Master of Death

CHAPTER XVI. MOBSTERS FIGHT

DUKE SCURLEY believed in action. Cliff Marsland’s cry had brought the gun leader on the run. As Duke hurried toward the end of the alley, he clicked the button of his flashlight and turned a broad beam of light upon the building wall. In response, the gangsters who had reached the parked cars shot on the headlights to illuminate the scene ahead.

Duke had drawn a revolver. He had one purpose: to slay Cliff Marsland where he lay; then to remove the body with all haste. Duke was ready for the deed the moment he reached the corner of the building.

He did not know that Eric Veldon’s minions had seized The Shadow’s agent. He raised his hand to fire a quick shot the moment that he spied Cliff’s form.

A sharp cry came from the touring car. Responding, Duke Scurley swung his flashlight away from the alley. As the beam glared upon the wall of the next building, Duke saw the object which had caused the cry.

Before him, like a sinister specter of the night, stood a tall form garbed in black. A mammoth being in that light, The Shadow was revealed as an unexpected antagonist.

It was Punks Gumbert who had spied the phantom shape. Approaching the alleyway, The Shadow had hastened forward to beat Duke Scurley to the goal. The lights of the touring car had brought the master of darkness into view.

Swiftly did The Shadow act. Had he concentrated upon his nearest antagonist, Duke Scurley, all would have been ill. The Shadow, however, whirled in the direction from which the warning cry had come.

Punks Gumbert, leaning from the right side of the touring car, was leveling a revolver.

A huge automatic spoke. Its shot came from The Shadow’s hand. Punks Gumbert’s warning had sounded his own doom. The marksmanship of The Shadow proved its accuracy before the scrawny mobster could respond. Punks Gumbert tumbled from the touring car. His mealy mouth coughed bloody gasps. The rat who had betrayed Cliff Marsland breathed no longer.

Another fighter might have concentrated his fire upon the touring car. Not so The Shadow. Again, his strategy proved its merit. Punks Gumbert’s sudden end had brought a momentary lapse from that direction. Amid the lull, The Shadow swerved. Duke Scurley was his next objective.

The racketeer’s gun was up. Duke’s finger was on the trigger. Just as that finger pressed, the tall form of The Shadow dwindled. Duke’s bullet, aimed for The Shadow’s glittering eyes, went high. Its hot lead singed the top of The Shadow’s slouch hat.

A mocking laugh resounded; with it came a loud report from two feet above the sidewalk. Duke Scurley staggered with the sound of The Shadow’s automatic. The master’s aim had reached the racketeer’s heart.

The gangsters in the touring car were stunned. They recognized this phantom fighter. The terrible results of The Shadow’s opening fire brought in them the desire for flight. Punks Gumbert, then Duke Scurley — those redoubtable marksmen had fallen, each from a single bullet!

SO far as the witnessing mobsters were concerned, the path to the alleyway was clear. It was the ignorance of other gangsters that kept The Shadow from his objective.

The men from the sedan were piling forth. They had seen Duke Scurley fall. They had not seen the shape beyond their leader. With one accord, they leaped to the sidewalk. Dashing past the touring car, they headed for the alley, firing wildly as they came.

Crouched against the wall, The Shadow held his fire. His foemen had not seen him. They were firing pot shots in the dark. The men in the touring car — the only ones who knew the situation, arose to draw their guns, encouraged by the fact that there was no response. They did not know The Shadow’s strategy.

Just as the gangsters from the sedan came on a line with the touring car, The Shadow raised his automatics. Two muzzles blazed with full force as The Shadow pressed the triggers. He was aiming straight for the advancers; his bullets, like an enfilade, were also directed toward the touring car!

The Shadow had replaced his sharpshooting tactics with a veritable barrage. He was meeting a mass attack, pouring a leaden deluge into the ranks of the attackers, with every odd bullet sweeping on to the massed men in the touring car!

Amazing strategy! One man from the sedan fell before the others realized the presence of their enemy.

Hot lead ripped through the running ranks. Snarling mobsters sprawled upon the sidewalk. Gun-aiming men sank helpless in the touring car.

One gangster dropped his revolver and leaped to the wheel. The bullet from an automatic shattered the windshield. It found its lodging place in the driver’s breast. The mobsman slumped behind the wheel.

Those who had fallen on the sidewalk thought no longer of return to the sedan. Two were still capable of motion. Wounded by The Shadow’s bullets, they rose and staggered to the touring car. They tumbled in among a crew of groaning victims who had learned The Shadow’s wrath.

