Death Clew

CHAPTER XI. AGAIN THE KILLER

THICK, misty night had descended upon Manhattan. Swirls of fog clung to the pillars of the elevated structure where if cut its way through a shoddy district of the East Side.

Dull blares of steamship whistles came in eerie basso through the drizzly blackness. Close to the river, this district seemed to seep in the waters of the bridge-spanned channel between Manhattan and Long Island.

A skulking man came from the opening of a narrow street. His coat collar was turned up about his neck.

His dampened felt hat clung closely to his head. His hands were encased in sticky kid gloves. Quick, shifty eyes looked back and forth. Hands fumbled as they pressed the coat collar closer to the chin.

Shakes Niefan was again at large. The slayer of Jerome Neville had spent the night in his hideout. On this evening, twenty-four hours after his murderous stroke, Shakes Niefan was faring forth on new work of crime.

The killer’s footsteps pounded up the stairway of the elevated. Then came the rumble of an arriving train.

The elapsing time was just sufficient. Shakes Niefan had caught the uptown local.

Gobs of water dripped from the elevated structure as the departing train made the ironwork tremble.

Deep-throated fog horns spelled a melancholy message that carved weirdly through the mist. Then, amid moments of fleeting silence, a strange figure moved from darkness into light.

It was The Shadow. Grotesquely shaped in the glimmer of the street lamps, the mysterious master was crossing the avenue to reach the street from which Shakes Niefan had emerged. Stalking the underworld in person, The Shadow was on the trail of the killer who had returned to Manhattan.

Once again, luck had betrayed The Shadow. By a scant minute he had missed the path of Shakes Niefan. Since his investigation of last night, The Shadow had been visiting the most secluded portions of the underworld. He had been using all his cunning to learn the location of Shakes Niefan’s hideout.

Dew-like drops glistened upon blackened cloth as The Shadow’s phantom form appeared momentarily beneath a lamp near the entrance of an obscure alley. The figure disappeared from view. Moving through darkness, The Shadow tried the door of a dilapidated house. The barrier resisted. Clicks in the dark were tribute to the skill of The Shadow’s pick. The door opened inward.

Gaslight showed a short hall; beyond it an opened doorway to a dully lighted room. A tumbledown staircase was at the left. The front door of the house closed as The Shadow pressed it shut. The gaslight wavered as The Shadow moved up the stairs.

TWO men were seated in the rear room that The Shadow had noticed. Crouched at a table, a bottle between them, they were talking in low, growled tones. Stalwart ruffians, with leering, heavy-jawed faces, these rogues formed the toughest pair of dock wallopers that had ever graced a Brooklyn wharf.

“What’s the matter with this hideout, Pete?” one man was asking. “The bulls ain’t never bothered us down here.”

“Don’t ask me,” returned the other. “It ain’t our business, Slugger, if Shakes don’t like the dump. All I know is that he’s scrammed and won’t be back.”

“He plugged a guy last night,” declared Pete. “I guess that’s why he ain’t comin’ back. Changin’ hideouts. Well, we got a grand between us—”

“Sh-h!” The tone of “Slugger” was cautious as he gripped Pete’s arm. “Look at that!”

Slugger was pointing upward to the single gaslight in the room. Pete followed the direction of the other’s gaze.

“It wiggled like that when Shakes went out,” whispered Slugger, hoarsely. “That means that somebody’s come in again—”

“Maybe Shakes is back.”

“Not him. He gave me his key.”

“Come along.”

Pete rose to his feet and gestured to Slugger. A pair of apelike fighters, the dock wallopers formed a formidable pair as they pulled out big revolvers and crept toward the lighted hallway.

Slugger looked about. He saw no one. He nudged his thumb toward the stairway. Pete nodded. Slugger led the way, with Pete at his heels. Despite their bulk, these huge men moved with noiseless tread as they started for the second floor.

A FLASHLIGHT was glimmering beyond a closed door on the second story. Standing in a dingy room, The Shadow was using the sharp but tiny beam in an inspection of the hideout. Two broken chairs; a tumbledown cot with blankets strewn upon it; these were the tokens of recent occupancy.

There was one discovery, however, which told The Shadow more. The flashlight glimmered on crumpled newspapers. There were three of these; all had been turned to inner pages. The Shadow’s laugh came in a bare whisper as the flashlight gave the clew.

The man who had been reading these newspapers had evidently started with front page stories. He had turned to pages on which the news accounts were continued. In each newspaper, the upturned page carried a run-over concerning the murder of Jerome Neville.

The Shadow knew that Shakes Niefan was the killer. He had found this hideout, thinking that Shakes might be here. He had arrived too late. Shakes had gone; but the evidence of his occupancy remained.

Would the killer return? That was the question for which The Shadow sought an answer. The flashlight, as it scoured the room, showed no sign of bags or clothing. The Shadow knew that it would be well to watch this hideout; he also knew that Shakes Niefan’s absence was an ominous sign. It could mean that Shakes had fared forth to deal with some new victim.

