Circle of Death

CHAPTER XXV DEATH SURGES

AS Channing Rightwood, The Shadow was crossing the street to the Hotel Zenith. Two agents of Felix Tressler were watching him. One was the doorman at the hotel. The other was the sandwich-board man who slouched beside the curb.

Eyes were turned toward the sign that gave its word to the agents of the circle of death. The watchers expected some new word. They were ready when it came. Just as the stoop-shouldered form of Channing Rightwood reached the sidewalk by the hotel, the entire electric sign was plunged in darkness.

Felix Tressler had swung the emergency switch. Minions of doom responded. The doorman at the Hotel Zenith yanked a revolver from his pocket. He aimed point-blank at the approaching form of Channing Rightwood, no more than a dozen feet away.

Quick though the action was, it failed. As the doorman made his move. The Shadow’s hands shot forth. Each fist that came from beneath the coat he wore was clutching an automatic. One gun blazed. The shot was perfect.

With a big brass button as his target, The Shadow sent a bullet to the doorman’s chest. The revolver rattled, shining, on the pavement, as the doorman fell.

As he fired, The Shadow whirled. The sandwich-board man had drawn a gun. He fired quickly. His shot was wide. He never had the chance to deliver another. The Shadow’s automatic belched flame from its looming muzzle.

The sandwich-board man swayed. He toppled and sprawled, rolling on his side. The white surface of the sandwich-board began to show a spreading splotch of crimson.

A man was rounding the corner of the Hotel Zenith. The Shadow was not there when he arrived. This murderer had expected to greet Channing Rightwood in flight. Instead, The Shadow had played the unexpected. He was sweeping back into the circle of death!

The arrival caught a glimpse of a tall, stoop-shouldered figure and fired an opening shot. That was a mistake. The Shadow, whirling toward the curb, was a target which the ruffian missed. As the fellow dodged for cover beyond the corner of the hotel, The Shadow clipped him with a whistling shot.

Off into the circle. Such was The Shadow’s course. Minions of death were rising. They did not know the power of the foe. The Shadow had familiarized himself with their own territory. He had made this zone his bailiwick.

NEAR the next corner, a fruit vender rose behind his wagon. He saw the approaching form of Channing Rightwood. He steadied for the shot.

He never dispatched it. Aiming with one sweep for the protruding head and arm, The Shadow loosed an automatic’s fire. A shot, zimming through soft boxes of fruit, clipped the hidden sniper and laid him low.

Police whistles sounded loudly. The Shadow, with scurrying stride, had reached an avenue. A taxicab whirled up to the curb. The driver, his car still in motion, raised one hand to brandish a revolver. The Shadow caught its flash.

Before the fake cabman could use his weapon, The Shadow aimed a shot in his direction. The man slumped at the wheel. The cab crashed into the pillar of the elevated. The driver sprawled from his seat and plunged headlong to the street.

Police were arriving. The circle of death had become a zone in which passers were hastening for cover. People were fleeing; others were leaping into stores and doorways for protection.

Three forces were at work.

Minions of death were desperate. Police were meeting an emergency. The Shadow — the one who knew — was dropping every camouflaged crook who sought to stay his course!

Channing Rightwood’s stooping form appeared at a corner. A Chinatown-bus barker pulled a gun as he sprang toward the front of an empty bus. He was too late. The Shadow’s timely shot whistled through the opened windows of the big car and felled the man who had revealed himself as an ally of crime.

A man had stepped from the door of a garage. Police whistles shrilled, but they had not reached this street. Suddenly, the watcher saw the form of Channing Rightwood, scudding on the opposite side of the thoroughfare. Standing by the door of the garage, this murderer leveled his gun with the precision that he might have used with moving targets in a shooting gallery.

His finger was on the trigger. He was steady in his aim. He saw Rightwood’s figure pause. Up came an arm. Before the garage man had a chance to fire, a burst of flame came in his direction. The Shadow had called the shot.

The garage man toppled. Revolver fire broke from both ends of the street. There was no responding shot. Instead, the hastening crooks heard the strident sound of a taunting laugh. Swerving, The Shadow picked an opening by an old theater and cut through, bound for the next street.

While police were surging through the zone of doom, the eyes of those who had escaped The Shadow’s onslaught were turning upward toward the beacon. As he had announced to Joe Cardona, Felix Tressler was ready with another signal. The entire sign was blinking. This was the assembly call.

Dodging crooks took to cover while the police were finding those who had fallen. Skulkers were on their way. The window demonstrator — the restaurant cashier — all the unscathed minions of Felix Tressler were gathering toward a common goal.

CLIFF MARSLAND, seated in his coupe outside the Hotel Delavan, was quietly listening to the shrill blasts of whistles that were coming toward this spot. Suddenly, he saw a figure emerge from beyond a building. It was that of a stoop-shouldered man, whose face showed pale as he approached the entrance to the hotel.

An arm swung in a sweeping circle. Cliff Marsland slipped from behind the wheel. He picked up a suitcase that lay beside him. He walked across the street toward the hotel, just as the false Channing Rightwood was entering the door.

Clyde Burke saw the tall figure enter. He observed Cliff Marsland close behind. He dropped the newspaper that he was reading. An elevator was standing with open door, empty except for the operator. The three passengers entered it. The one who looked like Channing Rightwood spoke as the operator closed the door.

“To the penthouse,” was his order.

“Can’t take you there,” retorted the operator. “It’s against my orders—”

Long hands caught the operator. The man slumped to the floor as The Shadow’s grip pressed firmly behind the fellow’s neck. The Shadow stooped and opened the bag that Cliff Marsland had laid on the floor. Black cloth showed within.

Clyde Burke was seizing the control. He pressed the button for the penthouse and turned off the light, just as Cliff Marsland bundled up the operator and packed him in a corner. The car shot upward amid darkness. A swishing sound occurred as The Shadow removed garments from the bag. Then came the clank of metal.

The elevator stopped. There was a pause. Gloved hands pressed against the barrier. Inch by inch, the doors opened. They spread wider. A strange, vague form moved through the opening. The doors closed.

Clyde Burke pressed the light switch. He grinned. The operator lay blinking on the floor. Cliff Marsland was watching him. The bag was empty. Clyde pressed the button to drop the car to the lobby.

The Shadow’s agents had been in readiness. With swift precision they had obeyed when their chief had arrived guised as Channing Rightwood. They had taken a tall, stoop-shouldered person aboard the car. They had let another type of being off at the penthouse.

No longer playing the part of Channing Rightwood, The Shadow, garbed in his black cloak and slouch hat, had ventured alone into the realm where crime had been fostered. Again The Shadow, he had found the center point in the circle of death!