Atoms of Death

CHAPTER II CRIME’S VANGUARD

BRUCE DUNCAN was looking straight ahead as he neared Third Avenue. The darkened structure of the elevated loomed in front of him. The roar and clatter of a passing train, accompanied by the lights of cars, reduced the impression of blackness. Bruce saw security rather than danger in the gloomy depths beneath the “el.”

Harry had named an opposite corner. As Bruce reached the avenue, he waited to make sure that traffic was clear. No cars were coming from the north. A taxi shot by from the south; then Bruce saw a clear spot, the next car being fully a hundred feet away.

Halfway across the street, Bruce stopped short. The bare quiver of dull, approaching light was the cue that gave him sense of danger. Looking quickly, he saw the car that he had spied before. With only its dim lights aglow, the automobile was bearing down upon him at a speed of fifty miles an hour.

Had Bruce sprung forward to gain the pillars opposite, the whirling car would have mowed him down. Instinct and luck combined to save him. With a sudden twist, Bruce swung about and made a dive back in the direction from which he had come.

With that move, Bruce outguessed the driver. At the same time, the ruffian at the wheel allowed no doubt as to his murderous intention. Instead of keeping straight ahead, he veered left in hope of overhauling his victim before Bruce could gain safety.

Luckily, an elevated pillar was close at hand. Diving for it, Bruce escaped death by a scant three feet. The driver had swung in; Bruce was directly in the car’s path; but to avert collision with the pillar, the driver was forced to bear back to the center space of the avenue.

Brakes shrieked as a long touring car spun its length about. The driver had jammed for a stop as he passed the pillar. Finding open space beyond, he was madly making halt, that he and his companions might leap after the quarry that they had missed.

BRUCE DUNCAN was dashing for the sidewalk. He knew that murderers were after him. He saw safety in the darkened street that he had left. It was not until he reached the curb that he realized his error. From the very darkness that he sought, three men pounced up to confront him.

Thugs were seeking to deliver death without gunfire. They had the car into which they could pack a slugged victim. Swift, silent evil was their aim. Revolvers flashed; but the hands that held them were raised as though wielding clubs.

Bruce tried to spin about. A thug grappled with him. Ready for fight, Bruce clipped the fellow on the chin. As two more sprang up, he sent one sprawling and dodged the swinging gun hand of the other. Madly, he started a new dash out into the avenue.

Mobsmen from the touring car had him as their target. A new reason made them withhold their fire. Their companions were piling after the escaping man. A revolver shot might have clipped one of their own number. Five in a row, the rogues from the touring car spread out to block Bruce’s flight.

Odds were too great. As Bruce made a leap for the first man who confronted him, another thug leaped up from behind. This time, a swinging gun hand was not dodged. A revolver barrel thudded hard against the side of Bruce Duncan’s felt hat. The young man staggered dizzily.

Another thug swung hard with his gun. Bruce sprawled; as he tried to rise mechanically, his first assailant piled upon him and bashed his head sideward against the cobblestones. Pummeling fists landed on Bruce Duncan’s body. The victim did not feel the blows. He was unconscious.

Two maulers dragged their quarry to his feet. As they started to haul Bruce to the touring car, their leader snarled a vicious command. A huge mobster sprang forward to deliver a final blow that would end the victim’s life without the aid of a bullet.

Bruce’s hat was gone. His head sagged forward uncovered, while blood trickled down his face. Almost at the side of the touring car, his carriers paused to give their murderous companion a chance to swing his cudgeled gun.

A revolver gleamed in the big fist that held it. The downward stroke began, driven by a malletlike arm. But the killing blow was doomed to fail. An interruption came from the last spot where would-be murderers expected it. An automatic roared from the darkened street that Bruce Duncan had left.

With the burst of the gun came a pointing tongue of flame. Like an arrow from gloom, it thrust its reddened shaft straight toward the villain who was about to drive down a death swing. The bullet from the speaking gun was true in its mark.

With a wild cry, the big thug spun about. His swinging hand poised in mid-air; then quivered as his body toppled sidewise. The upraised arm dropped helpless; the body spin became a backward stagger as the thwarted killer stretched his length upon the cobbles.

Hard on the echo of the gun shot came a taunting cry. A weird laugh rose; then blended with the thunderous roar of a train that sped overhead. But that mockery had reached the ears of the killers for whom it was intended. They knew the author of the shot that had spilled the big gorilla. Men of crime were faced by The Shadow!

MOBSMEN swung their guns toward the corner whence the shot had come. The thugs who gripped Bruce Duncan let their prey slip to the street as they, like their fellows, brought weapons into play. Revolvers spat wild shots toward the side street. Bullets ricocheted as they dug the asphalt.

Crooks had seen the flash from midstreet. Blackness, however, had obscured The Shadow. When thugs aimed for where The Shadow had been, they found their foe no longer there. Automatics answered suddenly; their flashes, this time, came from the corner of an old brick building.

Killers broke before The Shadow’s cannonade. Eight at the outset, their force was reduced to five. Another fell as he tried to deliver a shot when he backed away. A gangleader’s command came in a high-pitched snarl. The Shadow heard the cry as he ended his barrage.

Crooks were leaping for cover — behind the touring car, into the shelter of elevated pillars. Before them lay the body of Bruce Duncan, ready to be riddled with bullets should they fire at the man whom they had knocked unconscious.

Out from his shelter sprang The Shadow. Entrenched mobsters raised a shout as they caught a flash of a cloaked figure sweeping toward the elevated. Revolvers barked to stop The Shadow in his new maneuver. Almost as if he had timed the exact second of the outburst, The Shadow swung back.

