Atoms of Death

CHAPTER VI SHADOW’S STRATEGY

Across the street from the house on Delavar Street, two men were crouched in the doorway of a half-empty loft building. They were watching another man whose figure they could scarcely discern. He was huddled against the front door of the house that bore the number 18.

“Tapper’s working slow tonight, Cliff,” whispered one of the crouched men. “Say — I don’t figure why he’s here picking that lock, unless The Shadow is around at the back—”

“Psst!” Cliff’s warning was an interruption. “Keep your ears open, Hawkeye. Hear that? Sound like a bell!”

A faint jangle was barely audible. It probably could not be heard at the front door of number 18. The location that Cliff and Hawkeye had taken must have placed them on a line with an opened upper window in Professor Jark’s present residence. They were listening to the same alarm that Jark and his companions had heard.

The faint tingling ended. Hawkeye gripped Cliff’s arm and pointed across the street. The huddled figure was moving down the steps. The front door opened an inch or two; a streak of light could be seen at its edge.

“Tapper’s got it!” whispered Hawkeye. “He’s easing back, like he was going to be ready to join us. Say, Cliff — The Shadow must’ve ordered Tapper on the job so’s both doors would be ready—”

Again, Cliff stopped his companion’s words. Blackness had appeared against the grimy whiteness of the house steps. An outlined figure was moving upward. The door swung wide; against the light from the opened portal, The Shadow’s agents saw the cloaked figure that represented their chief.

“Come on, Hawkeye!” ordered Cliff. “That’s our cue. Orders to follow The Shadow into the house. Don’t worry about Tapper. He’s got his own instructions.”

A beckoning motion from a cloaked arm. Running forward, Cliff and Hawkeye saw a turn of the slouch hat that topped The Shadow’s garb. Then the cloaked figure strode straight into the house. The agents reached the steps a few seconds later.

As Cliff and Hawkeye edged into a vestibule, someone came up behind them. It was “Tapper.” Like the other agents, he held a ready automatic. He apparently had the same orders — to remain upon this threshold while The Shadow ventured into the house itself.

THOUGH they themselves were in semidarkness, The Shadow’s agents could see the scene before them. Straight ahead was a lighted hallway. Across it rose a flight of stairs. In the center of the uncarpeted hall was the cloaked figure of The Shadow, weaving warily forward.

Almost at the stairway, the figure paused. Cliff saw the black shape wheel about; he caught a glimpse of cloak collar muffled high about the face beneath the slouch hat, giving no chance to discern the hidden features. Then again, The Shadow’s form turned toward the stairs. Sweeping arms suddenly displayed a pair of heavy automatics.

The weapons were a challenge that came as the advance ended. The Shadow had stopped short of the stairway. Harsh shouts sounded above. The cloaked figure swung backward just as wild shots broke out at the head of the stairs.

With surprising haste, the cloaked figure made retreat. Swinging about as he hurried toward the door, the attacked fighter loosed one round from each automatic. Derisive cries greeted this insufficient thrust. Footsteps clattered on the stairs.

Mobsmen were dashing down to open fire on their retreating foe. They thought they had The Shadow on the run.

But the agents at the outer door knew differently. Their chief’s retreat was their cue. They understood the orders that they had received, through Burbank, from The Shadow.

Up came automatics. As the cloaked figure sprang to the side of the hall, the entrenched agents opened a barrage from their darkened post. Guns crackled; bullets ripped the stairway. One mobster, clipped by Hawkeye, made a grab for the banister and clung there.

A second ruffian received a slug from Cliff. With a terrorized shout, the thug pitched forward and came whirling down the stairs. He struck head-first at the bottom, kept jouncing on and rolled over three times. He sprawled motionless in the center of the hall.

That was enough for the rest of the descending mob. As someone rasped an order from above, three gorillas turned and dashed upward. The ceiling of the ground floor took them beyond range of The Shadow’s agents. But the mobsters were not free from pursuit.

