Dead Men Live

Chapter XXIII — The Attack

The Shadow and Ivan Orlinov acted simultaneously.

Their chances of success were equal. The Russian, with his gun beside his face, had a difficult aim to make, but the tall form of The Shadow formed an excellent target.

Orlinov's countenance, framed in the open panel, was a small mark, but one which The Shadow could cover with a quick swing of one automatic.

Had Orlinov attempted to beat The Shadow to the shot, he might have succeeded. But the Russian played a quicker, more instinctive game. He dropped away from the open panel. The little barrier slid down to receive The Shadow's shot.

Tremont and Savette were acting ere the automatic roared. So sure were they that Orlinov would not fail that they saw only one menace before them — Harold Sharrock.

Savette dropped the syringe as he and Tremont sprang forward. All odds were with Sharrock. He had only to draw away and pump his enemies with bullets. But he acted too late.

He did not shoot until the men were upon him.

His gun sounded a muffled report as the three tumbled. Then The Shadow's automatic spoke to rescue him. Savette, the upper of the three, received a bullet, and fell away from the struggling forms. Muffled shots were repeated as Savette dropped. Sharrock rolled over, and Tremont staggered away from him, holding the pistol in readiness for another shot. The Shadow's well-timed aim was again effective. His automatic roared. Glade Tremont fell.

Now, The Shadow was sweeping toward the door. Just as he reached it, the barrier was hurled inward. Revolvers gleamed as Biff Towley and three mobsmen dashed into the room.

They had heard the shots. They had come at Orlinov's bidding. They were making a mass attack to trap The Shadow before he could escape.

Here he was upon them, his automatics pumping lead, his tall form swinging away behind the door. A few wild shots responded. They were all. The mobsmen had been too sure of themselves. They had walked into a close-range attack from two powerful guns. The Shadow had lost no time. He had not saved a single bullet. In this emergency, he discharged every cartridge.

His enemies were on the floor. The Shadow was unscathed. Laughing, loud and fiercely, he flung away his pistols and drew two new weapons from beneath his cloak. He had come here prepared, a human arsenal. Into the hall strode The Shadow. Three gunners were entering the front door. The Shadow's automatics jerked back and forth as he struck down his new group of enemies.

Two shots from each gun. Four bullets — one more than needed. Three gangsters lay within the door, their bodies crumpled in death.

A hand flashed from the sliding door that led to the wing. Orlinov's revolver answered. A bullet swished through the collar of The Shadow's cloak.

One of those automatics answered as the hand slipped away. The shot was perfect. Ivan Orlinov uttered a cry of rage. The revolver clattered to the floor, outside the door.

The Russian did not wait. He did not attempt to fasten the barrier. He fled along the corridor, The Shadow in pursuit. The man in black fired one shot that was too late. Orlinov was turning the corner as The Shadow aimed from the sliding door.

Then, from the other end of the corridor, appeared a wild, disheveled man with upraised automatic. The Shadow laughed and stretched his arms, to show his flowing cloak.

It was Cliff Marsland, coming from below, his smoking pistol telling of the work that he had done. The sound of The Shadow's cannonade had reached the torture chamber. Cliff had acted. Both Petri and the gangster had failed to stop him. He had taken the gunman first; then Petri. Sweeping forward, The Shadow pointed to the barrier through which he had come. Cliff understood. He was to guard below, while The Shadow followed Orlinov.

They passed at the center of the corridor, Cliff hastening to the door, The Shadow heading for the stairs. The man in black became suddenly alert as he reached the steps.

The stairs were gloomy, and The Shadow became a creature of the dark as he glided upward, step by step. Lost in a darkened corner, his gleaming eyes detected a crouching gangster — Orlinov's man who guarded the upstairs corridor.

The watcher saw a slight motion — the movement of a phantom shape. As he aimed his revolver in that direction, a burst of flame came from the spot. The gunman fell headlong down the steps, another victim of The Shadow. The roar of the automatic was terrific in that low-roofed space. The Shadow was moving upward now. He stepped across the gangster's body.

He paused by the corner, and peered along the corridor.

Ivan Orlinov, a revolver in his unscathed hand, was peering toward the stairs. He saw no human form; but across the floor of the corridor, he discerned a long, silhouetted patch of black.

He fired. It was a hopeless effort. The Shadow's automatic barked. Orlinov's one good wrist was crippled. Now The Shadow, like a living monster, approached the cringing Russian. Yet Orlinov, despite his fear, was grinning defiantly, his white teeth glittering through the blackened clump of hair that formed his beard.

"You haff come too late!" snarled the Russian. "You haff not stopped me. I haff released the gas. The dead men who haff liffed now liff no longer!"

A dangling cord told what Orlinov had done. The Shadow laughed softly. This was the threat; the way whereby all prisoners in those little rooms could be disposed of in emergency. So Orlinov had planned. With no more thought of his helpless enemy, The Shadow reached beneath his cloak and drew forth a key. He inserted it in a door and turned the lock. He went to a second door; then a third and a fourth. Orlinov watched him bewildered.

Then, one by one, four men came forth, each from a different room. Austin Bellamy, a worn, haggard old man, stared speechless, wondering what this freedom meant.