Shots whizzed wide. Thugs were forced to change their aim. As they did, gloved hands swept from beneath The Shadow’s cloak. Diving into blackness, the dread fighter unlimbered a new brace of automatics. Mobsters ducked as he began a new barrage.

Just as the mobsmen had failed to pick off The Shadow, so was he failing with his present volley. But The Shadow had purpose in his actions. By presenting himself as a momentary target, he had made the crooks forget Bruce Duncan. By sending them to shelter, he was still keeping the intended victim from their minds.

Apparently, The Shadow was wasting his ammunition. Attackers were holding their own bullets in reserve. Again the snarl of the mob leader rose above the din. Triumph of evil seemed imminent, should The Shadow continue his wasteful fire.

A sudden pause. Mobsmen were tense, watching the spot where they had seen the last flashes. The mob leader barked a sudden order. Henchmen sprang out, opening fire into blackness. Automatics spurted hastily, as if in retreat.

Then came the overdue break on which The Shadow had depended.

DOWN the avenue came a taxi that jolted to a sudden stop half up on the sidewalk. As the mob leader whirled about to view this cab that had defied the danger zone, three men sprang from opening doors.

Harry Vincent and two others had arrived. Their faces could not be seen in the darkness; but the rattle of their loaded automatics meant disaster to the cause of crooks. The Shadow’s laugh rose triumphant. He had tricked four thugs into exhausting their guns, that his expected agents would have a clear field before them.

One mobster dived away from beyond the touring car. His gun empty, he wisely took to flight. He was beyond The Shadow’s range of vision; the shots of agents failed to drop the scurrying rat. Two others snarled as they dived for pillars to fire their last shots. They sprawled, clipped by bullets from guns of The Shadow’s men.

Then from behind a pillar leaped the leader of the mob. Squarely into the path of one of The Shadow’s agents, he came face to face with this comrade of Harry Vincent. From the mob leader’s bloated lips came a snarl of recognition:

“Cliff Marsland!”

The mob leader had spotted a face he knew. He had learned a secret that the underworld had failed to guess. He had identified Cliff Marsland, man of repute in gangland, as an agent of The Shadow.

Cliff, chisel-faced and firm-jawed, recognized the man who had snarled his name. The ugly, distorted face of the mob leader was that of “Stinger” Lacey, who sold the services of his gorilla crew to bidders who wanted murder. But Cliff did not reply by giving the mob leader’s name.

Stinger’s gun was coming up. Cliff swung his automatic to meet the revolver thrust. Harry Vincent and the third agent swung about. They were too late to stop the duel. It looked like a double finish: Stinger seeking vengeance with the last bullet in his gun.

An automatic barked from beside an “el” pillar. It beat the trigger finger of both contestants by a split-second. The Shadow, too, had held one bullet in reserve. Catching the profiles of the fighters, he had delivered his shot straight for Stinger.

The mob leader wavered. He tried to press trigger as he sagged; then Cliff’s automatic boomed spontaneously. The leader of the murderous crew went down, clutching an elevated pillar with the slipping fingers of his left hand. His revolver clattered on the cobblestones as his weakened effort ended.

Police sirens were whining. From somewhere along the avenue, a harness bull was clattering his night stick on the sidewalk. A hissed command came from near the touring car. The Shadow’s agents swung about to see their cloaked chief lifting Bruce Duncan’s body.

No need to aid The Shadow. He had picked up that unconscious form as one might raise a child. His command was for departure. Acknowledging it, the agents leaped back into their cab as The Shadow headed for the street from which he had made his first appearance.

When police cars came spinning to a stop beneath the elevated, the taxicab was gone.

HALFWAY up the side street, a luxurious limousine was rolling away. A puzzled chauffeur was wondering. He had stopped halfway down the block and had turned about to await his master’s return. He had listened, troubled, to the gunfire.

In the back seat, a shrouded figure was leaning above the form of Bruce Duncan. The Shadow’s rescue was successful. Though beaten into unconsciousness, Bruce still lived.

A gloved hand took the speaking tube. It was a quiet, almost methodical voice that spoke to the chauffeur.

“Stanley,” came the order, “turn left at the next street. Then continue to Doctor Sayre’s.”

The chauffeur nodded.

“Tell him,” continued the quiet voice, “that you are from Mr. Cranston. That he is to keep this gentleman, Bruce Duncan, at his home until I call.”

Again Stanley nodded. He swung left at the next corner; slowing to let traffic pass. The Shadow, blackened in the rear of the limousine, had eased Bruce Duncan into a comfortable position. Gloved hands were probing the young man’s pockets.

The light of a street lamp gave The Shadow a flash of lines drawn on a sheet of paper. Then the limousine completed the left turn. It came almost to a standstill as Stanley was forced to let a car cut in, turning right. The left side of the limousine was in darkness just past the corner.

The door opened softly. A figure stepped out and dropped easily to the curb. The door closed, just as Stanley shifted gear. The limousine pulled away; the light on the corner gave a fleeting flash of a cloaked shape in black.

Then the figure had blended with total darkness. Stanley was driving on, unwitting that his master had left the car. Bruce Duncan was being carried to a haven where his wounds would be attended.

The Shadow had dealt with crime’s vanguard. In the effort of eight killers to obliterate one lone victim, he had seen impending evil beyond. Choosing blackness as his habitat, The Shadow was ready for new plans. His first step would be a study of a solitary clue: the paper which he had gained from the unconscious form of Bruce Duncan.