As the agents stopped their useless fire, they saw that cloaked figure spring out from the wall. Cliff chuckled as his chief swept forward. Big automatics thundered from thin-gloved fists. As two of the fleeing mobsmen reached the top of the stairs, the third floundered to hands and knees, wounded by a zipping bullet.

Half crawling, half diving, the fellow managed to reach the safety that the other two had gained. The retreat had become a stampede. Crooks were madly fleeing from terror of The Shadow. Not one remained, to fire at that dread figure on the ground floor.

FROM the outer door, Cliff watched the cloaked fighter step over the sprawled body of the mobster in the hall. The rogue on the steps was huddled against the banister, his gun arm sagging. He could put up no fight.

The Shadow’s figure stopped just short of the stairway. Fists came up; automatics roared a brief barrage toward the second floor. These shots were a preventive measure to keep the crooks cowering above. One pace ahead — one more — the cloaked fighter stood stock-still.

For some reason, Cliff decided, The Shadow chose to go no further. That, to Cliff, was puzzling. He could see the purpose of the false retreat. It had drawn the gang into a range of fire. But why was The Shadow pausing?

At that instant, the cloaked figure made a move. It looked like a feint on The Shadow’s part. A quick stride to the very bottom of the stairs; then a sudden whirl about for a new, deceptive retreat. It was at that instant that the unexpected happened.

Blue lights blazed with roaring crackle from both sides of the stairway. Hidden arcs shot ripping streaks of man-made lightning about the spot where the cloaked figure was turning. Dazzling, blinding glare made The Shadow’s agents throw their arms before their eyes.

Then, as blankness faded, they saw the figure of their chief rocketing toward the floor. Turned full about as the current was loosed, the cloaked fighter was hurtled outward by the shock that he had received. He had been caught just within the edge of the danger zone.

Cliff knew instinctively that the shock had been little more than staggering. He realized now why no advance had been made beyond the foot of the stairs. In one glimpse, he had seen leaping currents obscured by the cloaked figure of The Shadow. Closeness to the current had felled the turning fighter.

Someone above must have recognized the same. New footsteps were clattering. Rallied mobsmen were springing downward to aim shots for their crippled foe. Cliff snapped a command to Hawkeye and Tapper. Rising, the trio sprang forward, opening fire.

Mobsters faltered before they could deliver shots at the cloaked body on the floor of the hall. One man sagged; the others made another wild dash up the stairway. Cliff and the other agents barked slugs in plenty, up to that beleaguered second floor. Everyone above had dived away.

AS Hawkeye and Tapper still continued firing, Cliff leaped forward and caught the cloaked shoulders of the prone man on the floor. Dragging the victim to safety, he barked another order to Hawkeye and Tapper. They thrust away their guns to aid Cliff with The Shadow.

Carrying their cloaked burden, they reached the street. Again Cliff spoke as temporary leader. Pointing Hawkeye and Tapper toward the corner past the warehouse, he ordered them forward, while he hurried to a post across the street. Cliff’s move was an effective one.

Some sniper started fire from a darkened upstairs window. Cliff fired at the blackness where he had seen the flame spurt. The sniper dropped back, no longer anxious to aim for the men who were hurrying to the corner.

Then came police whistles, a block away. Scudding from his post, Cliff followed after Tapper and Hawkeye, who had turned the corner. Shots broke out behind him as he ran; Cliff swung about at the corner to fire at two men who had come from the front door of the beleaguered house.

Then, passing the corner, he saw a waiting cab. Cliff leaped aboard. Hawkeye and Tapper were already aboard, a slumped black shape between them. A crafty-faced driver saw Cliff enter. The cab shot away as shots sounded wildly from the corner. Cliff responded with a quick volley from the cab window, just as the taxi rounded a corner.

The belated move was Cliff’s one error. The cab had run into the path of a police car, coming from the street into which they had turned. Shots came from the police, as they sped in pursuit of the cab. The chase that followed was a mad one.

Luckily, this was no ordinary cab in which The Shadow’s agents rode. The driver was Moe Shrevnitz, an agent of The Shadow. The cab was The Shadow’s own, which Moe drove as an independent. Like other cabs, it was geared low for traffic; but it also had a fourth gear for speed.