One man had gained the wheel. Alone unscathed, he shot the car forward. As the automobile passed the spot where The Shadow loomed, a wounded man arose from the back and with a tense, almost dying, effort leveled his revolver straight toward the black-garbed avenger.

The Shadow’s automatic spoke. Not toward the man who held the gun, but toward the driver of the car.

The automobile swerved as the driver cried aloud. It headed for the opposite curb. The gun-raising gangster fired. His shot went wide. The bullet thudded against the wall above The Shadow’s head.

The man who had fired made no further effort. All his strength had been spent in that last attempt to down the dread fighter whose name meant terror to the underworld. The touring car jolted along the curb; one mobster fell out as the machine bounded back into the street.

The wounded driver, although sinking fast, managed to step upon the accelerator. With wobbly, serpentine course, the car of beaten gangsters shot ahead until it came to a crashing stop beyond the next corner.

The echoes of the shots had ceased. A peal of mocking laughter had replaced them. The tiny ray of a sharp-disked flashlight glimmered in the alleyway. The Shadow had gained the spot he sought. His torch revealed nothingness!

Out went the light. A phantom shape traveled swiftly through the alley to the street at the other end.

Again the quest was in vain. The minions of the fiend had profited by the delay of battle. With Cliff Marsland in their grasp, they had departed, leaving no trail for The Shadow!

Even then, the master of darkness was not beaten. He glided back to the street where the battle had been fought. Swiftly, he gained his coupe. Headlights showed brilliantly. The car shot forward and turned the corner.

Though his start might be a blind one, The Shadow intended to take up the trail of those captors who had wrested his agent from their grasp. Relying only upon intuition, The Shadow was seeking a trail that might lead him to Cliff Marsland’s rescue.

IT was another unforeseen occurrence that blocked The Shadow’s plan. The shrill note of a siren came to the pursuer’s ears. Straight up the street swept a car with glaring headlights, not more than a block distant. Police had heard the sound of firing. They were rushing to the scene.

The Shadow swung the wheel of the coupe. The trim, low-balanced car responded. It swerved through a narrow thoroughfare that showed suddenly before the headlights. With roaring motor, The Shadow took this avenue to avoid a fruitless encounter with the arriving minions of the law.

More sirens. The Shadow knew the reason. This district of Manhattan had been heavily patrolled since the disappearance of Joseph Barratini and Rupert Sayre. With cunning and skill, The Shadow picked a course which lead him through the network of streets. His coupe passed beyond the district into which the officers had swarmed.

Along the street where the gangster cars had been, policemen found the relics of The Shadow’s battle.

Duke Scurley lay dead at the entrance of the alley. Punks Gumbert was an inert form. Other mobsters were sprawled in pools of blood.

In the touring car, some men were moving, others were not. The driver, crippled by The Shadow’s final bullet, was slumped beneath the wheel, his right hand extending through the broken windshield.

Gang warfare. That was the answer. The policemen who surveyed the riddled touring car were convinced that this smashing result could have been accomplished only by a barrage of bullets from a dozen gangster guns. Orders went out to stop all large cars that might appear to contain a squad of desperadoes.

THE trim coupe was rolling easily along an avenue, headed southward in Manhattan. Unscathed, his car untouched, The Shadow was returning from the conflict. His keen eyes were steady as they watched the traffic ahead.

A soft laugh came from The Shadow’s lips. Partly a tone of triumph, partly a note of regret, that laugh portrayed The Shadow’s thoughts.

The master of darkness had proven his skill tonight. Single-handed, he had brought disaster to a complete mob of snarling ruffians who had deserved all that they had received.

Yet in his fight, The Shadow, in dealing with superior numbers, had been unable to accomplish the task which he had sought. He had heard Cliff Marsland’s cry for aid. He had realized, on the instant, the dilemma which had fallen upon his agent.

Chance had played against The Shadow. Cliff Marsland had fallen into the hands of the enemy. He was in the power of the superfiend; all chance of tracing him tonight was ended. Yet The Shadow’s sibilant laugh denoted confidence.

Cliff Marsland was still alive. Perhaps fate would play the other way in return for its unwarranted trickery.

For The Shadow asked no long delay. He had learned the identity of his master enemy.

By tomorrow night, The Shadow would be face to face with Eric Veldon, the murderous fiend who toyed with human life. If Clifford Marsland still were living then, The Shadow would surely save him.

Through Holbrook Edkins, The Shadow would reach Eric Veldon. That thought was prophetic. Yet before it would be realized, The Shadow was once again to learn the treachery of fate!