” Raffney was a strong-arm man, one-time speakeasy bouncer, who had gone in for a short career as a gang leader. He had made a quick exit a few months before, along with a few of his most capable henchmen. Slugs and his crew were supposed to be out of New York, or else in close hiding. The reappearance of this formidable criminal was an unfortunate event.

“Slugs Raffney, eh?” mused Cardona. “Well, if this was his outfit, it’s a sure bet he’ll stay under cover from now on. You boys” — he was speaking in a complimentary tone to the policemen — “made a perfect wipe-out here. It’s going to be tough for anyone to find Slugs Raffney.”

More questions followed. Cardona looked over the scene of carnage. When he saw the machine gun and its dead operators, a puzzled look appeared upon Cardona’s face. He doubted that the police had done this work. Instinctively, Cardona glanced toward the projecting marquee.

Joe Cardona had an inkling. Shots from that spot could well have slaughtered these dead machine gunners. Shots from the street would have failed. A lurking idea entered Cardona’s mind.

Joe was thinking of The Shadow. Although his reports never mentioned the name of The Shadow, Joe Cardona knew that such a being existed. He had seen former evidences of the mighty fighter’s prowess. He took this as another event in which The Shadow had brought much-needed rescue to those who fought for the law.

Joe Cardona walked back to the curb. He spoke to Jim Clausey. He said nothing regarding his suspicion of The Shadow’s presence. He referred only to those whom he believed had had a part in crime itself.

“You get on the trail of Slugs Raffney,” he suggested. “Pick it up — if you can. My job is to locate the other guy — the one with the gray fedora. Believe me, he could tell us plenty about this!”

The detectives went their way. Roy Selbrig’s body was removed, to be taken to the morgue, along with the dead gangsters. Policemen moved along. The placid street regained its former quiet.

SOMETHING stirred atop the marquee which extended over the lighted sidewalk.

A soft laugh whispered from unseen lips. The Shadow rose crouching, to leave his hiding place. There was sinister irony in his mirth. The Shadow had heard all that was said. Through his keen brain passed the last words which Joe Cardona had uttered — the reference to the man in the gray fedora.

Cardona was right. That man could tell plenty about the death of Roy Selbrig. As yet, however, Cardona’s task was impossible. There were not sufficient clews to trail the man with the fedora.

The Shadow’s laugh was repeated. It was a laugh of understanding. It meant that The Shadow knew the identity of the passenger who had left the cab to enter the Commander Apartments. The Shadow, had he chosen, could have cried out the name that Joe Cardona wanted; but The Shadow had desisted.

The time would come when Joe Cardona would learn. The detective’s knowledge would be gained through The Shadow. But for the present, The Shadow chose to wait. He was fighting a lone battle for the present; a conflict with a master plotter who was seeking gain through murder.

New crime would be attempted. The Shadow would have his opportunity to thwart them. When the murderer was cornered, there would be no doubt about his guilt!

BURBANK, at the table in the apartment above 4H, answered the call of a sinister voice. The Shadow’s tones ordered him to remain constantly at his post. Burbank responded his understanding. The Shadow had spoken.

When crime again was due, The Shadow would have more time to arrange his plans of action. Tonight, he had not been present when Roy Selbrig had died. Would he be present when murder again stalked?

Only The Shadow knew!

Whatever his plans, The Shadow had the key. His work was to watch for Harland Mullrick’s next move. It would be the forerunner of death. When Mullrick moved, The Shadow would respond!

The marquee in front of the Commander Apartments no longer held its human burden. That spot had served The Shadow’s purpose. In action and in silent listening, The Shadow had there remained unseen!