Clark Murdock, keen and shrewd-eyed, stared at The Shadow; then glared toward Orlinov. Professor Pierre Rachaud, a quiet, bearded Frenchman, appeared perplexed. Matt Hartley, a stalwart, middle-aged man, stood with arms akimbo, a look of complete surprise upon his firm-set face. The Shadow spoke.

"You are the dead," he announced. "The dead who lived to do the bidding of this fiend and two other monsters who now lie dead below."

The voice of The Shadow was a weird, creepy whisper, that seemed unreal. It was as though the walls of that strange corridor had spoken, with the man in black a mere figure in their midst. Although those words meant freedom to the men who heard them, none could repress a shudder at the eerie voice.

"That cord" — the muzzle of The Shadow's right-hand gun indicated the dangling rope — "was drawn by Orlinov. It would have released a poison gas to kill you all. Last night, however" — The Shadow's eyes burned toward Orlinov — "I detached the infernal mechanism." Orlinov snarled in helpless fury. The Shadow stood above him, the suppressed sound of taunting mirth coming from his invisible lips.

Suddenly, the mocking figure became motionless and erect. Shots were echoing from the floor below. Turning, The Shadow swept away, his cloak swishing audibly as he moved rapidly toward the stairs. A second later, he was gone, leaving four stupefied men glaring at the crippled fiend who was sitting on the floor.

Then came a wild, high-pitched cry. Austin Bellamy, who for years had suffered at the hands of Orlinov, leaped forward in maddened fury. His clawing hands tore at the Russian's beard. His long, bony fingers dug into Orlinov's throat.

The Russian sought to resist. With both hands crippled, he could not manage to control the man who had attacked him.

Like a mongoose battling a poison cobra, Austin Bellamy, with all the pent-up rage of unhappy months, hurled the huge Russian back and forth, choking him, beating his head against the floor and walls. None of the others moved to stop him. They, too, had suffered. Primitive though Bellamy's vengeance was, they did not choose to reason.

When the fierce old man fell exhausted on the floor, Orlinov's head was tilted, as though unhinged from his huge frame. The bearded fiend had met his doom.

More shots were heard from below. The rescued men moved in a file. Hartley picked up Orlinov's revolver. Murdock found the dead gangster's gun on the stairs and chose it as his weapon. In the corridor, on the ground floor, the men found still another mobster, wounded and dying. The sliding barrier was open. They passed through, Hartley first, Murdock next.

Pierre Rachaud was third; behind him, Austin Bellamy dragged wearily along. More bodies in the hall. The front door was open. A man stepped in and held up his hand. It was Cliff Marsland. The others recognized that he was a friend. Silently, Cliff led them to the living room.

There, on the floor, he showed them the bodies of three men.

Gerald Savette and Glade Tremont had perished. Bullets from The Shadow's gun and the shots fired by Harold Sharrock had combined to rid the world of these monstrous plotters. The third man was Sharrock, himself. He was dying, from a wound received when Tremont had wrested the revolver away. Sharrock, the man who had sought to make amends, stared glassily at Austin Bellamy.

The old man's face, hardened from hatred for Orlinov, softened now. He knew that Sharrock had betrayed him, and had spent his fortune; but he felt a sense of pity.

Bellamy stooped to the floor and raised his stepbrother's head. Thus, with friendly eyes upon him, with friendly hands grasping him, Harold Sharrock died.

Cliff Marsland beckoned the others to the hall. Solemnly, they went to the porch. There they stood in darkness, looking across the moon-bathed lawn, no longer dominated by gangster hordes.

"An alarm will be raised," explained Cliff Marsland quietly. "Police will be here shortly. I was a prisoner here, too. I was Orlinov's secretary. He trapped me when he learned that I was investigating matters here."

"Who was the man upstairs?" questioned Matt Hartley. "The man in black — the one who shot the Russian. The man who laughed—"

"He was the one who rescued us," said Cliff. "They had me in the torture chamber when he attacked. I met him in the corridor, when I was escaping."

"Who is he?" asked Clark Murdock,

"They call him The Shadow," answered Cliff.

"The Shadow!"

The name passed like magic from one to another. The fame of The Shadow was known.

The rescued men understood.

Cliff stepped from the porch, and stood upon the lawn, staring up toward the old gray castle. The other men were with him, surveying those walls that had held them prisoners. The huge masonry of Glamartin was silent now — silent, where guns had thundered. The last surging wave of mobsters had entered while Cliff was guarding the corridor. The Shadow had arrived in time to meet them.

Off in the shrubbery, scattered by the walls, in other spots of temporary safety lay wounded men and dying — those remnants who had staggered away before The Shadow's last attack. Glade Tremont, Gerald Savette, Ivan Orlinov, and Biff Towley. All four were dead. No man who had claimed leadership of any portion of the gangster crew remained alive now. Cliff could claim a share in the victorious struggle for right; but it was The Shadow's mastery that had dominated the battle. A distant shot rang across the lawn, and echoed from the cold gray walls of the castle-like building. The rescued men looked at one another. Only Cliff knew what it meant.

The Shadow had met the henchman at the gate. The last of the mob of evildoers had met his match. Swallowed in the mountain night, The Shadow had finished the only enemy who remained to menace the safety of the freed prisoners.

Cliff fancied that he could hear the faint tones of a far-away laugh — a long, gibing peal of weird mirth that blended into nothingness.

The Shadow's triumph was complete!

Dead men were living now!