No jehu in Manhattan could outdo Moe Shrevnitz. The twisting course that he took gave the patrol car no opportunity to deliver damaging fire. Moe was half a block ahead when he turned into the broad space of a clear avenue. There he took to a straight-away course.

The officers in the patrol car thought their opportunity had come when they reached the corner that Moe had turned. But to their surprise, they saw the cab a full block ahead, walking away from them with ease. After half a dozen blocks, the taxi was out of sight.

CLIFF MARSLAND breathed easily, five minutes later, when Moe threaded into a darkened street and brought the cab to a halt. Cliff knew that he had brought on the chase; not only had it caused temporary trouble for Moe, it had also allowed respite to those in the house on Delavar Street.

Cliff knew that mobsmen could easily have scurried back to safety; that the closed door of 18 Delavar would give no clue to the police. The law would put down this episode as a running mob fight. Thus had Cliff’s rescue of The Shadow developed into a mad flight.

But Cliff had another matter in mind. The figure in the cab was stirring. Cliff gave an order to Hawkeye and Tapper. The two slipped from the cab and moved away in the darkness. While Moe waited at the wheel, Cliff turned on the light to learn how fully The Shadow had recovered.

That action brought the final surprise. As Cliff looked at the cloaked figure, he saw shoulders move. The slouch hat slipped from the head that it covered. Bewildered, Cliff found himself staring into the face of Harry Vincent.

“Hello, Cliff.” Harry spoke with a weak grin. “Got me out of it, didn’t you? I should have kept further from those stairs.”

“You — you were The Shadow?” gasped Cliff.

“Pinch hitting,” returned Harry. “Don’t ask me why. I don’t know. Burbank’s orders, that’s all. A package arrived for me at the hotel. I was to hit that house at midnight, to wait until Tapper cracked the door. Then fake a fight and beat it.”

“You faked it fine,” acknowledged Cliff. “You had me buffaloed. Hawkeye and Tapper, too.”

“I faked it too well,” decided Harry. “Burbank told me those stairs meant danger. Well, it worked out well enough to deceive those fellows at number 18, whoever they are.”

CLIFF opened the door of the cab. He sidled out into darkness; then spoke to Moe and told him to drive to the Hotel Metrolite. In the cab, Harry Vincent settled back on the cushions. He shifted the cloak from his shoulders, bundled it with the slouch hat and automatics; then dropped the load into an open bag that he saw on the floor.

Tonight had been a succession of surprises for Harry Vincent. The rescue of Bruce Duncan; the orders to attack the house on Delavar Street; the masquerade that he had played; that powerful shock at the foot of the stairway in the beleaguered house — all blended into mystery for Harry Vincent.

Harry could divine only that The Shadow had wished to trick the occupants of the house. To make them believe that he had come there; that he had picked the lock of the door and had waged battle as a sequel. Through Tapper as the lock picker and Harry as the cloaked fighter, The Shadow’s ruse had doubtless succeeded.

But Harry, recalling orders, remembered that retreat was to have been the finale of a swift, hot fray. The retreat had come, all right, thanks to Harry’s own misfortune. It had been precipitous; but convincing, inasmuch as Harry — presumably The Shadow — was out of combat.

But what could The Shadow have to gain by making enemies think that he had lost a battle? That was the question to which Harry Vincent could not even imagine an answer. For once, Harry felt himself believing The Shadow had made a tactical error.

Harry’s thought was erroneous. The agent would have been amazed had he known the value of the service that he had performed tonight. Already, The Shadow was reaping the fruits of prearranged strategy.

The Shadow had issued tonight’s instructions knowing that he was bound on a most dangerous mission that might lead to his capture. Actually a prisoner, The Shadow had bluffed his captors.

Well had The Shadow bluffed, and with confidence that he could keep up his pretended role of Lamont Cranston. The prearranged attack at midnight, with Harry Vincent faking himself as The Shadow, was the clinching argument in The Shadow’s game of bluff.