The flashlight snapped out. The Shadow made no move. His keen ears had caught a sound outside the door. Stealthy footsteps. These might mean the return of Shakes Niefan! The knob of the door was rattling softly. The black cloak swished in darkness. Then came silence as the door swung open.

A flashlight clicked. Its large-circled beam cut a swath through the center of the room as Slugger entered.

The big dock walloper swung his light to form a spreading arc. The cot — the window — then the chairs — these were the objects that the torch revealed.

Slugger’s gun moved along with the light. The dock walloper had finger upon trigger. He swerved the light to the final point — the corner of the room nearest to the open door.

Like an avalanche, a mass of blackness came surging into the path of the flashlight’s ray. The swiftness of The Shadow’s attack blotted out the glare. The Shadow had made his lunge in time with the swerving light. He was upon Slugger before the startled dock walloper knew what had happened.

A gloved fist was the weapon that The Shadow used. That clenched hand had the power of a piston rod as it clipped upward to Slugger’s jaw. The big dock walloper was lifted from his crouch. Hurled backward, his arms shot out. Flashlight and revolver went flying in opposite directions.

Pete, standing in the dim hall, saw the effect of The Shadow’s rush. To his startled eyes, it appeared that some invisible force had hoisted Slugger upward and stretched him sprawled upon the floor. Pete acted on a moment’s notice.

Springing into the darkened room, the second dock walloper fired blindly. His first shot was in the direction of the window; his next deliveries were made from a hand sweeping to the right. But Pete never dispatched the bullet that might have reached The Shadow.

A hurtling form came in from Pete’s right. An arm like an iron bar swung up and struck Pete’s wrist. The revolver skied to the ceiling. Pete, staggering back, barely managed to ward off The Shadow’s punch.

The upswing of his own right arm had given the dock walloper an involuntary guard.

Another punch came forward. Head down, Pete escaped its greatest force. Fiercely, the disarmed dock walloper grappled with the black-clad warrior who had sprung so suddenly from the darkness.

THE SHADOW had sought to avoid gunfire. In this portion of the underworld, a single shot would turn loose hordes of ruffians. The Shadow did not fear such enemies. His purpose was simply to avoid delay in his pursuit of Shakes Niefan.

Hence, The Shadow, as he battled with Pete, was dragging the big dock walloper toward the hallway.

Like a mongoose attacking a writhing cobra, The Shadow had gained a hold that enabled him to sling the big man back and forth. Pete, possessed of hardened strength, was fighting back.

The heel of a gloved hand was pressed against Pete’s chin. Staring upward with bulging eyes, the dock walloper could not see his opponent. The Shadow had pinioned the big man’s right arm. Pete’s left was swinging wildly in the air.

With an angry, snarl, Pete threw all of his brute strength into the fray. As The Shadow pressed his head against the wall, the dock walloper wrested his right arm free. Twisting, he threw a pair of paws blindly toward his foeman’s throat.

Long nails ripped the collar of The Shadow’s cloak. The Shadow’s hand dropped from Pete’s jaw.

Snarling his triumph, the dock walloper lowered his chin and fought to clutch the neck that was slipping from his big hands. Then came the turn.

The Shadow had dropped to gain a jujutsu hold. Pete’s hands lost their grip as his huge form was hoisted upward in spite of all its bulk. Braced on the floor, The Shadow snapped himself upward and backward.

His odd lunge stopped.

Pete kept on. Like a rock slung from a catapult, the big dock walloper shot straight forward over The Shadow’s head. His clawing hands clutched wildly as his arms spread in a vain effort to stop his fall. The stairway lay dead ahead. Pete’s plunge carried him halfway to the bottom before his long dive brought him head first to a projecting step.

The crash was terrific. Striking on head and hands, Pete’s big bulk described a bounding somersault that ended at the bottom of the stairway. There the dock walloper rolled in a sideways fashion and smashed into the wall.

The Shadow was gliding down the stairway. His quick pace carried him across Pete’s body. His swift hand yanked open the door. Din came to The Shadow’s ears. Running forms were arriving beneath the light at the entrance of the alley.

In this quarter all were foemen unless they announced themselves as friends. The dull light from the opened door was sufficient for mobsmen eager for a fight. A revolver barked from the entrance of the alley. A bullet splintered the door frame.

The Shadow’s hands swept from his cloak. Two automatics thundered from the doorway. The gangster who had fired his revolver went sprawling in the alley. Others dived for cover. The Shadow leaped outward, yanking the door behind him. An instant later, his automatics opened a new cannonade.

Mobsters scattered while The Shadow backed swiftly through the alley to the further street. Shouts had risen. Wild shots began. Distant whistles sounded as The Shadow reached the next street.

Scurrying gangsters were coming from another block. The Shadow did not wait for them. Swiftly and unseen, he crossed the street and gained a new passage between two buildings opposite.

Weaving his way into the underworld, The Shadow was taking a roundabout course that would lead him from the badlands. He had shown his skill tonight; but he had not sought the adventure which had been his lot.

For this delay — caused by the chance flicker of a gaslight — had ended all chance to trail Shakes Niefan.

The killer had gone his way. New death was in the making!